Photo: D. Waag

See also Contest 01: Chairlift Encounter

See also Contest 02: Panic

See also Contest 03: Squalor

See also Contest 04:
Fall

See also Contest 05: Weather, or Not?

The Grouse Mountain Gross-Out
By J MUNN

My first chairlift kiss, my first halfpipe attempt, my first skiing injury, and my first love all happened on the same night—the first time I'd ever been night skiing.

It was dark when we boarded the painted-up school bus. It was mid-winter, some of the crew were still in their Smurf-blue Whistler liftie uniforms. The bus was packed with already half-drunk Aussies, and smelled of beer and wet clothes. We were on our way to the Grouse Mountain Gross-Out, the lower mainland's largest annual liftie piss-up.

I snuggled in beside my crush and snatched a sip of rye as the bottle went past my seat. The bus doors closed, we pulled out, and as we drove past the Blackcomb bus, a row of naked asses hung out the window like a scene from Slapshot.

The rowdiness had just begun. After what seemed like hours of "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi," someone decided to sing a love song to the very tolerant bus driver. It went something like this: "Jeff takes it up the ass, Do-da, do-da, Jeff takes it up the ass, Oh do-da day!!"

And so it went. Pretty much every person on the bus had this lovely little ditty sung about them, and not just one person singing, the whole bus would join in.

By the time we unloaded in the Grouse parking lot, I was feeling great, buzzed up with a pretty Australian girl on my arm. We packed into the tram the same way we had clambered aboard the bus. Not realizing what he was up against, the operator began his speech as the tram moved out of the terminal.

"Welcome to Grouse Mountain, my name is Greg." Before he could continue, the tram windows began to shake with a roaring rendition of "Greg takes it up the ass, Do-da, Do-da, Greg takes it up the ass, Oh do-da Day!!"

At the top I quickly stepped into my skis and took off down the mountain. "See you at the lift," I yelled back. I straight-lined down a well lit run, planning on a bagging a second lap before anyone else even had their boards on. Half-way up I spotted my girl slowly carving down a groomer on her snowboard. I hurried off the lift and headed toward a dimly lit area which I soon realized was the terrain park. "What the hell," I thought as I hit the first kicker. Veering left I approached the edge of the halfpipe and dropped in with reckless abandon. I came off the other side with arms waving and never re-entered. I landed flat on my skis, easily 10 feet from the edge of the pipe. My shins felt like they had been used as a wood splitting block.

Barely able to stand, I skied toward the lift. There she was, patiently waiting in the maze, rain drops running down her cheeks. A smile crept onto her face as I skied up. The liftie bumped the chair for us as we loaded. He smiled and winked, as if he knew what our ride up had in store.

By the third tower, the rain that had made the lower portion of the slopes sticky and slow now morphed into giant coastal flakes. I put my arm around her, and we shifted closer to each other. With our heads bent forward to block the wind we embraced in a kiss that lasted the rest of the slow chair ride up.

My shins never really recovered from that flat landing, nor did I from that first kiss.

                                                                                        Next: number 4


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