Prologue
Otto Lang was a pioneer of modern skiing. In the mid-30’s he traveled from Europe to New Hampshire and then to the Pacific Northwest where he brought technique and style to west coast skiers by founding ski schools on Mount Rainier, Mount Baker and Mount Hood. Soon he became the Director of the Sun Valley Ski School where he hob-knobbed with the stars of the silver screen and went on to write and produce movies. He was often referred to as “The Grand Old Man of Skiing”.
Before he passed away at age 97 he said “I know it is a broad statement, but it is true; skiing is responsible for everything in my life. It connected everything.”
Otto Lang
That quote resonated with me and it got me to wondering if all of us were directed by some "one-thing" like skiing that connects all the dots and shapes the course of our lives. Some event or experience that sends us along a path that we don't recognize as a path at all. Something that nudges us along unaware as to why we choose A instead of B. A gentle touch here and there that keeps us on course but sometimes a 2 x 4 across the head to get our attention and keep us focused on something we didn't know we were even supposed to be paying attention to.
I got to wondering what my “one-thing” was.
1 - Life Style Choices
I was 17 years old and totally pumped. It was going to be my second day of skiing and I was going to White Pass. Dennis Hutchinson and I had been invited to tag along with Gordon, Sherry and their Dad, Bob McNary. Bob was my employer at “Bob’s Montlake Drug Store” where I made deliveries on my scooter, swept the aisles and stocked the shelves. Bob had taught me the practice of rotating shelf stock which served me well in my later life and to this day I think of him as I religiously ensure that my newer yogurt is set behind the old in the refrigerator. His generosity and commitment to keeping the neighborhood kids out of trouble afforded me gas money for my scooter plus a lift ticket, ski rentals and a bowl of chili.
Mount Pilchuck
He had introduced me to skiing at Mount Pilchuck and it turned out to be everything I had dreamed it would be. Convinced that skiing was what I was meant to do I had saved my money and visited "Jack Hillyar’s Cunningham Ski Shop" to buy my own equipment. No more renting for this kid. At age 17 I had made a life style decision and I was going to become a skier.
2 - Scents
Site of Cunningham’s Ski Shop Today
Cunningham’s may have been Seattle’s first boutique ski shop. It was the only ski shop I had ever seen and was located just blocks from my home at the south end of the Central Business District in Montlake. Eight years before I became a skier, I was a nine-year-old kid drawn into Cunningham’s by the wonderful smoky scent that washed over the sidewalk each time the front door was opened. It was the intoxicating blend of pine tar, hot wax, oiled wool and leather ski boots all intermingled into a psychoactive brew that took me away.
My sense of smell has always been a bit keener than most other folks and six decades later still informs my choices. I could smell Cunningham’s from more than a block away and the underlying scent of pine tar was not unlike that of creosote from the pilings in Portage Bay that mixed with the scents of cat tails, blackberries, decaying vegetation and warm lake water. As the smell of creosote had defined my Summers pine tar had taken ownership of my Winters. It didn’t matter what I was doing or who I was with if somebody opened that ski shop door, I knew it immediately and was distracted by those odors. I swear that to this day any one of those scents takes control of me. Mix them together and I begin writhing in ecstasy and speaking in tongues. I can’t help it. Embarrassing to admit but true.
Image by Bonnie Davy
I didn’t know it at the time but it was that evil brew that defined the trajectory of my life and provided, nay forced, so many of my life experiences, fostered friendships and shaped values that would ultimately determine the course of my career. It’s funny how things work out.
3 – Kids Under the Influence
Nine year old boys are often viewed with suspicion when they wander around stores but the folks at Cunningham’s saw that glazed look in my eyes and, recognizing me as one who shared their disease, tolerated my loitering while I basked in that olfactory elixir. Under the influence, I studied the instructions on Toko ski wax packaging, pondered the science of klister, ran my fingers along all three edges of the triangular base scrapers, worshipped the small metal cans of pine tar and straightened the paper instructions that were tightly rolled and bound to the Kofix Candles with the tiniest of rubber bands. I stroked the skis and marveled at the metal edges bound by small metal screws, exercised the cable binding levers and struggled to understand how the A&T and Marker Simplex toe pieces functioned. There were low-end cheap rubber ski boots that off-gassed something unhealthy all the way up to decadent Italian double leather boots that reeked of performance and luxury.
When I entered the store, the ski mechanics would look up from their work and smile knowingly. They allowed me to stand at the door of the shop and watch them mount bindings, wax skis and burn pine tar into wooden ski bases with a propane torch. My God, those smells! Clearly, those individuals that fate had favored with work in the ski shop where children of a greater God and had a higher mission in life. I had to find a way to follow their path.
For eight years while my friends hung out at the drug store, flirted with Joanne Porter, read comic books and magazines, I slunk down the block to Cunningham’s where I watched as the rich kids from Broadmoor, Madison and Laurelhurst came in with their parents and I listened closely as the salesmen fitted them with skis, boots and poles. Now for the very first time I was returning as a qualified customer. Cash in hand. A real skier-to-be. I was buying my own gear as I had watched so many others do before.
4 - The Purchase of Contraband
The ski expert knew who I was and recognized that I was finally on my mission to become a skier. He presented some options that I couldn’t afford. What I could afford were the cheap rubber boots and I allowed him to lace a pair onto my feet. The obscene chemical smell was overwhelming and the look and feel did not support my dream. Crestfallen, I rejected them.
Then he lowered his voice and said, “Look, today is my last day here. I will sell you my own gear but you gotta keep it quiet. Jack (the owner) will get mad as hell if he finds out”
I promised not to tell a soul but I lied because I am telling you this secret now.
He showed me his personal, used blue Gresvig Supers with gold A&T toe pieces and Tyrolia cables. He made sure that they were my perfect size by having me reach up as high as I could and when I tried really hard, I could almost touch the curvature of the tip.
Next he brought out some stunning double-lace leather boots of Italian heritage that smelled of fine leather and shoe polish. I sat down, as I had watched so many others do, and he laced them up as tightly as they would go. They were magnificent………and very, very loose. I wore a size 8 ½ and these were size 11. He told me not to worry about the size because you always bought them big to accommodate extra socks. He asked if I needed to buy some but my budget was limited and I had plenty of cotton gym socks at home. I would use those to fill the empty space. Next came the poles. Not bamboo poles with baskets the size of Texas but actual aluminum poles with molded grips and leather straps that, according to him, were the perfect shoulder height. He threw in a box of silver wax. I knew what to do with it as I had been watching experts apply it for most of a decade.
I felt so proud carrying my gear home along that busy street and wished that our house was further away so that more people would have the chance to see me and identify me as a skier. At home I caked a ton of the silver wax onto my bases and buffed it with a cork from a wine bottle that I had found in the garbage. My alarm was set and I slept fitfully in anticipation of my first day as a “real” skier.
5 – Friends
Gordon and Sherry’s Dad, Bob, was a really good man. Maybe a bit awkward but a solid role model. He had equipped himself in a respectful fashion and whether he could ski or not he looked the part. His ski pants didn’t favor his physique but his long-belted lift coat established him as a serious skier.
Sherry was Gordon’s little sister. She was lithe and elegant with vision and a sense of style. She actually had stretch pants, a ski sweater, a nice lift jacket, a pair of plastic Lange buckle boots and some 170 cm Head Standards. She looked like she had stepped out of the pages of SKI magazine. Sherry had chosen the path of excellence in ski fashion and she was stunning.
Gordon had been skiing for a couple of years but didn’t seem to really relish it. I suspect he only went skiing to escape chores at home. He was an athletic and fit guy who ran cross country track, shot hoops and never embarrassed himself in any sports. He just never seemed to take to skiing. It wasn’t his thing.
Gordon
He had once been called “Jocko” by a fellow Boy Scout named Philip Miller and the name got legs so Gordon McNary became “Jocko McStrap”. He hated the nickname and would sink into a dark seething rage whenever he heard it. In order to maximize the effect, we referred to Gordon as Jocko only when we deemed it would be most hurtful.
Dennis was known to all as “Crutch”, a moniker that he cherished. He was raised by his single Mom who we called “Hootch”. His early years were tough as his Dad had been run over by a bus when he was small and a few years later his Mom was put into treatment at a Tuberculous sanitorium beyond the northern city limit. He told me of traveling by bus with the people he stayed with to visit her and them holding him up so that he and Hootch could look at each other through the tightly sealed window of the barrack-like structure where she was housed. He and his Mom would press their hands together against the glass and cry. A chunk of Crutch’s history was missing but when his Mom was released from Fircrest life regained a type of normalcy. She became a waitress downtown and Crutch went to work. In grade school he was earning money delivering newspapers to pay for his school clothes. By the time he was in high school he was also washing dishes and bussing tables.
They lived in a couple of rooms on the second floor of Jessie and Vern’s Montlake house where all of the living room furniture was protected with clear plastic covers. There was even a clear plastic strip for protecting the carpet from foot traffic. Nobody was welcomed in the living room so we only went there when they were at work and made sure that we hadn’t left any butt prints on the plastic furniture covers.
Crutch
Crutch had purchased some white military surplus ridged-top wooden skis with wood bases. He refinished them to a natural wood finish and retained the old cable bindings and toe irons.
He also found some old-school boots that fit the non-releasable toe pieces at St Vincent de Paul. His clothing choices for skiing were defined by his cold weather paper route uniform that included state of the art cotton waffle knit top under a light blue oxford cloth button-down collared shirt, cotton waffle knit long underwear bottoms, multiple pairs of cotton socks, blue jeans and a wool stocking cap. This was topped off with a lightweight “ski parka” good to at least 40-45 degrees Fahrenheit.
I had awesome, new (to me), ski equipment that signaled to everyone that I was a full-on bad-ass skier. I suited up about the same as Crutch but, being no damn slave to fashion, had foregone the button-down shirt in favor of my beloved grey crew necked cotton sweatshirt. I had indelibly inscribed BFD across it in huge block letters with a Magic Marker. I was not only a skier but I was hip and had attitude.
Having never been a fan of headwear I didn’t own a warm hat. Luckily my waist wasn’t too much larger than the circumference of my head so another pair of cotton waffle knit long john bottoms worked well enough as a combination hat and neck scarf. The waistband fit a bit loosely around my head and I could wrap one leg around my neck while letting the other trail rakishly in my wake. I felt that it added an international flair to my ensemble.
I thought it was a good plan and a fine counter-culture statement but when Gordon saw me he said, “Are you shitting me? You are wearing that on your fucking head? Are you shitting me? You are shitting me, right? You aren’t really going to wear that fucking thing on your head, are you?”
Hearing it put that way forced me to view my fashion choices in a whole different light. While Gordon was normally brash and annoyingly outspoken there was often a grain of truth to his commentary and the truth of the matter was that I was wearing underwear on my head. These were the facts of the case and they were undisputed. I wasn’t going to pass for a fashionable European skier. No, I was clearly some sort of a winter pervert. There wasn’t anything much that I could do about it, though, as the cost of a hat hadn’t been figured into the day’s budget. I could barely afford a bowl of chili for lunch and I was too proud to ask for a loan. A hat was out of the question.
6 – 50 Cents
Looking around the lodge I noticed that Crutch and I were the only skiers wearing blue jeans who weren’t soaking wet and shivering. Maybe that was because we were the only ones who hadn’t been out in the snow yet but I didn’t make that connection. Luckily the four pair of cotton socks I had layered on to fill up the empty space between my feet and my fancy, over-sized Italian double leather lace up boots left enough space for me to tuck in the pant legs of my blue jeans. I rationalized that they probably looked like dark blue stretch pants from a distance. Before we left the lodge, I made sure that the Duofold waistband label was to the inside and that the fly was to the back so that nobody would be able to easily discern that I was wearing underwear on my head. I wasn’t completely confident but thought that I might be able to pass if I exhibited an air of self-assurance.
When it came time to purchase lift tickets Gordon insisted that we buy chair tickets because they were good on the rope tows or chairs and there was an easy run from the top of the mountain that we could all manage called “Holiday”. All that I knew about in my one day of skiing was rope tows but Gordon had been on a chair once before so we viewed him as an expert in the matter. Sherry and Bob had both purchased chair tickets so not to be outdone we paid the additional 50 cents and I watched proudly as the cashier stamped “CHAIR” on them. She never gave my “headwear” a second look. Next someone stapled the ticket to the waist of my jacket. I was so proud to be standing there in my own ski gear wearing a chair ticket. I felt that I had arrived and that I would wear the jacket and ticket forever.
7 - Technique
Over the years I had read so many magazine articles on how to ski and had proven myself to be a quick study on my first and only outing. I had listened to snowplow turns being discussed for years so the mechanics made total sense to me. I had studied the illustrations in SKI and Skiing magazines and once the rope tow at Mt. Pilchuck had gotten packed out I could perform them pretty well.
Since Gordon didn’t care that much about skiing, improving his technique wasn’t something he considered. He would go fast in a straight line until he lost control and blew up or had to change direction for one reason or another. At some point he would fall down, get up, point in a new direction and do it again and again and again. I don’t think that snow conditions ever had any effect on how Gordon skied from one day to the next.
Crutch was tall, lanky and uncoordinated. He moved through all phases of his life recognizing and honoring his physical limitations so skiing was a surprising choice for him. When he skied he resembled a break dancing Praying Mantis. His arms and legs spread wide with his overly long ski poles held high and waved wildly as though the task was to keep them from ever coming in contact with the snow. At 6 feet tall he had an arm spread of over 7 feet. Add a 5 foot bamboo ski pole to each arm and you had a 17 foot “Circle of Death” that accompanied him down the slopes. You entered that zone at your own risk.
8 – 50 Cents Redux
The snow was abundant and heavy and since machine packing was not yet universally practiced it was deep where not tracked up and impossible for us to turn in. I was determined to be a student of the sport but this lesson was being taught in a language that I didn’t understand. Between the deep heavy snow, Gordon’s Kamikaze dive/crashes and Crutch’s Flying Circles of Death there was a lot going on and I was having trouble concentrating on my own issues. It would be accurate to say that I wasn’t having a confidence building day on the slopes.
I was also having issues with my headwear. The “rakish” trailing leg of my long underwear had gotten wet and heavy from numerous face plants and conspired to pull the loose-fitting waistband from around my head. If I had fooled anyone with my faux-Euro fashion look it was now 100% clear to all that I was nothing more than an ill-equipped-trailer-trash-wannabe or worse, some sort of sex criminal who should be reported to the local authority. Attempting to salvage some semblance of dignity and work with what I had left I resorted to wrapping both wet legs around my neck in order to keep my head covered. Wet cotton wraps around one’s neck might be recommended for some tropical climes but isn’t advised for skiing in the Pacific Northwest. I was uncomfortably cold.
It was getting late in the day when Gordon saw Sherry and boastfully told her that we were “going to ride the chair and ski in the trees”. The area map showed “Holiday” to be a piece of cake. Never mind that we were wet and tired. We had bought chair tickets and Gordon had called our shot. Sherry had been skiing the chair all day and headed for the lodge to wait for us.
9 – Mayhem
The sun was low. the light was flat and dead. The day was winding down and we had time for just one run. Gordon gave us a thumbnail sketch on how to get on and get off the chair. We were instructed to watch him and do exactly what he did. We watched as he struggled forward to the loading mark and stood on the outside spot looking over his inside shoulder. The lift operator started yelling at him to move over. “Move to the inside! Look over your other shoulder! Move over! Move over!” It was all very confusing to everyone except the lift operator. Gordon was shuffling one way and then the other as he attempted to interpret the lift operator’s instructions before contacting the approaching chair. When contact did occur and his bad Macarena-Musical-Chairs routine came to an abrupt end he was on the wrong side, looking over the wrong shoulder and slumped totally sideways in the chair. The operator hit the kill switch on the chair which nearly threw Gordon off onto the snow.
Gordon shouted at the lift operator: “What the Hell?”
Crutch to me: “Did you catch that”?
Me: “Which part?”
Crutch: “All of it. What are we supposed to do?”
I wasn’t sure what had gone wrong but Crutch often looked to me for advice. Not wanting to disappoint him I said with as much false bravado as a 17 year old wearing frozen underwear on his head could possibly muster: “Just follow me”.
Once Gordon and the lift operator had exchanged sufficient insults and the chair started back up the operator glared at us with disapproval and informed us that this would be “the last chair up”.
I didn’t have time to process that last bit of information because our turn to fail was fast upon us. Dennis and I rushed into our loading positions in a clearly unpracticed, unskilled and undisciplined manner. Crutch’s general lack of coordination, Army surplus skis, bear trap bindings, vintage boots and long ski poles fostered a dangerous and less than desired result for the lift operator who had probably never experienced such mayhem or unintended and fierce assault. The Praying Mantis Circle of Death was displayed in its full fury as skis and poles were frantically flying in all directions. Everyone and everything within that 17 foot range was beaten with one piece of equipment or another creating a cacophony of noises from blunt force trauma impacts punctuated by grunts, groans, cries and curses as we attempted to load in what we hoped was the correct fashion.
Somehow, we managed to board and were swept away from the violence and confusion of that loading ramp. I looked back at the now hatless lift operator who was rubbing a bright red mark on his forehead as he shouted again that we were on “the last chair”.
I didn’t realize how close to the truth he was.
The chair ride should have given us some time to unwind and think about the unloading process but Gordon’s narrative about how badly the lift attendant had screwed up continued for most of the ride and distracted our concentration. We hoped that unloading would prove to be more straight forward than loading since there was an empty chair between ours and Gordon’s and we feared that we might not be able to see him demonstrate proper unloading technique.
Once we saw Gordon disappear behind the unloading ramp above us, we knew that we were on our own. There were no visual clues other than the large sign that read “Keep Your Tips Up”, whatever that meant. He was there and then he wasn’t.
Arriving at the ramp neither of us knew what to do and when we saw Gordon sprawled out and crawling around at the base of the ramp we knew we were screwed. We had no clues as to what to do next so, confused, we both got off late, landed out of control on the ramp and we were off to the races. Crutch’s Circle of Death was in full force and I absorbed several painful blows before we crashed into Gordon and all fell in a big heap.
Looking back the way we had come I saw the lift attendant stick his head out of the shack to determine if anyone was dead. Seeing movement, he glared at us and slid his window shut with a loud bang of disapproval. He wasn’t amused. Since we were on the “last chair” we had time to separate ourselves and slide to the bottom of the ramp on our faces, backs and butts without any degree of dignity.
10 – Bad Choice
On our feet again we shuffled awkwardly through the thick and heavy snow over to the sign with the large green circle marking our intended run named “Holiday”. It was tough going once away from the ramp as the snow had few tracks in it and hadn’t been packed down. A rope was stretched across the broad entrance to the run with two orange painted bamboo poles that formed a large “X” and a sign that proclaimed the run was “CLOSED”.
“Uh oh!”
The next run to the left was called “Cascade” and it was marked with a large blue square that we knew meant “INTERMEDIATE”. That described a status that we had definitely not yet achieved. The top part of the run looked impossibly difficult to us as it was littered with soft-snow moguls and dropped precipitously down a seeming wall of death. We certainly didn’t have the skills or the intellect to negotiate a slope like that so we shuffled back to “Holiday” where we focused on the tracks of a few outlaw skiers who had obviously ducked under the rope and gone down anyway. We considered our options and chances of surviving “Cascade”, looked to see if anyone was watching, ducked under the rope and shuffled ourselves away through the thick snow with as much stealth as we could muster
11 – Late
Our agreement with Bob and Sherry was that we would all stop skiing by 2:00 PM and that we would be at the car and ready to go by 4:00PM. By taking the last chair up we made that schedule commitment impossible to keep but we had spent the extra 50 cents on chair tickets and Gordon had bragged to Sherry that he was going to take us up to “ski the trees”, whatever the hell that meant. Crutch and I were without a clue as to what “skiing the trees” meant. If you consider Gordon’s Kamikaze Technique with what I now recognize as the realities of what tree skiing entails it is clear that survival and tree skiing with Gordon were not mutually compatible expectations. We didn’t see it coming but we were definitely going to get our money’s worth on the lift tickets.
By 4:00 PM Bob and Sherry had changed out of their ski clothes and were waiting in the car with the engine running, windows scraped and defrosted. The lot was emptying out but there was no concern, only anger as they both sat and fumed at our thoughtlessness for keeping them waiting. At any time, they knew they would see us ambling towards the car, fashionably late, joking, being loud and obnoxious as only self-absorbed high school boys can be. It didn’t occur to them that we were still “skiing the trees”.
12 – Holiday
Our start was comfortably slow as we followed the general path of the few existing tracks that formed gentle turns we found unnecessary (impossible) to replicate. When the tracks angled off the run to the right we happened to be pointed in that direction and our speed was controlled by the deepening snow so it seemed like a good idea. Soon, however, the tracks started to make some turns we weren’t capable of even considering so we all went to Plan B which Gordon excelled at. We optimized our skills of going straight, falling down, selecting a new direction, going straight, falling down, selecting a new direction, repeat, repeat, repeat. We were still having fun, laughing at each other’s falls and mocking our collective lack of technique. With all the falling, getting up, collecting gear, selecting a new direction, etc. we were taking an incredible amount of time to travel a short distance. We continued this strategy for what seemed like a long time and I was cognizant of staying as high as possible and keeping the upper slope on my left. This, I was certain, would lead us back to Holiday.
The sun was well below the adjacent mountains and it was getting darker but the overcast sky and reflective snow allowed us to see pretty well even if the light was dim and flat. The snow got deeper and the trees closer together. At times there wasn’t any sort of a clearing between the trees so we ducked under limbs and bushwhacked between darkened trunks. We had each fallen and gotten up so many times we had lost count and it had ceased being fun. The tracks we followed were always within sight ensuring that we would find our way back but we were very tired and starting to get really cold………..and then……….the tracks stopped………We stared in disbelief as the tracks turned abruptly to herring-bone and sidestep up the steep slope to our left and disappear into the black forest above.
Gordon was first to state the obvious when he said: “That’s bullshit. I’m not doing that”.
I knew that Crutch had no chance of climbing that slope and in my two days of skiing I had never tried side-stepping or herring-boning up anything. The heavy snow combined with my level of fatigue informed me that I was not in a receptive state for learning anything. We needed to change our plans again so I pulled the ski area brochure from my pocket and opened it to the area map. It looked like all we had to do was stay high on the slope and keep to the left. We would either come back to the run or in the very worst case we would intersect with Highway 410.
13 – Too Late
5:00 PM came and went. A single car sat idling in the dark parking lot, it’s exhaust curling up to be swept away by the strengthening west wind. With a mixture of anger and concern Bob and Sherry walked back to the lodge to see if we were goofing around somewhere. Not finding us they sought out the Ski Patrol who had completed their final sweep. They were off work and preparing to leave. Bob and Sherry expressed their concerns that we were hours overdue but the Ski Patrol told them that they had swept the mountain. There were no skiers up there and that we were surely waiting for them at the car. They advised that they return to the car to meet us.
They were right about one thing. There were no more skiers up there.
14 – Zombie Dance
We were cold and wet as we slogged on in a zombie-like state until one of us would fall down and we had to wait for them to get up. Each fall fostered increasing resentment against the fallen as the unfallen waited and got colder by the minute. My “hat and scarf” had turned into a solid block of frozen snow. I failed to notice that it was providing no warmth and was hard to keep on my head. I had been shivering for quite a while at this point and I suspected that Gordon and Dennis were as well.
We slogged / fell/ slogged / fell for what seemed like a very long time. Gordon continued to complain about our predicament in a language that was getting more bizarre. When he could be understood he railed on about how stupid we must look. Dennis was quiet and looked to me for a sign that everything would be OK. I tried to be calm, keep a clear head and act like I was confident that my plan would lead us back to the ski area. In reality it was getting harder and harder for me to believe that we would be OK and that I wasn’t leading us on a death march but I didn’t let on.
Finally, as we were traversing a steep slope the trees began to open up and the slope bent back to the left. This was where I had been leading us to. At last we were coming to where we would rejoin “Holiday” or some part of the ski area or, worst case, a drainage that would allow us down to Highway 12.
I was so relieved as I shuffled out to a bare snow-covered ridge and then horrified to look down and see nothing but snowy wilderness. No ski run. No ski area. No lights. No highway. Just a dark, snow-covered, forested valley with no signs of human life. It simply couldn’t be.
No one spoke as we stared into that emptiness and the reality of our situation sank in. My plan had failed. I had failed. The dark night became darker. Colder. I started to become certain that we were going to die and I didn’t know how to process that.
15 – Mountain Men
Sometime after 6:00PM the Mountain Manager, Ski School Director and a key ski area employee made their last pass through the lodge shutting off lights, checking that the kitchen appliances were shut down and straightening chairs at tables. They found Bob and Sherry sitting in the empty lodge. They told them that they were closing down the lodge and that it was time to go. At that point Bob broke down and told them his deepest, darkest fears. Sherry told them that she had spoken with us just before we rode up the chair and that Gordon had told her we were “going to ski the trees”.
The Mountain Men grabbed their equipment and started up the mountain in the snow cat.
16 – Fucked
The realization that we were seriously lost was a harsh toke and we reacted in our own ways. My mind was struggling to reconcile what I desperately desired with the large blocks of bad news that I was confronted with.
Crutch was characteristically quiet as during his short life he had received and grown to expect a lot of bad news. He was waiting for irrefutable news that we were toast.
Gordon went off. He started swearing and yelling about how stupid we were and how stupid we would look to everyone, how my plan had been stupid from the beginning and how fucked we were.
I couldn’t disagree with any of it, particularly the last part. I had never known anyone who was as fucked as I felt we were at that moment in time. In fact, in my limited 17 year life experience I had no frame of reference for anybody being as fucked as we were or having any understanding of whether that level of fuckedness could possibly have a positive outcome or if this degree of being fucked was just so totally fucked that there was no coming back from it.
Crutch looked to me for more beta or some sign of comfort, confidence or confirmation. I didn’t say so but at that moment I doubted that any of us would see our 18th birthday. In fact, I was pretty certain that none of us would live until morning. It was an odd feeling. As Gordon shouted on in some increasingly ancient tongue I was selfishly hoping that I wouldn’t be the last one of us to die. Really strange thoughts.
If there was one thing that I interpreted as good news it was that I had stopped shivering. I was still cold as hell and my feet felt disconnected but I cared less about it and was no longer shaking. I thought that was a good thing.
17 – Plan B
I remembered everything that I had been taught by my Dad, learned in Boy Scouts or read in Boy’s Life about what to do when you were lost. I recalled that you stayed together, stayed put, stayed dry and tried to stay warm. Give your rescuers a chance to find you. We were batting .250 which was decent in major league baseball but not great in the game of getting lost and living to tell about it. I shifted from survival techniques to asking myself how I could have let this happen in the first place and I couldn’t come up with any answers. Actually, I wasn’t coming up with answers to anything anymore but nothing struck me as odd about that. Then I became aware of a loud noise and drifted back in to a state of awareness where I realized that the static that I was hearing was Gordon rambling on loudly and swearing profusely. I couldn’t deal with that and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Shut up, Jocko”!
He never paused.
I screamed again, “Shut the fuck up, Jocko”! And he abruptly stopped.
With uncooperative lips I announced that we were going to find a place to stay together, stay put, stay dry and stay warm until our rescuers found us. Crutch looked relieved now that a plan was in place but Gordon wouldn’t stay quiet for long. Still, he followed as I reversed our track away from the exposed ridge back into the forest.
18 – Shelter
I don’t remember how long we slogged through the trees looking for a warm place but I saw a depression that encircled a tree trunk and announced that we would camp there. We took off our skis and leaned them against some of the low boughs to provide a bit more of a wind break. This busy work seemed to help us focus and we worked together in silence.
Climbing down into the tree well proved that there wasn’t room for all three of us so we agreed that we would lay on top of each other and rotate positions so that everybody had a chance to be in the middle and warm up. We would take 15 minute shifts. When it was my turn to be in the middle, I did feel warmer and took the icy underwear off of my head to use as a pillow. Crazy idea to use a wet cotton block of ice as a pillow.
Nobody was really shivering now except when we spoke and that wasn’t really shivering it was just our lips weren’t functioning well and words weren’t coming out right so we sometimes giggled and didn’t think much of it except when one of us felt the need to be understood.
Crutch was the only one of us wearing a watch so he was our timekeeper and when 15 minutes had passed, he would tell us that it was time to change positions but his words were coming out wrong. Still we knew what he meant and Crutch was always awkward and funny so we would laugh and change positions.
19 – Plan C
Eventually Gordon started getting talkative and agitated again. As we changed positions, he started getting more critical of the plan to stay put. Soon he was wound up and swearing again about how stupid we were to be crowded in under a tree and how stupid his Dad was going to think we were and insisted that we get back on our skis and go back to the ski area. At least I think that’s what he was saying and going back to the ski area was the first thing he had said in a long time that made sense. Never mind that we didn’t know where it was, we clambered out of the tree well and started strapping our skis on. I, for one, couldn’t wait to get back to the ski area. What were we thinking? Why were we camping out in the snow? Which way to go?
I don’t recall if there was any logic in the direction we chose. We were beyond the point of rational discussion and I thought nothing of the fact that I was having trouble forming complete thoughts. Likewise, for my inability to say real words. I can’t tell you why we didn’t follow our tracks but we didn’t. We broke trail off in another direction and continued that way for what seemed like a long time. Falling, getting up, falling, getting up. I wasn’t warm and not exactly cold though I was falling down a lot and had left my “hat” in the tree well. Things seemed confusing but OK.
20 – Signs of Life
I had an untimely problem. I needed to shit so I called a halt to our caravan, mumbled something that was meant to announce my intentions, pulled down my jeans and dropped a deuce right in the trail. Seemed like the thing to do. Gordon and Crutch just stared at me but didn’t say anything, though Crutch hadn’t said anything for a long time and Gordon was gifting us with a blissful period of silence. When I was done, I pulled up my long johns and jeans and we started off again.
As we shuffled on through the snow, I started seeing things. I couldn’t determine what they were, if they were alive or dead. They moved, would disappear and then reappear someplace else. Were they close or far away? I couldn’t tell. Seemed interesting. Were they animals? Ghosts? Walking trees? The slog continued for a long time as the visions shadowed us darting in and out of sight and then, suddenly, our path intersected with another set of tracks at 90 degrees. We were deliriously happy. This meant that we were close to civilization and all we had to do was follow them back to the ski area.
We couldn’t agree which direction the skiers had been going so we chose a direction and started following the tracks. As we shuffled through the forest with increasing clumsiness Crutch started falling with more regularity. We would wait while he slowly picked himself up. With each fall he spent more and more time on the ground. It seemed that he was down more than he was on his feet. At least we weren’t shivering or trying to talk anymore.
21 – Oh Shit!
The trail led into a small clearing where we encountered something unusual. There was something in the middle of the trail and we stopped to determine what it was. We stared without talking, trying to figure out what it could be. Someone finally said something that sounded like “It looks like a turd” but that didn’t make sense. What kind of an animal would shit there? It must be something else…………but it wasn’t. We were pretty sure that it was a turd.
The three of us stood in a circle looking at that turd like mules staring at a new gate. Slowly the reality of what it meant began to sink in. Gordon started shouting what was meant to be obscenities but his lips weren’t working. Crutch simply fell over next to my turd and laid there.
Though my thought process was foggy I came to the realization that we, for sure, weren’t going to live to see another day and I hoped for just two things. I hoped that my turd wasn’t the last thing that we ever saw and that I wouldn’t shiver again before I died.
22 – Got the Time?
We convinced Crutch that he needed to pick himself up and when he did, we asked him what time it was. He looked at his watch but couldn’t figure it out. He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and held up his arm so that Gordon and I could read it but we couldn’t decide if it said 6:15, 3:00, 11:45 or 9:30. It seemed absurd that the three of us were lost in woods next to a turd and we couldn’t tell what time it was. It took my mind off of dying and stopped Gordon from swearing.
23 – FOUND!
As we stood there trying to figure out what to do next, we thought that we heard something. We had all been seeing things and now we were hearing them, as well, but this sounded like a faint voice calling. We listened more and decided that we were all hearing the same thing. Someone was calling! There were voices, for real! Someone was coming to rescue us?
A quick numb-lipped conversation in some strange language that we all seemed to be speaking ensued and we agreed that at the count of three we would all scream “HELP!” at the top of our lungs. One! Two! Three! “HELP!!!!!”. The faint voice answered. One! Two! Three! “HELP!!!!!!” The voice answered, louder now. One! Two! Three! “HELP!!!!!!!!!” The voice shouted back. This went on for a while. Was it real or were we just dying in some collective hallucination?
Lights were now flashing through the trees. Were they real lights or more hallucinations? Then, three men and two dogs stepped into the clearing. Were they real? They started asking us questions that I know now were intended to help them assess our condition. We were given hot, sweet, lemony tea and some cookies. One of them put a hat on my head and said that it was going to start snowing and that we had to get started. I wasn’t sure what that meant but I was beginning to think that maybe I wasn’t going to die after all and that was enough.
One of the men said in a strong German accent “You stoopid boyz!”.
24 – Stoopid Boyz!
Crutch was the weakest skier with the worst equipment and in the most dire condition. He was given a leash hooked to a harness on one of the dogs and was pulled away, led by one of the men. Gordon and I were led by the other two men. They kept asking us annoying questions, many of the questions more than once.
“What is your name? What day is it? Who is the President of the United States?”
One man was really nice and helpful but the man with the German accent just kept telling us how “stoopid” we were. It was all very confusing.
I can’t tell you how long it took to climb up to the top of the mountain but between us falling down and having to be picked up the acerbic German and his friend taught us how to sidestep up slopes. Nothing cerebral. Just repetition. The German repeatedly said “Learn or die, you stoopid boyz” and along the way we didn’t die. My mind was mostly elsewhere yet nowhere at all and I fell so many times that if I had been capable of keeping track, I would have lost count. Each time one of us fell the mean man told us how “stoopid” we were. I have no idea how many times I heard, “You stoopid boyz”.
When we finally got to the spot where we had ducked under that rope a snowcat was awaiting our arrival. The engine was idling and the extended cab was warm and unpadded. We were helped into the cab along with the dogs that were trained to cover us up and keep us warm. They piled in on top. Both Dennis and Gordon got dogs and I was wishing that there was one for me. Sharp angles and edges everywhere but I could lay there with my eyes closed and not worry about dying. I was comfortable.
Gordon was always nervous around dogs and having that animal panting in his face probably terrified him more than anything that happened in the preceding hours. Crutch didn’t say a word but settled in and went to sleep. I don’t remember the ride down other than the loud engine noises, the smell of diesel exhaust and the jolting of the cat…………
I checked out.
25 – Scents / Good and Bad
I don’t remember getting out of the snowcat or going into the lodge. I do remember finding myself in a room with wooden tables and benches with lockers along the wall. I was comforted by the smells emanating from the ski shop but there was some other scent intruding on that pleasant mixture. It was not a good smell and I came to realize that it was me and my soiled long johns. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I stripped them off and threw them behind the line of lockers. I don’t know if anyone else was in the room with me at the time but I eventually became aware that Gordon, Crutch and our three rescuers were there. Bob and Sherry must have been there, too, but I don’t remember that. Did I do that in front of them?
The two nice men gave us more cookies with hot sweetened tea while the mean man berated us for our poor judgement, breaking the rules and scaring everybody but most of all for being “Stoopid Boyz”. It was hard to disagree with his logic.
26 – Aftermath
I woke up in my own bed and to this day I don’t know how I got there. I had missed school and my Mom told me that she had called the attendance office to let them know I was “sick”. I slept most of the day and when I tried to get out of bed I found that my feet were bloody with broken blisters and open sores from wearing multiple pairs of cotton socks inside of my way-too-large Italian double leather ski boots. I felt weak and worn out. I don’t think I went to school that week because my feet were in such bad shape, every muscle ached and I was just plain fatigued. If I did go back to school I definitely was in no shape for PE and there was this other thing.
I was terribly embarrassed about getting lost at a ski area and having to be rescued. Like, who does that? If you are cool and popular you can pull off dork moments but if you are a typical high school kid who is trying to fit in and not be a dork it isn’t what you want people talking about. You don’t want it on your dork resume. Only total-losers do something like that.
I didn’t know how to talk about it and didn’t feel like there was anyone I could discuss it with. I didn’t know how to own up to being such a dumb-ass that I nearly killed myself and my friends? Gordon and I didn’t have the sort of relationship where we could share our feelings about anything other than being pissed at each other and the one time that Crutch and I tried to talk about it neither of us could find the words. We tried and after trying to make jokes about it we ended up crying. Now that is something that a kid trying to overcome dorkdom simply cannot have on the streets. We had put our families through a night of hell and it seemed that nobody was comfortable discussing it.
Gordon and I drifted even further apart while Crutch and I remained close friends and became roommates but we never spoke a word about that night. I was ashamed and hid it away where nobody could see it. I didn’t talk to anyone about it for eight years.
The Next Eight Years
27 – Life After Death
Life went on. Friends came and went. I continued to ski as much as I could afford to which is to say not very much. Crutch went to Viet Nam and came back damaged. We know it today as PTSD. On his return to US soil he was spit on, called a baby-killer and had stuff thrown on him at SFO. The guy never could catch a break.
After two years of college, my military deferment was rescinded so that I could become cannon fodder for the Viet Nam conflict. I left school to get a job and live a little before the inevitable draft notice arrived. Jobs were tight so I picked up work where I could. A day, a week, a month, whatever. Nothing enriching.
One of those jobs was running a freight elevator at Frederick and Nelson, a company where I clearly did not belong. The single positive aspect of that job was spending my day in an elevator shaft where the acoustics were perfect for whistling. Through years of playing the French Horn I had developed a wicked embouchure that enabled me to whistle in ways that even I found astonishing. I delighted myself by bringing culture to the clean and unclean masses while traveling a bazillion vertical feet through space in my dimly lit cage.
My Cage with great
Near the top of the list of negative aspects of working at Frederick’s was their strict personal-grooming policy that forbade hair that covered any part of your ears, touched your eyebrows, your collar, sideburns that extended below your earlobes or any single moustache hair that strayed below the corner of your mouth. I was one of the usual suspects and was regularly called before the Spanish Inquisition to account for my many hair sins.
I could barely grow a mustache at that point in time and when I tried it was just a little blonde wisp above my lip. I was delighted to think that I was being singled out as a transgressor for my giant walrus mustache and that I was viewed as a heretic by Frederick & Nelson management. Even though my mustache was invisible from more than five feet away I believed that I had arrived as a fairly major dude.
When it was discovered by management that “The Whistler” was one of the employees who had been interviewed and filmed by the ACLU for a case against corporate repression, attacks on personal expression and free speech I was labeled as a member of the “Hirsute Heresy and my days at Frederick’s were numbered.
What was my worst sin? The hair that may or may not have been able to touch my eyebrows or shirt collar? The sideburns that extended 1/8” below my earlobes? My flagrant and repeated (though invisible) facial hair violations? Guilty as charged on all accounts. I was a dead man walking.
Just prior to my execution the draft lottery was enacted and I pulled a bad number. My boss was delighted. It looked like I was headed for Viet Nam post-haste and that the Viet Cong would have a chance to carry out F & N’s pogrom for them. I left Frederick’s in order to ponder how long I would last as a grunt and when my draft notice arrived, I reported. I was flabbergasted to learn that I had flunked my draft physical. Confused to learn that I was physically unfit for military service I ran off to Hawaii to be with longtime friends, Mel and Irma and determine next steps.
Unfit at Nanakuli
Upon my return I was once again looking for work when I heard that REI might be hiring ski mechanics.
The Next Eight Years
28 – Dollars and Scents
Ski mechanics!! Are you kidding? My dream job replete with my dream scents? I had been wanting this job for ~15 years! I rushed to 1525 11th Avenue to apply!
Entering the Capitol Hill store for the first time I was totally taken aback by the scent of the creosote treated wooden block floor. It was reminiscent of pine tar and somehow comforting. The square counter encompassing a large area against the front wall between the entrance and exit doors was managed by two attentive and strikingly dissimilar yet equally stunning women.
When I stepped up to the counter one of the women smiled and asked in the most amazing English accent how she could help. I was gobsmacked and felt my knees start to buckle. Catching myself on the counter, I stammered and stuttered and eventually made the point that I was there to apply for a job.
“That’s lovely” she said. “Patty, would you please give this gentleman a job application?”
Patty giggled and with a big smile said, “Of course, Margie”.
Patty was a tall, pretty woman with long and impeccably styled blonde hair. She was wearing the most incongruous outfit consisting of an impossibly short yellow dress. Turning away she bent over to get an application from the lower shelf and as she did her short skirt started to rocket way up the back of her legs. I quickly turned away. When she addressed me again, I turned back to take the application and thanked her. Margie was smiling at me and I felt that maybe I had just passed a test by not looking up Patty’s dress. She asked me to wait a moment, made a phone call and shortly two men in their 30’s or 40’s approached.
“Dan” introduced himself as the Shop Manager and “Pat” as the Shop Supervisor. Dan was hard to read but Pat looked “normal” for the day with long, straggly, thinning hair pulled back in a pony tail with an equally straggly, long mustache and beard. They asked me if I had any experience working with my hands (“yes”), experience with hand tools (“yes”), power tools (“yes”), what types of tools (“all kinds”) and finally if I had any experience in ski shops. Without thinking about it I told them that I had spent years around a ski shop. They asked which one and I said “Cunningham’s”……………
That was all it took and before I could finish my sentence and tell them that I hadn’t actually worked at Cunningham’s they asked me when I could start. Without hesitation I told them that I could start immediately.
I don’t remember ever actually filling out that application as Dan took me out the door and walked me to the five story “Hunt Building” located three blocks south at 12th and Madison. We climbed the stairs to the fourth floor where I was introduced to my new Supervisor and his crew. It happened that fast.
Jobs were hard to come by in 1972 and I struggled during that three-block walk whether to tell him or not. I needed a job and this was my dream job. I rationalized that he hadn’t ask me specifically about work experience in a ski shop. He asked if I had “experience in ski shops” and I suppose that standing at the door of the shop and observing shop work for more nine years might not have been what he was thinking of but I knew that if given a chance I wouldn’t disappoint anyone.
The Next Eight Years
29 –REI HR Nightmare
The Hunt Building had once belonged to Hunts Moving and Storage. REI took it over and relocated all of the mail order and receiving functions to that facility. Product was delivered to the Hunt Building and warehoused for mail order fulfillment or transferred to the store. At that time the Capitol Hill store was the only REI retail facility so product was “trucked” to the store in a 23-Window VW Microbus. As I recall it was a somewhat beat up pinkish and cream version.
23 Window VW Microbus
My Supervisor was a short, powerfully built man named Dusan Jagersky. In his early ‘30’s he had a strong Czech accent, was very friendly without being overly outgoing, had a sense of humor that drew me in and he was a strikingly handsome man.
He accepted me immediately with a humor and generosity that was outside of my life experience. In our two years of working together we spent an increasing amount of time on and off the clock refining my skills skiing, mounting bindings, doing ski repairs, waxing, perfecting the intricacies of burning-in pine tar that you can’t learn by observing from the doorway at Cunningham’s and partying together like it was 1980.
In 1977 we lost Dusan and his climbing partner during a decent of peak 4880 in the Fairweather range. He is still missed today by all who were fortunate to have known and loved him.
Greg L. was my bench mate which was to say that we faced each other on opposite sides of the bench. It made for easy conversation. Greg was a guide for Rainier Mountaineering Inc, a gentle soul, an exceptional human being and not quite hardened enough for the realities of working in the ski shop.
Riley Carter was 35 years old, born and raised in Rexburg Idaho. He was a wonderful man who was guided by values instilled from his small-town upbringing and pleasantly warped by his acceptance of big city life. His corn pone humor combined with a Mark Twain style of storytelling made every moment with him a gift. We took lessons together in climbing and hang gliding. In 1975 we summited Mount Rainier together.
Riley Carter
Summit of Rainier
RIP Riley
And then there was Graham. A big, loud, barrel-chested, sometimes funny, always out-spoken, misogynistic Australian expat who had somehow ended up married to the best friend of an ex-girlfriend of mine. Such a strange and disturbing connection. He was a total wild card who was extremely charismatic and was found attractive by women who yearned for the bad-boy type even though he treated them and his wedding vows with total disrespect. I had never known a pig quite like him.
Many of the women who worked in the Hunt Building couldn’t seem to resist him and came around his ski bench to hear him talk dirty. One day shortly after my hire a very young woman came into the shop to bask in Graham’s aura. When I heard her shrieking, I looked up to see Graham smiling and holding her from behind by one arm with his other hand down the neck of her shirt saying something disparaging about the size of her breasts.
My family raised me right so I was determined to put a stop to it. My Dad had taught me to never start a fight but if I found that I was going to be in one I should strike the first blow with confidence and continue with ferocity. The strategy had never failed me but Graham wasn’t impressed by my savage attack. He turned his attention from her to me and, to say it nicely, he totally kicked my ass. While I was getting beaten up the young woman escaped and, in the end, I was trashed and stuffed into a standard sized garbage can at the end of his ski bench. For a live human being it is a tight fit. For someone who suffers from claustrophobia, as I do, it was something worse and goes down as the second-worst beating that I have endured in my life.
Like wolves establishing their place in the pack Graham had solidified his role as the alpha male. Pack stability was restored. He and I continued to co-exist and worked together until we were both laid off.
Some of the bruises sustained from the beating hadn’t yet faded, my left cheek and eye socket were still a bit swollen and tender to the touch but, for whatever reason, he had stopped sexually assaulting women in the Mail Order ski shop. I considered that a win.
Welcome to REI.
The Next Eight Years
30 –10 Fingers and 10 Toes
A week after being laid off I was called back to work part-time in the Carpenter’s Shop where we built whatever needed building and fixed whatever was broken. I reported to Ward Gaiser who was Mary Anderson’s brother and if you don’t know who she was you need to catch up. The Carpenter Shop team consisted of Ward, Gordon T, and Bill A who collectively possessed 26 fingers and my fully-digited entry into their fraternity was rough. I wasn’t sure if Ward hated me for my 10 fingers and 10 toes or my long hair but he was not initially a fan of mine and did everything he could to make me feel unwelcome.
Ward was Mary’s little brother. In his mid-50’s he was a big guy who smoked and drank and usually wore heavy duty white overalls. Sometime during the period of his late teens through mid-20’s he worked on the construction of the Grand Coulee Dam, lived in the camps and experienced a great deal. Suffice to say that Ward could build or fix anything. It didn’t matter if he had any experience with it, he could figure it out. The problem for me was that he didn’t like me.
Bill A. looked and talked like Popeye. As one of Ward’s crew he could figure out anything with dimensions or force vectors. It wasn’t through theory, someone else’s dissertation or printed instructions. He could simply look at something and figure out what was needed. His work was hands-on and over-built. Much of his work vexes me 45 years later but it never breaks. It was engineered in his mind and solid. The problem today is that he inspired other site staff to try their hand at free-styling their designs but their shit fails left and right. They don’t have Bill’s gift. He wasn’t a genius but his solutions worked. He was open to my strangeness and I learned a lot from him right off the bat.
Bill A. looked and talked like Popeye. As one of Ward’s crew he could figure out anything with dimensions or force vectors. It wasn’t through theory, someone else’s dissertation or printed instructions. He could simply look at something and figure out what was needed. His work was hands-on and over-built. Much of his work vexes me 45 years later but it never breaks. It was engineered in his mind and solid. The problem today is that he inspired other site staff to try their hand at free-styling their designs but their shit fails left and right. They don’t have Bill’s gift. He wasn’t a genius but his solutions worked. He was open to my strangeness and I learned a lot from him right off the bat.
Gordon was such a sweet person. The earth was a better place when he walked among us. He was strongly religious but without any drive to try to convert my heathen soul. He simply did the right thing at all times and I could look to him for guidance without judgement. Working with Gordon was such a gift and most days with him calmed my soul and provided a subtle breadcrumb trail that I chose to follow on to how I should conduct my life.
Gordon Thompson
Image by Louise Farley-Rogen
Image by Louise Farley-Rogen
I tried hard to fit in but Ward was tough. I wasn’t one of them but one day something changed. I had been invited to go to breakfast with Ward and Bill at Emil’s Café on 12th and Pike. Emil’s was a total dive restaurant that I had no interest in going to but something needed to change and this seemed like an opening towards gaining acceptance. they went there each morning. Smoking was allowed/encouraged in restaurants at the time and the white walls of Emil’s were coated and dripping with a combination of breakfast grease and nicotine. The walls were discolored and (no shit) had brown droplets clinging to the wall. If you ran your finger down the wall you had this brown oil substance on your hand. An utterly despicable restaurant to even consider eating at. As a non-smoker the air seemed toxic and my eyes burned. The smell of bacon and eggs struggled to be discerned through the cigarette smoke.
The movie “Cool Hand Luke” had come out a few years before and we were discussing the scene where Paul Newman says that he can eat 50 eggs in a hour (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMaYCguBHAA) Out of the blue Bill announces that he can eat a dozen eggs and I take the bet.
I say “You eat them and I buy them. You don’t finish them and you pay”
I watched Bill eat a dozen soft boiled eggs and paid the check. After that things got a little better and I stuck it out. After a few months Ward and I were getting along like bothers from different mothers. It turned out that this was just a different pack and once I understood this pack’s mentality and accepted my position (last) we really enjoyed working together.
The Next Eight Years
31 –Advanced Education
My winters in the Ski Shop had shifted from the Hunt Building to the hallowed ski shop in the basement at 1525 11th Ave. where learning opportunities were greater and the smell of a shop so much stronger. The Shop Supervisor, Pat Egan, became my mentor and we worked together in the shop from 7:00AM until 3:30PM.
Pat Egan
By Louise Farley-Rogen
At 3:30PM we left REI and walked ½ block to the Sundance Tavern where we sat down at the end of the bar, ordered $.25 Schooners and class began. As Pat lectured me on ski, boot and binding design he would draw diagrams, force vectors and mathematical equations on the top of the bar with his fine tip Sharpie. When his Sharpie ran dry he got a replacement from the bartender who kept one for just such an emergency. When the top of the bar was covered with diagrams, we would move two stools to the right and continue the discussion. If the stools were occupied the folks sitting there would trade stools with us. At times we would need to return to a drawing made hours before and several stools to the left and whoever was occupying that space would graciously accommodate our intrusion.
By the next afternoon the bar top had been scrubbed cleaned and was a blank slate.
The Sundance Tavern
by Dave Reith
It was a different time and everyone in the bar supported Pat’s research and my continuing education. These sessions went on for many beers and often until closing at 2:00 AM when I would mount my 10-speed, tell it to head for the barn and it would take me home.
The Next Eight Years
32 –Stratton VS Sunday
My beginnings at REI coincided with an ill-fated ski trip that James Sunday embarked upon at Stratton Mountain, VT. Young Mr. Sunday, a novice skier at best, caught an edge on a branch that was sticking out of the icy slope and took a fall that had dreadful consequences on the quality of his life, overthrew the “Steeplechase Standard” plus changed the nature of the ski and the general outdoor industry forever. It also opened a door for me.
You see, about 30 years before I caught my first whiff of pine tar a New York gentleman named Murphy cracked his kneecap on a ride called the “Flopper” at Coney Island which was operated by the Steeplechase Amusement Company. The “Flopper” offered folks the chance to buy tickets to go on a moving sidewalk that jerked around and threw them to the ground. You bought your ticket, you boarded the ride and you fell down. That’s pretty much like skiing, right? Well, Mr. Murphy and his broken kneecap sued Steeplechase and lost. The court said that “he who consents cannot be injured” so the “Steeplechase Standard” was born which, in effect stated that if you bought a ticket you were consenting to whatever happened to you. You bought your ticket and took your chances.
Mr. Sunday’s skiing accident ushered in a new era but it wasn’t just his kneecap that was broken. It was his whole body. Mr. Sunday was now a quadriplegic. By February of 1974 the courts had ruled that Stratton Corporation was liable for selling a ticket to ski in hazardous conditions (the run was closed) and awarded Mr. Sunday $1.5 million. A ridiculously small amount today but it sent everybody running and the ski industry was shaken. Warnings appeared on the back of lift tickets that remain to this day.
The Next Eight Years
33 – The Best and Brightest
Overnight, everything changed. Ski areas that couldn’t afford the liability insurance went out of business. Warning signs for area closures became larger, longer-winded and descriptive without really describing anything specific. Binding manufacturers got serious about covering their asses and passed the buck to the shop. The courts ruled that If you mounted a binding you, the ski mechanic earning near minimum wage, became the manufacturer of that system in the eyes of the law.
Binding systems that bound too much went out of business opening up opportunities for Gyro-Gearloose designers who threw all types of ideas at the market, allin the name of “Saint Anti-Friction” and his faithful companion “Multiple-Angles-of-Release”. Bindings by Cubco, Americana, Allsop, Besser, Gertch, Spademan, Moog and Burt fought for legitimacy while Marker, Look, Salomon and Tyrolia struggled to reduce friction in their existing designs and maintain market share. Some other conventional binding designs simply disappeared as they were barely better than the non-releasable bindings that Crutch used and they knew it. The juice wasn’t worth the squeeze for them.
My boss and mentor, Pat Egan, had a genius for understanding and teaching the concepts of ski binding design and function. He was so far ahead of any of the local “experts” and had gained notoriety among the strange but national leaders like the “Gang of Three”; John Perryman, Gordon Lipe, and Carl Ettlinger. Three very odd though major dudes who were leading a charge on skiing safety and espousing ideas that folks who were making money on skiing found inconvenient. They were an awkward and brilliant trio who struggled a bit with communications or spoke only through the execution of their ideas and inventions. Ettinger assumed the role of public spokesperson because, I suspect, he simply couldn’t stop talking. The only time that He/they weren’t dominating a conversation in one way or another was when Pat was talking and when he was they all shut up, bought another round and listened. Some binding and boot companies stole Pat’s ideas and rebranded them as their own.
Through Pat’s tutelage I learned at an accelerated pace. Together, on that bar countertop, we disproved some existing ski binding beliefs by documenting what modifications were needed to make them work and if you were a skeptic you were challenged to show up at the Sundance at 3:30 PM and by us beer. By riding Pat’s coat tails I gained some recognition in SKIING Magazine as one of the “Best Ski Mechanics” with a single sentence and the issuance of a check for $25.00 to not say otherwise. Seemed like a big deal at the time. Pat’s name was never mentioned.
The Next Eight Years
34 – Disproof of Concept / Look but Don’t Look Up
“Anti-Friction” became the new phrase being bantered around the ski industry. Lawsuits involving ski related injuries were on the rise and findings were overwhelmingly in favor of the plaintiffs. With a mixture of acknowledged guilt and a “not-my-fault” strategy the binding companies began designing in favor of release over retention. Since favoring release over retention by reducing friction was a relatively new concept in binding technology few of the manufacturers got it right.
As a hot shot ski mechanic at REI my employee discount had finally allowed me to afford that set of Look Nevada N17 bindings that I had coveted. I had drooled over Nevada toe pieces with Grand Prix turntable heels for 10 years. I first saw them several years before I started skiing when I was that kid lurking around Cunningham’s. Now owning my own set I learned that Look, through the use of copious quantities of Teflon, had reduced friction to the point that retention in the real world was impossible. “Anti-friction” had taken on a whole new meaning. They tested fine in the shop but they simply didn’t work on the hill. They made this troublesome “click-click” sound that resulted in an immediate separation from your skis and a severe physical pummeling, the memory of which haunts me to this day.
Big Jim Whittaker had just obtained a set of Look Nevada N17’s with comp springs plus the planet’s largest and greenest Raichle boots to go with his new K2 skis. In a celebratory fit he accessorized with a violently green ski outfit. He walked into the shop and set his gear down on the desk.
Turning to the Shop Manager he said: “Mount ‘em up, Dan. I’m going up to Alpental on the bus tonight and I can’t wait to ski ‘em”.
Jim was referring to the infamous REI ski bus that carried employees and their significant others up to the Pass on Tuesday nights. Aside from transporting us to and from the slopes it served as a mobile party unit which was the scene of such debauchery that………. Well………. maybe someone else will write about that in “REI the Missing Years”.
Dan brought the skis to my bench for mounting which I suppose was a way of validating my skill as a Wrench but as I spied those Looks I hoped that they weren’t harbingers of unemployment. I did find comfort in the fact that they had comp springs and I rationalized that nobody in their right mind would have sold/given a set of bogus bindings to a guy as big as Jim. You’ve seen the guy, right? He’s huge! Anyway, they were soon mounted, adjusted, tested and the skis were tuned with the “Killy Edge” that Jim always insisted upon.
The skiing that night was great. It was cold and snowing lightly with 6” of new. Just great........ At least it was great for everyone but Jim. Imagine for a moment: A towering green figure stands at the top of the run. All eyes are on him. Pushing forward with his poles he begins his run. He gains momentum. His speed builds. Knees bent, he angulates and rolls his perfectly tuned K2’s onto an edge. As the shovels begin to bite and steer the ski into the turn there is a magnificent moment of man and machine conquering nature...........immediately followed by a terrifying demonstration of the most highly touted concept in binding technology of the day. Anti-friction! We’re talking about Anti-friction in family size doses here, folks.
Jim was having a first-hand experience with the troubling “click-click” phenomenon that I was familiar with. Each incredible episode was highlighted with a green and white tumbling exhibition done to a “snow-sky-snow-sky-snow-sky” beat and punctuated with Jim’s howls of rage. He could not complete a turn on those things without cleanly releasing mid-point. He was a sight that most folks were secretly enjoying while I was solemnly pondering my impending unemployment.
I’ll tell you something that I learned about Jim that night. He was one determined guy and would not accept defeat. The determination that he exhibited in fighting against the worst that “Anti Friction” could dish out was inspiring and was, no doubt, the sort of drive that made him the “First American on Everest”. A lesser human would have slunk off to the bar to lick their wounds and suck some suds. Not Jim.
The bus ride home was strangely subdued.
The next morning I was working at my ski bench when Jim walked into the shop and created a huge racket by throwing his skis and boots onto Dan’s desk.
He said: “I want to know who the SOB is who mismounted my skis, Dan”.
All the other mechanics looked up to view this interaction. I had my head down and kept drilling and screwing. Dan was going to have to give me up. I understood that and I was prepared to accept my fate.
I heard Dan say: “Jim, I’m not going to tell you which of my mechanics mounted them. If they came out of this shop, then I’m the one responsible.”
I looked up with gratitude to see that Dan’s face was beet red. He was looking up at Jim whose face was also quite crimson. They stared at each other for an uncomfortable length of time. Neither advancing nor conceding.
Finally, Pat Egan stepped in and said “Jim, I personally tested those bindings and they were set up as well as they could have been”. Since Pat was acknowledged as one of the most astute binding mechanics in the United States, his words carried some weight. “Those bindings are garbage, Jim.”
I thought: “Ooh! Wrong thing to say, Pat. We are all going to be fired.”
There was this incredible tension in the air as Jim stared first at Pat and then at Dan. No one said a word. Finally, Jim swept a glance across the shop. Everyone was watching him to see what came next. When he fixed his stare upon me I looked away like a dog who had done something bad.
My heart sunk. “I’m dead”, I thought. I looked down and started drilling again. Jim turned and walked out of the shop.
Bad Dog
Image by Louise Farley-Rogen
My heart sunk. “I’m dead”, I thought. I looked down and started drilling again. Jim turned and walked out of the shop.
The Next Eight Years
35 –The New Guy
Surviving the Anti-Friction fashla, I received a new bench mate. He was walked in by Big Jim who still viewed me with a jaundiced eye. It was unusual for Jim to be introducing a new employee so I paid close attention. He made it clear that “Fred” was his personal friend and that he would be working in the shop through February or March. That seemed a bit odd as we already had a full complement of mechanics and the only open space was across from me, a space normally left empty.
Jim’s buddy, Fred was stocky, had red-ish hair, stood about 5’8” and was a very solid 185-195 pounds. He exhibited confidence in working with his hands and with tools, skis and bindings. He didn’t say much but exuded a comfortable and some-how familiar air. When he did speak every sentence contained a bit of humor that wasn’t overtly funny but if you were listening was hilarious. I liked him immediately.
Fred
In the following days we chatted easily exchanging jokes, jabs and funny philosophical points of view. I learned that he was going on the 1975 K2 Expedition with Big Jim in April and, according to him, had been brought into the shop to make enough money to help him pay his way. When asked he would talk about climbing and skiing but seemed too humble to describe his own exploits in the first-person. He talked about outrageous mountain adventures that his friends had been on and, when listening carefully, I could discern that he was with them. Because of his self-effacing nature it took me a while to realize what a stud climber and skier he was. His friends and adventure companions read like the Who’s Who of Northwest mountain adventure bad-assery.
Jim Wickwire, Dave Mahre, Fred Dunham, Del Young, Fred Stanley, Gene Prater
When I learned that he was from Eastern Washington I asked him where he skied.
Fred: “White Pass mostly. I’ve worked there off and on”.
Me: “Oh. Did you work in the ski shop?”
Fred: “Some”.
Me: “Stuff butts onto chairs”?
Fred: “Sure. Plenty”.
Me: “Drive Snowcats”?
Fred: “Yeah. Some. Also fixed ski lifts, washed dishes, sold lift tickets, served food, ski patrolled, mopped the floor, wiped babies’ butts if they needed it. I’ve skied White Pass for years. I did whatever needed doing.”?
36 – Found Again!
His mention of White Pass stirred up a repressed memory. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about that night since Crutch and I tried and failed to sort it out immediately following the event. It still bubbled up from time to time and I hadn’t reconciled the fact that my choices had been so deeply flawed. I had returned once to White Pass just to see what it looked like. I rode the chair and looked down Cascade’s “Wall of Death” to see if it still intimidated. It didn’t. I skied down Holiday to see if I could figure out where we had lost our way and I couldn’t understand where or how we could have gone off the trail and ended up in the trees. Looking for some kind of explanation I found none and after that one run I returned to my car and drove home without answers.
Now, in my comfort around Fred I casually told him that I had “skied White Pass on my second day of skiing and had gotten lost”. The sound of his drill motor stopped. “Yeah, we had to be rescued”. I went on to tell him that “I was with a couple of friends and we had gone up the chair to ski Holiday”. He put down his drill and came around to my side of the bench. “Holiday was closed so we ducked under the rope, went off the trail and got lost and”……………….
Fred interrupted and said: “You guys were wearing blue jeans and thin jackets. You were wet cotton from head to toe. One of you was wearing a blue button-down-collar shirt and old skis with non-releasable toe pieces. One of you wasn’t wearing a hat and smelled like he had shit his pants”.
37 – The Other Guys
Stunned, we just stared at each other as the reality settled in that we had met years earlier somewhere in the forest below the summit of White Pass Ski Area. What an unbelievable twist of fate that after eight years of secrecy the first person I told my story to was the man who had come looking for me and saved my life. What are the chances of that happening as some random event?
In what parallel universe?
In who’s magic life?
We talked a while about it and there was a lot that I wanted to know but didn’t ask. I did learn that the mean German guy was Marcel Schuster and that he was Director of the White Pass Ski School. He had been in the German Mountain Troops on the Russian front during World War II and had spent three years in a French POW camp. After the war he had immigrated to Canada and later to the US where he connected with the climbing and skiing communities. It turned out that Marcel was not only a German Bad-ass but was an American Bad-ass, too.
Gebirgsjager
The other guy was the Mountain Manager, Dave Mahre. He was the father of White Pass twin skiing phenoms and soon-to-be Olympic medalists Phil and Steve Mahre. An apple farmer from Eastern Washington he had moved his family of 10 to the pass when offered the job with a house near the lifts. He raised his 8 children at White Pass. He and Fred had been the nice ones as Gordon, Crutch and I had struggled to navigate the strange world of hypothermia.
I had to tell Fred that I hadn’t actually shit my pants, that I just couldn’t find any toilet paper and asked him if he ever found the long johns that I threw behind the lockers. He said that he did find them. “That’s what a Ski Area Foreman does. You find the shit and fix it”.
38 – I Meet the Band
Following the K2 attempt the team returned to the states. Lou and Jim Whittaker held an event at the Rainier Brewery to raise money to pay expenses by auctioning off gear used on the expedition. Jim’s boots, someone’s tent, another person’s pack, that sort of thing. Many of the team members attended. It was a great event and it was wonderful to be re-united with Fred. He told me that Dave and Marcel were both there and went looking for them. Soon, he returned with two men. One was smiling and one wasn’t.
He introduced me to a smiling Dave Mahre. Fred said “Remember those three kids we went after that time who got lost on Holiday? One was wearing a blue button down collared shirt and Bear Trap bindings.” Dave’s smile got impossibly large at the reference.
“Yes!” he said. “Is this the guy you told me about?”
Fred nodded.
“Mary!” Dave called to his wife. “Come over here and meet one of the kids we went after that night who got lost on Holiday”.
Dave’s wife, Mary came over and gave me a hug. She was so kind and said, “I remember that night and I prayed for you. I can’t tell you how good it is to meet you”. And then, “Phil! Steve! Come over here and meet one of those boys we told you about”.
At first I was feeling like some sort of rock star being welcomed into the fold of adoring fans but when 17 year old twins Phil and Steve went through the motions and shook my hand without smiling I couldn’t help but wonder if they were harkening back to that night when as nine year olds their Daddy hadn’t come home for dinner. Instead he was out trying to rescue some stupid high school boys who had gotten lost on a mountain that the twins knew intimately. Had I become a part of the Mahre Family history? A cautionary tale of what happens when you make stupid and avoidable mistakes? Were they wondering if I was the one?
Next was my introduction to Marcel Schuster who I have come to believe was probably a friendly man to humans he deemed fit to procreate but he made it clear with three words that I didn’t make that list when he said “You Stoopid Boyz”! And that was all he said. He didn’t smile or shake my hand.
39 – Reunion
It was the last time that I would see Dave and Marcel. I wouldn’t see Fred again for 42 years. Life went on. I continued to chase the “Shop-Scent” Siren’s song and eventually sort of grew up. I ended up as a corporate puke but maintained ties to the Siren.
Then, in February 2017 I got an email notification that Fred Dunham, Fred Stanley, Bill Sumner and Tom Hornbein were in town to do a presentation on expedition climbing during the ‘60’s and ‘70’s at the annual meeting of the American Alpine Club. Additionally, they were going to be at the REI headquarters in Kent prior to that meeting. I would have a chance to reconnect.
I got there early and eagerly watched as folks arrived hoping that Fred would come early so that I could say “Hi” but just prior to the start of their presentation the “Freds” (Fred Dunham and Fred Stanley) arrived, sat down across the aisle and the program began. Bill Sumner and Tom Hornbein provided the commentary and interpreted the slides taken 40 – 50 years prior on numerous significant climbing expeditions. Fascinating narrative of incidents, considerations and decisions that weren’t part of public knowledge. Serious dudes! Total iron men, these four!
At the end they opened it up to Q & A. I waited through a couple of questions and when things wound down, I raised my hand, stood up and said with a quavering voice:
“I want to recognize Fred Dunham who is responsible for me being here today”.
Hearing his name, Fred turned and looked at me.
“Hi Fred. I’m Jon Dawkins and forty-two years ago we shared a ski bench at REI.”
He smiled and nodded in recognition.
“I just want to recognize you and thank you for saving my life at White Pass 50 years ago.”
“You see, folks, I was skiing with two friends. It was my second day on skis and we got lost. We didn’t have the skills to be there, ducked under a rope, went off the run and got hopelessly lost, made bad decisions, were hypothermic, were fixing to die when Fred and his friends came after us and took us off the mountain”
“Fred, without you I would have died that night. I would have never had a life. I would have never graduated from high school. I would have never met Jean, my wife for over thirty years. We would have never had our daughter, Kasie Chelanne, in our life. I would have never worked for REI or been able to stand here today and thank you for my life and everything that is part of it. You are my hero”.
Well, I guess that was pretty much a mic-drop moment. I didn’t intend it to be but nobody else had anything to say after that. Fred and I were a couple of weeping fools in the middle of the room. I suspect that everyone else was feeling awkward and not sure how to react. Seems like I have a gift for spoiling the moment for other folks. Whatever.
Fred had a bit of time before his group had to move on so we talked and caught up a little. He was on his way to go climb in The Dolomites which had become one of his favorite places. In his late-70’s he’s still a climbing Bad-ass.
I asked him where they had found us. He pulled out his phone, opened Google Earth, zoomed in and pointed to a spot where they had found us. It was about 3.5 miles from where I thought we had been and about a mile from a ski run. He said that we had maybe 2 hours to live.
40 -Retirement
On August 1st I retired after nearly 47 years with REI. A retirement event was held for me at the Museum of History and Industry, which was an unbelievably perfect choice of venue by event coordinators Alison Cavanaugh and Char Barton. Fred was invited and accepted. I hoped that he would show up.
Char Barton & Alison Cavanaugh
Image by Liv Lyons
He did, along with a lot of other folks who had influenced my life, some who I hadn’t seen for a long time. Fred and I cried again. Jeez I wish I wasn’t such a weeney and that I could tell that story without falling apart but knowing that a person’s actions are responsible for you being alive is kind of a big deal to me and I never found a manual on how to deal with that in public.
Image by Liv Lyons
I got to acknowledge Fred through a lot of tears and, hopefully, the other folks there got a sense of what this man and that moment meant to me. I wanted them to understand that without this man they would all be somewhere else doing some other thing. I kind of lost it though and maybe didn’t get the point across.
A merry time WAS had by all.
Kasie Chelanne Becker, Jean Dawkins, Fred Dunham, Eric Artz
Image by Liv Lyons
41 – Marcel Speaks
It’s interesting to consider lessons learned and how we each utilize those learnings. Through bad choices I had once found myself in need of being saved. Exactly which of my bad choices was it that time that had nearly cost me and my friends our lives? Was it spending an extra $0.50 for a lift ticket that should have been put towards a hat? Was it not being satisfied with spending the day thrashing around on the rope tow? Was it going along with the idea of riding the chair and skiing the trees? Was it being too proud to walk or slide down the top of Cascade? Was it ducking under the rope? Was it taking charge and commanding an action that was flawed and required three men to track us down and bail us out?
I love Fred and I loved Dave and they are the reasons that I am alive today. I also owe my life to that irascible Marcel Schuster and he is harder for me to love but he taught me something about consequences of the choices we make that I carry with me today. Marcel didn’t become a bad-ass by avoiding risk. Neither did Dave and neither does Fred. They recognized objective risk and managed them. On that day/night in 1966 I was too ignorant to have a clue about what the objective risks were and made poor decisions avoiding or managing them.
I think about Marcel often and though he seemed the antithesis of loveable I love the fact that I still hear his voice when I am making decisions that involve managing risks and I recall how it felt to hear those three words that he repeated over and over. Today when I hear him say “You stoopid boyz”, I know that I am facing a risk that is best to be avoided and I back off.
I was 2 days into a 2 week solo kayaking trip on the BC coast when my weather radio told me that an intense ridge was setting up over Haida Gwaii that would bring 40 kt winds to the area. That made my intended route and my current location untenable. I had two days to seek a sheltered route, which was doable, but I didn’t want to go where the easy and safe routes would take me. There was a 6 mile stretch of coastline that I wanted to see and if I hurried I could paddle it and get into the lee of the Bardswell Group before the winds arrived, but just barely. Once sheltered by the Bardswells I could scurry from here to there like a mouse evading a watchful cat, safe as long as I didn’t get caught in the open. So, for 2 days I monitored weather and hustled towards safety.
When the morning arrived for me to paddle my 6 mile stretch of coast to hide from the wind, I was just 19 miles from that goal. Feeling confident but sluggish I made a second cup of coffee and lazed around camp which put me on the water at 8:30 AM, about an hour behind schedule. The waters were already textured by the approaching pressure change and the time wasted on that additional cup of coffee complicated each route objective and further slowed my progress. Across Seaforth Channel and resting in the lee of an islet I refueled with a ProBar and looked 3 miles down the coast to the north end of Wurtele Island. I desperately desired to paddle Wurtele’s 3 mile outer shore but if things got ugly I could duck into the narrow channel behind it for shelter.
Those 3 miles to Wurtele presented intensifying conditions that were ragged and snotty but still manageable. Achieving Rage Reef at the north end of the island I sheltered to reassess conditions. The outside of the island would be rough and probably getting more so but it would only be another hour to safety. I really wanted that next 3 miles.
Moderate Seas
Image by April Benzce
And then Marcel spoke to me as loudly and as clearly as he has ever since that cold night on White Pass and he said “You stoopid boyz!
That was all it took and I ducked behind the island without further discussion.
Epilogue
What are the things that influence, change and shape the courses of our lives. For Otto Lang, “The Grand Old Man of Skiing”, it was the sport of skiing and everything associated with it. It inspired, encouraged, opened doors, shaped relationships presented opportunities and paid the man for his time. He skied into his ‘90’s and on his death bed he was crystal clear what that one thing was that tied everything together for him.
What I didn’t realize ~60 years ago was that my sense of smell was different than a lot of other people’s. I seemed to smell things more acutely or interpret and associate them in a different way. Somewhat like a dog, odors that others didn’t notice told me a story that was imprinted into a memory. Scents that most others associated with one thing I associated with something else. Everyday odors that are part of our lives I would find overpowering and intolerable while flowers, foliage, rain, wet leaves, damp soil, warm dust, cat tails and cloudbase spoke loudly and told me that all was well and my path was true. One of my older sisters doesn’t have a sense of smell at all. Had I been given her’s as well as my own? A double dose? When Jean returned from a climbing trip in Africa I wanted her to tell me what it smelled like. When asked why I prefer paddling outer coast routes over the Inside Passage the first thing that comes to mind is that it smells better. The Inside smells dark, shadowed, dank and full of decay while the Outside smells bright, fresh and full of life.
No wonder that as a nine-year-old I was pulled into Cunningham’s by the magnificent smells of the ski shop, was attracted to skiing, bought my own equipment, and got LOST and FOUND. I applied for work at REI, accepted getting my ass kicked by a co-worker during my first week on the job as terms of employment. I met outstanding people who skied and provided opportunities for me to climb, cycle hang glide and paddle, met my wife, started a family and was reunited with the men who found me and made most of my life possible. They kept me alive but they didn’t put me there in the first place. I don’t know of anyone who has had such a charmed life, though unlike Otto, the pay has never been that good. Still, I’ll take it.
While the proximity to ski shops that enabled my olfactory fixes has grown more tenuous, I have gotten by on a couple of wooden creosote-soaked floor blocks from the Capitol Hill store. I mentioned before that creosote and pine tar have their similarities. They get me through the day but aren’t quite the same.
Just recently my friend and fellow Shop Scent Survivor, Tom Chelstrom, sent me a bar of Pine Tar soap which is closer to the truth. Still I am going to seek out a can of old-school pine tar to open on special occasions when I want to treat myself to a good nose-hit. Christmas, New years and my birthday, maybe?
When the time comes that I am on my death bed and considering my “One Thing” it will be the scent of pine tar and hot wax that I think of. On the other hand, if I don’t smell that mixture and instead, I hear Marcel speak to me I’ll know that I screwed up and that would be a major bummer.
Way Cool, Jon. I remember Dennis, I sold him my ice skates when they wouldn't let us speed around the ice arena. Turned to skiing with no speed limits or stop signs...Silly sign didn't stop you boyz..........
ReplyDeleteNope. No brains no headaches.
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