Collective Novel Experiement—chapter 7
Chapter 7
Whistler Telus Ski/Snowboard Festival
April 9 2005, 6-8am
by Leslie Anthony
(BTW, No electricity, Battery power waning, fucking freezing, stiff fingers...)
Bodies have a way of making you remember.
There's the good, of course. We always remember the good. Laughter, kindness and fun stick to our psyches like
The bad is there, too, but you have to dig a little further because it's backgrounded like any good resentment. A strangely unavoidable reaction, it seems -- as if some cultural directive soft-wires us against better judgement to exonerate all people posthumously for any earthly sins. The almost inconceivable hagiography of Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon proved that.
But the polar opposites of good and evil aren't where the best memories lie. Those dwell in the grey matter of the middle, where who you are and what you are matter less than what you experience in the moment with another person. Even if that moment is ephemeral, fortuitous or even occasional like mine were with Hunter.
What I knew or even thought I knew about Hunter mattered not at all in the transcendence we shared. And a memory that had played itself out in reality dozens of times over the years is what surged forth as I surveyed his body, surreally displayed like it was the centerpiece of a final-exam party at some irreverent medical school.
Hunter was poling up the cat road above Emerald chair, herringboning into the teeth of a storm, relishing the headwind and swirling flakes, heading for a first run into Rabbit Tracks. At least that's what he, and, it seemed, anybody who'd lived here for more than five years called it. In reality it had a dozen names and none of them mattered.
As usual, I could barely see him; he always skated up the road while we shipped our skis over reluctant shoulders and strolled up. Hunter's powerful strides - no doubt a by-product of his hockey days - carried him quickly ahead, where he always seemed to hover in the void between partial visibility and disappearance. And here he was again - same ol' same ol'. Of course, there was also the issue of Hunter having to get first tracks down his favourite line. He, and only he would be allowed to savour those twenty-something turns to the flats, then traverse high left to milk whatever he could off the wall to skier's right of Chunky's.
By the time any of us caught up with him it was either for another load up Emerald or in the line at Harmony, waiting for the fucking patrol to finish with what Hunter considered their egregious ordinance routine.
"Fuckers," he would say, anytime a patroller would ski down Gun Barrels then officiously ski right onto the chair as if they were heading to another important meeting at Dork Corp.
We'd all laugh with Hunter, who always seemed to be the voic e of our collective thoughts.
Naturally we'd arrived at the trudge up toward Rabbit Tracks after savaging Ratfink a couple times, and that after having bombed Roundhouse Roll and Ravens. This was the routine on a powder morning, given that the upper lifts were never open, and we had to have a routine - especially given the gong show out of the gate at the Creekside Gondola.
Hunter was part of the Creekside crew, a pack of powder-crazed individuals who had nothing more than that in common with each other and knew precious little about each other's lives other than the politics and weather reports that were exchanged in the interminable pre-dawn wait for the gondola to open.
In this cabal, Hunter reigned as philosopher king, ringleader and clown. Always quick with a joke or dis, but even quicker with a wry self-deprecation. Although I knew little about him, one thing was clear to me: this place was sanctuary for Hunter from everyone and everything else.
Sometimes when they'd drop the rope we'd end up in the same lift together and it would continue, but by then talk had turned to wind speed and direction and humorous thought were quickly being crowded out by anticipation of powder redemption. Depending on how long it had been since it snowed, this anticipation was palpable in the descending silences as the gondie neared the top.
And in the quiet of the arriving cabin, with only boot buckles clicking and the muted crackle of wrinkling GoreTex, Hunter would inevitably shatter whatever private thoughts you were entertaining with a war whoop and loud "Let's give 'er boys."
Because beyond anything else he might have been or experienced or done, Hunter was a skier.
Summary: There are people in town that shared moments with Hunter that had nothing to do with the apparent scandal in his life or dark past. They saw him only for the mountain-enthusiasts side he shared with them.
Whistler Telus Ski/Snowboard Festival
April 9 2005, 6-8am
by Leslie Anthony
(BTW, No electricity, Battery power waning, fucking freezing, stiff fingers...)
Bodies have a way of making you remember.
There's the good, of course. We always remember the good. Laughter, kindness and fun stick to our psyches like
The bad is there, too, but you have to dig a little further because it's backgrounded like any good resentment. A strangely unavoidable reaction, it seems -- as if some cultural directive soft-wires us against better judgement to exonerate all people posthumously for any earthly sins. The almost inconceivable hagiography of Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon proved that.
But the polar opposites of good and evil aren't where the best memories lie. Those dwell in the grey matter of the middle, where who you are and what you are matter less than what you experience in the moment with another person. Even if that moment is ephemeral, fortuitous or even occasional like mine were with Hunter.
What I knew or even thought I knew about Hunter mattered not at all in the transcendence we shared. And a memory that had played itself out in reality dozens of times over the years is what surged forth as I surveyed his body, surreally displayed like it was the centerpiece of a final-exam party at some irreverent medical school.
Hunter was poling up the cat road above Emerald chair, herringboning into the teeth of a storm, relishing the headwind and swirling flakes, heading for a first run into Rabbit Tracks. At least that's what he, and, it seemed, anybody who'd lived here for more than five years called it. In reality it had a dozen names and none of them mattered.
As usual, I could barely see him; he always skated up the road while we shipped our skis over reluctant shoulders and strolled up. Hunter's powerful strides - no doubt a by-product of his hockey days - carried him quickly ahead, where he always seemed to hover in the void between partial visibility and disappearance. And here he was again - same ol' same ol'. Of course, there was also the issue of Hunter having to get first tracks down his favourite line. He, and only he would be allowed to savour those twenty-something turns to the flats, then traverse high left to milk whatever he could off the wall to skier's right of Chunky's.
By the time any of us caught up with him it was either for another load up Emerald or in the line at Harmony, waiting for the fucking patrol to finish with what Hunter considered their egregious ordinance routine.
"Fuckers," he would say, anytime a patroller would ski down Gun Barrels then officiously ski right onto the chair as if they were heading to another important meeting at Dork Corp.
We'd all laugh with Hunter, who always seemed to be the voic e of our collective thoughts.
Naturally we'd arrived at the trudge up toward Rabbit Tracks after savaging Ratfink a couple times, and that after having bombed Roundhouse Roll and Ravens. This was the routine on a powder morning, given that the upper lifts were never open, and we had to have a routine - especially given the gong show out of the gate at the Creekside Gondola.
Hunter was part of the Creekside crew, a pack of powder-crazed individuals who had nothing more than that in common with each other and knew precious little about each other's lives other than the politics and weather reports that were exchanged in the interminable pre-dawn wait for the gondola to open.
In this cabal, Hunter reigned as philosopher king, ringleader and clown. Always quick with a joke or dis, but even quicker with a wry self-deprecation. Although I knew little about him, one thing was clear to me: this place was sanctuary for Hunter from everyone and everything else.
Sometimes when they'd drop the rope we'd end up in the same lift together and it would continue, but by then talk had turned to wind speed and direction and humorous thought were quickly being crowded out by anticipation of powder redemption. Depending on how long it had been since it snowed, this anticipation was palpable in the descending silences as the gondie neared the top.
And in the quiet of the arriving cabin, with only boot buckles clicking and the muted crackle of wrinkling GoreTex, Hunter would inevitably shatter whatever private thoughts you were entertaining with a war whoop and loud "Let's give 'er boys."
Because beyond anything else he might have been or experienced or done, Hunter was a skier.
Summary: There are people in town that shared moments with Hunter that had nothing to do with the apparent scandal in his life or dark past. They saw him only for the mountain-enthusiasts side he shared with them.
posted by minetto at 11:47 PM
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