Un-lily-livered.
The sun rose late in Jackson Hole, Wyoming on February 1, bathing this pre-redemption Narnia tableau in sparkling glory. C.S. Lewis’s classic starring four brothers and sisters, talking fawns and beavers, a lion, witch and wardrobe was one of my very favorite books growing up. That admixture of adventure, eternally high stakes, children with swords, bows and arrows set my young heart racing though I didn’t understand how a world perpetually snowy was a bad thing.
I lived on the Oregon coast where it rarely snowed but perpetually rained.
Yuck.
I dreamed of snow, of Turkish Delight produced by dropping magic driplets from a horse-drawn sleigh into it, cozy fur blankets and, twice a year, when my family drove inland for weekends at Hoodoo Ski Bowl were absolute highlights even though there was neither Turkish Delight nor cozy fur blankets for Hoodoo’s motto spoke to my family’s ethos.
Steep, deep and cheap.
When it was time to finally escape coastal Oregon’s gloom for good, I raced to southern California then Australia then back to southern California, becoming a famous surf journalist along the way, but the snow, the mountains, haunted my dreams.
Maybe it was genetic.
My uncle-cousin is a legend in mountaineering lore. Art Gilkey, who was raised in Iowa but moved to a farm outside of Portland, Oregon after graduating university, was an early Alaskan explorer and part of the third American expedition to K2 in 1953. Their exploits, captured vividly in The Savage Mountain, detail feats of bravery, comradery, skill that are rarer and rarer in our lily-livered modernity.
Oh shit, you skied Hoodoo. They had a pretty sweet deal a long time back where you could ski for 12 dollars for a half-day or 17 for the full day. The snow was classic Cascade Concrete though.
That was back when whales were getting harpooned with ballistic charges and the meat sold in supermarkets, Seals and otters were trying to make a comeback. The ocean is recovering from the stupidity of imperial hubris and thinking the animals of the world are here for us to harvest.
The ocean is alive again and eighteen foot whites are regular visitors to many surf spats. I heard about Lew Boren getting bitten in half in Monterey when I stopped at the surf shop one cold foggy morning in the late seventies.
It was a shocker because there were never any shark attacks back then.
If your not afraid of sharks you should move up here. You would have certain spots with only a few other people to keep you company. I’ll take a rattlesnake bite any day of the week.
One more snow story
And the pivot from the surf
Will be in full swing!
Isn’t “famous surf journalist” an oxymoron?
You trying to claim some native Da Hui shit here, Chozzlos? It would be funny bashing Hawaiians in the snow for trying to go down “your” runs. Fucken cunts.
Chazzles wife is a legend. Fucking nineties, best decade ever.
Snow + Surf Journalism: A Love Runny-Nose Story
“Uncle-cousin”?
Are you sure you ain’t from Alabama?
Oregon is the Alabama of the north.
Alberta is the alabama of the north
He was uncle’s cousin!
Please enlighten us on your foray into the snow world.