Skiing With Elephants
Go light in the backcountry: lose the guilt.
By SCOTT HOWARD

My situation was stickier than the new adhesive that coated the underside of my purple ascending aids. As I applied each skin to each ski, carefully lining up the edges, I contemplated what my life would be like in prison.

There is no powder in prison, no sunlit mornings spent carving perfect turns. Suddenly, being in jail for life was a real possibility. This could be my first and last genuine backcountry experience. My new ski partner and his dog seemed oblivious to this unlikely but possible scenario: that if one of us should perish accidentally or intentionally on this mountain, the other guy would undoubtedly find himself incarcerated.

Accidents do happen in the backcountry, and sometimes people die. It is a risk every skier confronts at one point or another, usually on top of a cornice staring down at an ice wall. But an accidental death was my last concern.

It occurred to me that this guy could be plotting to kill me. The invitation to ski the early season snow of Colorado's Baldy Mountain could be an elaborate ruse to push me off a cliff. Or he could let me die in an avalanche. He could ski over my entombed body without looking back, relieved I was finally out of the way.

Ironically, the day before I had contemplated killing him. This presented a perfect place for a "perfect" murder. Well... perfect except for the fact that everyone would have known it was I who had "dunit." I had the perfect motive: the guy I was about to ski with was the same guy that my wife was in love with. We were two thirds of a Pythagorean love triangle about to ski on the same mountain. The sum of the square of our sides was equal to the square of the hypotenuse that was my wife. How we had come together to ski that morning defied all logic. As Mark and I began our ascent up the pristine new snow field, the old adage kept running through my mind: keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

I hated this guy, and at the same time, I felt sorry for him. My wife was now in the process of taking over his life and trying to ruin it just as she had ruined mine. She had swept into his life like the whirlwind snow devils dancing on the peak above us. She was doing a number on us both—a real shame because Mark seemed pretty cool. In any other situation we could have been good friends.

She left me on election night. I spent that night tossing and turning, half listening to election returns. The Republicans won, and I lost everything important to me. She cast her ballot for another fellow and cast me aside. The world turned red, not from morning alpine glow but from a blinding rage that sank deep into my spirit. Her leaving me for someone else became the worst pain I could have imagined. There is just not enough P-Tex in the world to repair that kind of core damage.

Mark had extended the invitation to ski the night before. I stopped by his house, knowing my wife was at work, to drop off her skis. Mark was there as I had hoped, and it gave me an opportunity to confront him on a couple of issues. To ease the tension, we began by talking about favorite ski hills and runs, epic ski trips, and glorious powder days. Although neither one of us wanted to talk about our real mutual interest, I did finally get around to mentioning the big "elephant in the room" and we had a frank and honest discussion about the ex-Mrs. Scott.

I learned a lot of things. We talked for quite awhile. It turns out that my wife got all excited and left me for a younger guy, who was—get this—never really attracted to her. He enjoyed her company and found her intriguing, but had "absolutely no interest in her." Did I believe him? I wanted to, but prudence told me that the truth lies somewhere between his story and hers.

I think Mark's invitation was in that true ski town tradition where people invite each other just to be nice, with no intention of actually getting together. They make the plan and set the time, knowing full well everyone just flakes off the appointment anyway, and all is good again. I discovered later that Mark was pretty surprised to see me at 8:00 the next morning, as we had arranged. Idiot actually showed up... what's wrong with him? I could hear him thinking.

He rushed to put on his things and load his truck. We drove up the pass. Mark brought a dog, and I brought the elephant. I guess it's only fair. We talked a lot about the dog, but never mentioned the elephant.

Baldy Mountain, it turned out, was not nearly as bald as the tires on Mark's truck. We struggled up the snow-packed dirt road. We got stuck in the culvert along the road and had to dig the truck out with an avalanche shovel. Mark then enjoyed a hair-raising full speed retreat in reverse that bounced his truck around like an eight-second rodeo ride. Finally the truck popped out of the ditch and he parked. The trip was saved; no one was going to have to hitchhike to the highway and call for a tow. I enjoyed a great, if sinister, laugh at his expense.

My hindsight required a little laser surgery and several hours of therapy with a counselor, but I now realize with perfect vision why I was skiing with my evil archenemy that day. My love for skiing and adventure far outweighed the awkward nature of our ski day. I love skiing more than I hate my wife.

Until this day my backcountry experience consisted mostly of cross-country skiing on flat trails with skinny, plastic track skis. I had been taking my skinny Fischers farther and farther out. I was climbing higher and higher, taking the skis where I had no business going. Thin vinyl boots and skis with no metal edges were quickly becoming obsolete for what I wanted to do.

I had spent the next two seasons educating myself on everything there was to know about climbing up big mountains and skiing back down. I practiced tele-turns at the local resort, even skinning up the groomed piste before the resort opened to practice the process, and to get the required conditioning. I talked to everyone who was crazy enough to leave their warm homes to ski or ride the backwoods. I had gleaned every bit of information I could from books and videos. Now I was ready to start venturing out and learning the real art of the backcountry ski day.

I knew enough to know that I didn't have a clue how to assess winter dangers. I knew I needed to travel with more experienced people than myself. So when Mark invited me along on one of his morning backcountry excursions, I had to jump on the opportunity. Emotional dynamics be damned, I had someone who was willing to help me take that next step. The fact that four inches of dry powder had fallen overnight made the decision a no-brainer. To clear my car off that morning, all I had to do was slam the door and the snow fell off like sugar from a donut.

Mark seemed to know what he was doing; he had the training and the avi equipment ready to go. I had been told by a reliable source that the area we were skiing had never slid. Many people I knew climbed this part of Baldy Mountain all the time without too much trouble. So I didn't worry much about the danger. The only avalanche I was worried about was the 20-foot slab of emotion that had been relentlessly pounding on me, burying me deeper and deeper.

My wife left me, and Mark was now her new best friend and roommate. He got to eat the cookies that she baked. It was his coffee cup she now refilled. We both knew it. I knew dogs could trigger slides, but I wondered if elephants were also considered hazardous. The elephant skied there between us the whole way up and down the mountain. The pachyderm stayed right with us, mocking our cowardice to approach the subject. Every time we stuck to just small talk, the elephant would roll his eyes and sigh. He obviously didn't like being ignored.

I struggled on the way up. My skis sank deep in the drifts. The kicker skins that get me so effortlessly up the groomers of Peak 9 were hopelessly inadequate for this terrain. I traversed and switch-backed as Mark stuck like glue climbing straight up the fall lines.

Mark was so patient, so careful not to offend my delicate male ego. My wife had said to me about Mark, "You would really like him, he is just like you." And he was. It was revolting. Mark was dutifully looking out for me, and I hated it. I really didn't want to like this guy.

The descent was glorious. I managed a few good tele-turns on the way down intermixed with alpine washouts when the powder became too much. The dog and the elephant kept right up. I don't know which was harder: avoiding the stumps and obstacles or avoiding the subject. We stopped a few times to take pictures and to admire our tracks through the previously blank canvas. We finished the ski, loaded up the gear and animals, and then took them both home.

No one died and I didn't have to hire Johnny Cochran to stay out of the big house. Not once did we mention the "situation." We skied together, like two old buddies that do this all the time, though I doubt we'll ever do it again.

At the bar one night I explained my sudden singleness to a friend. "Dude," he told me (I've cut out several unnecessary "dudes" from his quote), "just pour yourself into your tele-turns. I'm tellin' ya dude, I've been there, do your teles and you'll be all right." At the time I didn't pay him much mind. He was a recently retired mogul skier who I thought didn't care for telemark, but he understood. He was completely right. Jesus saved my soul, but telemark is saving my life.

The wife is alone now; she gambled it all on Mark and lost. Now she has no one to help her buckle her boots. She's making her wine with sour grapes and pretending to enjoy it. Personally, I couldn't care less. I learned my lesson, and I hope Mark learned his. Never go into the backcountry with a guilty conscience; it's just way too heavy. Deal with the elephant and you'll be amazed how much easier it is to float through the crud.

As for me, well, there is this cute little ski instructor gal who seems a little more interested in me recently, so maybe...


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