The Steeps

Chapter 11 - Back to the Heights

The next morning at the Ski & Snowboard Center, Casey was one of the few folks around when the lifts opened, no one waiting to get on them at this early hour. He carried his board over to the gondola, stood on the boarding platform and looked up the mountain, up at those towers and cables stretching toward the top. 

He acted like this was just another day on the slopes when he went over to where the empty gondola cars were lined up, exchanging Hellos with the attendant. 

“Best part of the day,” the man said, sliding back the door on the front car. “First run’ll be all yours.” 

Casey gave an appreciative nod and ducked inside, the only passenger. 

He took a seat and the door slid shut. He kept his head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, waited for the car to lurch into its climb. When it did, he didn’t look up. 

Didn’t look out while the car rose up the long line of towers, didn’t see the jutting rocks or avalanche scars or winding empty ski trails. Kept his head down, clutching his board, trying not to think about that gorge he was probably passing over, the cut in the cliff the car barely could squeeze through, the iced-up brooks below. 

The harder he tried to keep his mind blank, the more the visions kept flashing, a show that seemed to go on forever. He thought back to grade school, Saint Stefano, was remembering Sister Milicent telling the class about the comforting use of Hail-Marys when suddenly there was a shake and a bump and the ride was over. 

Casey let out a breath. Got up and waited for the door to slide open and was happy to carry his board outside. 

Two minutes later, pleased that he hadn’t resorted to prayer, he stood at the top of the slope that Ronnie had taken him down yesterday. He made a quick survey of the untracked snow – couple of inches had fallen during the night – tugged on his gloves and hop-started his board down through the moguls. 

Right away he could sense he had a better feel for the snow, was starting to get in sync with his Capita DBX board. He sped up and sailed off one of the moguls, a little wobbly on the landing, kept going and sailed off another, this time nailing the move. He carved a series of smooth turns down to the trail that the race course was laid out on. 

He stopped and looked the course over, could see he had it all to himself. 

A quick little hop and he was off through the gates, taking the first one a little low, finding the right line on the second, starting to feel a little bit now like he could be a racer. 

He missed a gate halfway down, didn’t let it throw him, caught his tip on another gate and got spun around, managed to keep going, finished the course out of breath but still on his feet. 

He pulled up sharply, big spray of snow, and looked back up the mountain. Knew there was still a lot of work to be done, but could feel it coming together, this snow switchover thing. Felt like he’d brought himself up at least a notch from yesterday’s outing.   

He pointed his board back toward the gondola, headed for the loading platform and another run. Was halfway there when something made him glance over at the Ski Patrol quarters. He kept going for another twenty yards or so, and then glanced again at the log-cabin building. 

Something was working at him, pulling at him. Finally he gave in to whatever it was and pointed his board that way.  

Inside the building’s main room, with its topographical maps on the log walls and the smell of overbrewed coffee, one of the patrolmen was putting some first aid things into his fanny pack. He looked up when Casey walked in.