Adventures on an Angry Edge

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Reeking of booze, and with a scowling police officer standing on either side of me making a worrisome amount of eye contact, I launch into an expansive discussion of statistical regression techniques, in a desperate attempt to demonstrate my sobriety and clear thinking. Flip looks at me with an expression that suggests he thinks I should have purchased a helmet. Somehow, I manage to pass through the gauntlet, and my day of snowy mayhem continues.

Then, after long hours of restless searching, of scouring the alpine winter with an existential hunger, I am rewarded with knowledge. Granted, this insight does not come to me in the form of ghostly visions, spirit guides or booming voices - keep in mind that a lot of my scotch got spilled before I could drink it - but come to me it does. I am struck with the realisation that skis are like a good-natured uncle - they're trying to help you out even when you don't particularly deserve it. When you screw up, your skis go, "oh geez, he's out of control - set him down and let friction take care of the rest." A snowboard, on the other hand, is like that uncle you have who tends to get drunk and belligerent at family gatherings. Snowboards don't have patience for your dumb-ass mistakes. When you screw up, a snowboard goes, "That jackass caught his edge again! Slap him on the ground that he might learn from it."

Insight thus gathered, I retreat to the safety and comfort of the city. All in all, the day is a beating, but I experience just enough corner shredding, gravity-bending, magic to lure me back.

You'd be surprised at how often my face doubles as a brake.

Ala-Kazam, it's another cold, windy day at Lake Louise, where recent fresh snowfall has been quickly packed into a concrete-like substance that the snow report affectionately refers to as, "groomed powder." I'm feeling cocky because I've done this a couple of times now, which damn near makes me a veteran, as far as I'm concerned.

All morning long I sweep down the hill, a violent tsunami of snow and hurtling limbs. I'm getting considerably more speed now, and I'm still catching my edge regularly. This combination produces the kind of train wrecks that send me catapulting down the hill in a rolling, twisting ball of Gortex and plastic, while my own personal snowstorm wraps me in blinding clouds of incensed white powder. It's pretty good.

We stop for lunch and linger for an hour before strapping the boards on and heading back onto the slopes. I'm ready to start tackling some black diamond runs so we take a couple of lifts to the very top of the hill, which is where the trouble starts. Of course.

The dismount from the lift is a steep, quick, drop off of a raised platform. I hop off the lift and try to propel myself forward, but something seems to go wrong. My board suddenly has a mind of it's own and refuses to straighten out. I have half a second to be frustrated and confused, and then the chair lift wallops me in the back, pitching me face first down the unloading chute.

My dignity somewhat tarnished, I brush off the minor setback, collect my wits, strap in and set off in pursuit of my first black diamond run. We have to traverse along a short stretch of easy terrain to get to the route, and I am dismayed to find the muscles in my front leg burning. It strikes me as odd. Then we reach the route and I promptly blow my first turn and pile into the snow face first. You'd be surprised at how often my face doubles as a brake.

Back on my feet, I set off after Flip who is chopping and churning his way down the consumingly steep run. The moguls proceed to take an unanticipated toll on my body. The sharp little mounds of snow hurl me this way and that, but all roads lead to the icy earth and I am repeatedly pitched into features of the terrain that are meant to be avoided. I begin to suspect that there is no God.

I finally reach the bottom of the mogul field, where Flip is lying on his back looking bored. He leaps to his feet at the sight of me and prepares to take wing.