Photo:
Grant Gunderson

See also Contest 01: Chairlift Encounter

See also Contest 02: Panic

See also Contest 03: Squalor

See also Contest 04:
Fall

Scotch on the Rocks
By LUKE SMALLMAN

We wanted to set a strong precedent for the next thousand years. So when we slipped out of the village at 7 AM on New Year's Day 2001, we felt rather smug. We envisaged the rest of our friends slumped by the fire at the end of the day, suffering from holiday bloat, when we would return as rugged, mountain-conquering heroes with tales to tell.

Fifteen of us had gathered in the west of Scotland to celebrate the "real" start of the millennium. At 1 AM, after a lavish Hogmanay dinner and ceilidh, two of the party had discreetly staggered off for an early night. So the fact that we were on the road so soon felt like an achievement in itself.

The entire United Kingdom was in the grip of a vicious cold snap with most of the country covered in snow. We were certain that a trip to Scotland would offer some snowboarding opportunities. Unfortunately, Presbyterian Glencoe, the nearest ski area to our holiday village, chose not to open for religious reasons, despite rare good conditions. Farther north, Nevis Range was reporting far less snow and hadn't opened for the season. For several days, however, the resort's Web site had promised that it would open on New Year's Day.

After two hours on the road we arrived at an empty car park. We quickly learned that there was too little snow to open, but that Nevis Range's resort manager would make a decision within the next hour. We settled down in the café with a few other hopefuls to rest our weary heads and wait.

Finally the manager announced that, as promised, Nevis Range would open. The shivering snow addicts cheered. However we'd have to be patient, he explained, because to get us to the limited snow his staff would need to reconfigure a drag lift to start farther up the mountain.

By lunch time the lift was ready and 20 or so hardcores jostled enthusiastically to the chair lift that would give us access to the hill. From there it would be a short hike to the tow lift that now served the upper half of a narrow snow gully flanked by brown heather.

We savoured the first few runs as though they were the reward for climbing Everest. We revelled in the camaraderie that had developed between the resort staff and their most committed customers.

Then, perhaps inevitably for Scotland, the rain started. A slight drizzle at first, we barely noticed it. A few timid souls trudged toward the chair lift but we kept going, donning goggles and hoods, relishing the rain as an additional hardship.

Water seeped through our clothes, running down our limbs while we cowered on the tow. Soon there were only a handful of people left on the hill and what little snow was left was fast washing away. We made a final run, dodging the newly exposed patches of heather, and unstrapped our snowboards, smiling.

Two hours later around the fire, still wet, we recounted the day to our mocking and deriding friends. We had no doubt, though, that we had made the right decision to go snowboarding that morning. We only hoped that our perseverance would be rewarded with better conditions for the next thousand years.

                                                                                        Next: number 3


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