Vanilla Winter

Bars are the primordial soup from which most of my greatest achievements evolved. Tonight’s ingredients were typical: three of my best friends, some blurry digital camera photos, and a girl I had been smitten with for months, along with ten or twelve empty pitchers of PBR. Sitting at the table, surrounded by friends, girls, and alcohol I reflected upon the particular evolution of what we had planned for tomorrow.

Friday began 750 miles away, bright and early at 7:00 AM. I have often joked with friends that there are only two things will get me up before 8:00 AM; today was skiing three feet of virgin powder. Eight hours and thirty-five thousand vertical feet of bliss later, I was back in my car heading for North Idaho. I had an important date with three friends and another storm.

An exhausting six hour drive found me in Rob’s basement by 10 PM. Rather than doing the sensible thing – sleeping – Josh, Rob, Ryan and I had decided to train for the upcoming week. We used the verb to train, not as modern athletes do, but in the sense that generations of my Irish ancestors had: drinking. This particular exercise was an overly competitive match of beer pong. In fact, my friends and I are overly competitive in nearly everything that we do.

I awoke Saturday to a hateful sound coming from my cell phone. Pawing at it caused the noise to vanish, but my hangover remained. Ten minutes and twenty cabinets later I gave up on finding the coffee in a foreign house. Reviving my friends, the four of us managed to brew a pot of coffee, get dressed, and load up the ski racks.

After getting to the ski resort we held an ad-hoc congress in the parking lot; after a minimum of discussion it was decided that today was for jumping off cliffs; hucking. A few hours later, towards the end of the day, my cell phone rang. Sarah, a girl I met in Berlin during New Years two years ago, was calling; we had kept in touch throughout the years, occasionally hanging out, skiing, and partying together.

After exchanging pleasantries and describing our plans for the week, she told me that my friends and I had to get to Bozeman immediately. An epic storm was rolling in, and she and her friends were anxious to get some great skiing in and wanted us to be a part of it. She explained that she and her three roommates would graciously let us crash at their house, provided we would pay for beer. I convened an emergency committee to decide on whether we would make the six hour drive or not. Since two of my friends were about fifty feet above me waiting to jump, and one was about two hundred feet below, I spoke for all of us, “We’ll be there by midnight.”

Reconvening the council at the base of the cliff I informed my friends about the change in plans. Three phone calls, a few white lies to bosses, and an hour later we were on the road. Despite the time zone change stealing an hour, and the exhaustion that saturated the car, we made it to Bozeman by 11:30. Our four beautiful new roommates, sensing our need to decompress, took us to the Rockin’ R Bar, a short walk from our temporary new residence. After a number of pitchers Laura and Josh were locked in conversation, squinting at a small digital camera’s screen. A moment later Josh beckoned Ryan, Rob, and myself over. As we untangled ourselves from the girls, we all shared a puzzled glance.

The moment we saw the picture on the digital camera’s screen, it was instantly clear that this conversation would be short. The picture showed a giant cliff; it was hard to tell the scale on the 2.5 by 3 inch screen, but the cliff had to be at least 75 feet high. Josh’s drunken excitement was evident, even before he told us, “Laura says the snow will be perfect for hucking it. It’s snowed 36 inches in the last 30 hours, no one has hit it all year, and we’ve got to do it.” Having driven through the death throes of the storm, I had no doubt that the mountains had received at least 3 feet of snow. Looking at one another, the decision was obvious: we needed another pitcher before we could commit to this.

Waking the next morning to the familiar sensation of an ice pick being pressed against my temple, I took a moment to gather myself. Without opening my eyes I knew I was in a foreign room, and someone warm and small was curled up next to me. Since my hangover had decided it was time to wake up, and any attempts at sleeping would only anger it, I surrendered, opening my eyes. Finding myself in Sarah’s room was a pleasant surprise; it was not the first time, and hopefully won’t be the last. The clock on her wall said it was already 7:30 AM. If we were going skiing we needed to get moving. Waking Sarah I groggily shuffled into the kitchen. My expedition revealed two things, only one of my friends was sleeping on a couch, and their coffee maker was secreted in some mysterious corner I would never find.

Sarah eventually found me staring vacantly into her fridge looking for something that could fight my hangover. Laughing at me she opened a hidden cupboard and removed a coffee maker. While she began brewing coffee, I calculated my odds and picked a door at random. After Kim opened the first door, Ryan opened the next one. As he leaned unsteadily against the door jamb, I explained that it was time for him to wake up. My hungover mind needed to find out if we were really going to put last night’s plan into action. Once Ryan and I found Rob in Kelly’s room, we convened a conference around Josh’s couch. Josh started the conference off by mumbling through his blanket, “I don’t really remember what the cliff looked like, but I’ll jump off of it.”

The conference ended when Rob was called a pussy for suggesting that we take it easy today. We would scope out the landing and, having only a vague standard by which to evaluate it, judge whether it was safe. After a few gallons of coffee, an entire bottle of Advil, and a quick stop at Dan’s Donuts our two car convoy was en route to Big Sky. On the drive to the mountain we had guessed numbers to determine jumping order, Sarah picked the number. Rob guessed first (fifty), I guessed second (forty nine), and Ryan guessed last (fifty one). The number was sixty six.

Pulling into the parking lot the conditions could not have been better for jumping off cliffs, aside from the raging hangovers we harbored. The sky was blue-bird clear and the winds were calm, although the temperature was holding steady in the single digits. Getting on the first chairlift, the girls lead us to our goal. Half way up the second chairlift we finally spotted it.

The girls had explained that they had no intention of jumping themselves, but they had given every encouragement that they would like to see us do it; in only that way women can, transforming us into adolescent teenagers trying to impress the hottest girl in high school. Arriving at the base of the cliff we found that the snow was actually in perfect condition for the jump we had planned. Three feet of medium density snow atop a denser, cushioning, layer below. Using an avalanche shovel, we dug a large X in the snow to mark our intended landing zone and began the hike to the top.

As we had done our work below the cliff I had been unsure of whether the view from the top could be more imposing than the view from the bottom. Imagine standing at street level and looking straight up a 10 story office tower, knowing you plan on jumping off the top in a short time. How wrong I was still astounds me. The view from the ridge atop the cliff made the crowd that had gathered look like insects. My clenched fist could completely obscure the enormous eight foot by eight foot X we had carved into the snow. Somewhere in the course of the inspection Josh had decided he would not jump. Whatever excuse he came up with was merely a front for the true reason: He was not insane… or stupid.

Standing upon the ridge above the cliff I tried to make small talk with Rob and Josh. Meanwhile, Ryan was down-climbing a few feet to the takeoff. Down climbing when any mistake will send you off of a 80+ foot cliff with no control is not something that should be rushed. By the time Ryan was prepared to jump the temperature was getting to Rob and I, or maybe we were realizing how stupid this undertaking was. With almost no fanfare Ryan pushed off and was gone. He hit the snow and, after a few seconds, popped out of his bomb hole howling like Lazarus. Rob looked at me and asked, “We’ve got to do it now don’t we?” Nodding, the sensible portion of my mind surrendered; it had maintained some hope that it could win. That was impossible now.

A moment after Rob pushed off I looked down and saw Ryan tackling Rob excitedly. Shit. That meant it was my turn. Beginning my down-climb I arrived at the top of the small takeoff and realized how cold I was. Deciding that any hesitation would make me seize up, I looked down at the tiny people and the X which both Rob and Ryan had missed. Then I jumped.

The first seconds were pure bliss. I focused on nothing but the amazing feeling of free falling. It was like a roller coaster on methamphetamines. The exhilaration was unbelievable. About half way down I felt the air resistance pushing against the bottoms of my skis. As I realized it my good form to fall apart. My arms began a frantic flail as the air resistance pushed me onto my back. Then it was over in one amazing poof. My ski tails hit first, then my back and legs. It felt like landing in a giant down pillow. Pushing myself back up onto my feet I could barely stand. My legs were shaking so badly from the adrenaline that all I could do was holler, pump my fists in triumph, and ski down to my friends. I was alive, unbroken, high on adrenaline, and ready to do it again, at least until the adrenaline ran its course.