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Photo:
Stephen Matera |
Number Nine
By SCOTT DAVIS
It's the locals chair. It's the test for every newbie in town, the threshold to acceptance. On good days it's the only place to be. On bad days it still delivers. Occasionally, Chair 9 is pure elixir.
Wednesday dawned as every day should in paradise: cold, grey, and absolutely puking. The patrol reported 18 inches in town, 25 up top. I knew the shop wouldn't open on a morning like this, so I took off for my home away from home and skinned to the top, reveling in the muffled quiet of the unopened area.
Later, as Chair 9 creaked to life, I noticed a powder-blue helmet with blonde pigtails moving alone up the queue. Without hesitation I barked "Single!" and ducked the rope. Skating hard, I caught her just before the chair.
I noticed that she, like me, had already enjoyed the goods this morning, so I pried, "Where ya been?"
After a pause she replied, "Stairs. Plunge. You know. Local's lap."
Now THIS was interesting. "Mind if I join you?"
"No problem."
Skating off the chair without a word, she pointed her tele skis down the ridge. She aired the windlip and dropped a knee with perfection, then submarined into the billowing snow. Who the hell is this girl? I thought, following closely and sporting a wide Cheshire grin.
The snow was delicious, enveloping everything with its downy goodness. Turn after turn it greeted my face with a cool caress before smoothly sliding up and over my shoulders into a trail of San Juan smoke. Forgetting everything, I let the skis run, lost in the best turns of my life. I hoped my nameless friend wouldn't blame me for leaving her far behind for the blind and loving pull of gravity.
When I breathlessly pulled up at the lift I couldn't believe it. There she was, already on the chair and rocking gently up the hill beside an empty seat.
I lapped 9 all day, searching, but never caught another glimpse of her.
Next: number 4
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