The Bacon Strip

Day 8, Jan. 11th, Aspen. Hmm…where were we? Oh yeah. Another day hard at work on Ajax Mountain. Ozone machines up and running, need time to stabilize and report to me whether they’re actually working correctly. Gosh, what to do? My accomplice Dave Richie shows me his secret powder stash, Walsh’s. There is a sign at the top with two diamond-shaped thingies on it, and a banner that says “Experts Only”. I’m an expert, ain’t I, Dave? Down we go. The powder is not too secret today, although plenty remains. I survive, in reasonably passable form. Thirty minutes later, back at the top, I am all ready for a second adventure. I ski a comletely different route, pass through fog banks, and by some odd circumstance, arrive again at a sign that says, “Walsh’s”. Bam bam bam I am in mid-season form now, a hundred feet to go and whooops…into the cloud deck. Like Schultz in “Hogan’s Heroes”, I see nothing. Nothing! Ah well, I’m almost at the bottom. Tuck…whoosh…BANG. I am momentarily airborne, then re-contact planet Earth via my right shoulder. Aggg. Fortunately everything still seems to be attached and functional. I finish the run, gather my gear and head out. By cocktail hour my arm barely moves and it’s just not looking good. Hut tour in two weeks! Vitamin I is consumed in volume.

Day 8.5, Jan 24th, Aspen. Today is proof that there is such a thing as a bad day skiing. I have not been on skis since my adventure in the clouds two weeks ago, and all is not yet completely well with the musculo-skeletal elements of my anatomy. Late the hour becomes, and long are the shadows, before the needs of science are served in my summit equipment shelter, and the lifts and slopes are quiet and empty. Not to worry! I begin the descent, picking my way through the gloaming, and suddenly I am on the ground, my left ski whipping past my ear and into the trees. WTF??! An examination of my left boot shows the binding is still attached to it, and thus NOT to the ski. Uh oh. Ski is recovered a hundred yards away in the trees, and a frantic search of the snow where I fell reveals three of the binding’s four mounting screws. With headlamp and screwdriver, the binding is re-united with the ski, albeit temporarily, and I finish the day in a foul mood. The hut tour is to start the following morning, and I search somewhat frantically for a shop that can re-mount the binding that evening. Fortunately, the Roaring Fork Valley does not lack for ski shops, or for techs who will gladly perform overnight service if a small additional potable payment is offered. Crisis averted.

Days 9-12 will be described shortly, or whenever I get around to it, or maybe in July. The hut tour is now memory and it was more fun than a grown man ought to be allowed. Here’s a preview. Cheers, SB