Too much snow...

An epic memory from 30 years ago.

With all of the snow falling across the West in recent weeks, there’s no doubt that anyone who has been in deep and unrelenting snow like that has been rekindling memories of their own experiences in the snow. Growing up in San Diego my very first memory of snow was my Dad taking me and my brothers up to the mountains near Julian to go sledding. Then Big Bear. But never to ski…we weren’t a skiing family.

Memories of epic snowfall brought me back to my fun years as a ski race announcer in the ‘90s. My Vail business partner Mike Billingsley and I launched a 1/2 hour ski show called “SkiTV” on the then Prime Sports Network (now Fox Sports Regionals/AT&T/etc). The show allowed us to cover events and happenings in the industry, mostly in Colorado where every ski racing entity eventually came. My “side gig” was as the on-site race announcer for the US Pro Ski Tour for many years. I did mostly women’s events in the early years, some men’s events, a couple of World Cup events in CO, and then the Jeep King of the Mountain Downhill Series for several years in the mid-late 90s. The various tour events took me from Maine to California, West Virginia to Wisconsin, Oregon to Colorado. I’ve skied ice, mush, crud, sierra cement, skied in the rain, fallen off of icy chair lifts. But mostly I’ve been able to have a warm seat in a glassed-in booth watching the best ski racers in the World work their magic down a treacherous racecourse. When I was first hired to be the on-site race announcer for the US Pro Ski Tour, I flew from Phoenix to Boston. I drove in a logoed Chrysler van all the way to Sugarloaf, Maine. It was so cold I didn’t even know how to act. The first day I was standing out near the newly-constructed race finish corral in my crew jacket, gloves, and hat given to me thankfully the night before on arrival. My feet were blocks of ice. A snow cat driver with a beard like Charlie Blackmon sidled up next to me and said, “yer feet cold?” “Yeah they are,” I replied. “Are those Technica backpacking boots?” I looked down, “Yeah it’s all I had.” The Northman continued, “I believe them boots have a metal shank in them for support. That conducts cold directly to yer feet. Ya might consider some Sorels. They sell em everywhere.”

I digress.

A particular memory came up as my single best powder day experience. But much more than that really. I’ve told this story a few times and people called bullshit on me. The combination of where I was, who I was with, and what happened, is stuff of legend. I was there, and I’ll be forever grateful for the experience.

I’m standing atop Snowbird, Utah. We had just walked out of the tram car and it’s an eye-busting bluebird day. We’ve been locked inside the Cliff Lodge for 3 days of unrelenting snow. They literally chained the doors, and you can’t go outside. The hotel sits in an avalanche chute like everything else in the narrow canyon that is Little Cottonwood. Now to the “we” part. I’m there as part of the Jeep King of the Mountain Downhill Series. I’m the hill announcer and MC. The Tour is run by Henry Schneidman and Mark Schelde. The television crew is run my great friend Darrell Ewalt (rest in peace pal…I miss you). Their crew has built a downhill course with over the last week. Fencing, staging, bleachers, banners, cabling for sound and television. It’s all built and then on Wednesday it starts snowing and they pull everyone off the mountain and send all the locals home. Now it’s Saturday and they are going to open the canyon and the mountain but not until later in the morning. The “we” that came up on the first tram in three days is the ski patrol, moutain services, the race director, some of the race crew that could ski well, nearly all of the legendary racers for whom the race is held in the first place, and little ole me. There’s a lot of World Cup and Olympic Gold to my left and right as we are going up the tram listening to the final cannons being fired from across the canyon in attempt to bring the slides down. I don’t remember exactly all of who was in that tram car, but I can tell you some of them for sure. Leonard Stock of Austria who won the Gold in the Downhill in 1980 in Lake Placid. Franz Klammer also of Austria, winner of 25 World Cup downhills including 4 at the dreaded Hahnenkamm at Kitzbuehl, and an Olympic Champion in ‘76 at Innsbruck. Swiss legend Pirmin Zurbriggen, winner of 40 World Cup Golds in all 5 disciplines and also Olympic Gold in ‘88 in Calgary. American Tommy Moe, Olympic Gold Medalist in ‘94 in Lillehammer. American Billy Johnson who snagged Gold in ‘84 in Sarajevo. Canadian legend Steve Podborski, who won the Hahnenkamm twice and was the first North American to win the World Cup season title in downhill. And 8 or 9 other equally accomplished racers, including my friend Doug Lewis. Lew competed in 2 Olympics as a member of Team USA; Sarajevo and Calgary. He’s a World Championships medalist and gives his time and treasure giving back to young skiers in his home resort of Sugarbush, VT. He had a tendency to win a lot of these Legend events.

I’d had a chance to ski with these greats before in this particular season and in the couple of seasons before. I recall it’s Winter 1995 or ‘96. I’m pretty sure that’s right because the ‘92 Salt Lake/Park City Games have already happened, and I haven’t yet been to Atlanta to work the volleyball venue for the ‘96 games.

All of us have become accustomed to seeing Olympic and professional ski racers in lycra suits and helmets going 80 MPH down a hill in ways that we’d never imagine doing ourselves. The journey to becoming that kind of accomplished racer is harder and more painful than that of any other kind of athlete in any sport in my opinion. Most of them started skiing at age 2 or 3. Most of them have broken multiple bones (or backs) and blown-out and repaired multiple joints. All of them have had to continue grinding for decades at something that is singularly difficult. All of them have a screw (or many screws) loose. Seeking hundredths of a second all the while knowing that the only thing standing between you and more speed is in the ability to overcome your own fears and limits. Trust me…I’ve either spectated up close or participated in most sports over my lifetime and nothing compares to racing downhill on skis in terms of guts and toughness. There’s no teammates, coaches, opponents, or officials to blame or give credit to. Just you, your God, and the mountain. Skiers are certainly more fit these days, have better equipment technology, and understand aerodynamics to a deep level. The racecourse layouts are designed by computer, and the safety readiness is state of the art. With all that, the racers still have to be willing to throw themselves out of the start gate and down that mountain time and again in search of speed and perfection.

The context I was seeing these guys in was different. A powder day. Not just any powder day, but maybe “the” powder day. I got to see them as what they must have been like in their youths, on their own forested mountain where they learned. Excited, giggling, trading verbal barbs, challenging one another to go first. What you don’t know or maybe just don’t realize when you watch ski racing on television is that these guys are all just incredible skiers in any conditions. Trees, cliffs, moguls, powder…anything. They’ve been doing this since they could walk.

The Director of Snowbird Ski Patrol could barely keep everyone together once they’d exited the tram. But the deal was simple…you get to go up first tram with us only if you follow instructions and stay together. He talked about the various routes down off the top. He sternly advised, “We will all go down together.” They picked a pitch (I don’t recall the name of the run) that was wide and treeless and long, but with a grove of pine trees about halfway down for visual perspective. Then he talked about the snow and how everything within the fences ought to be safe to ski due to the solid groomed base underneath 4-5 feet of fresh powder. He talked about how to do it…as if the guys surrounding me needed any help with that particular part of it. I, however, needed to listen to all of it. I had NEVER seen or experienced anything like this before.

My own skiing journey was recent relative to everyone around me. When I was 11 or 12 I’d spent a day at Mohawk Mountain in Connecticut riding a rope tow to access a couple of bunny hills. Then in college I’d taken a road trip from Dallas to Vail and Steamboat where I bombed down green and blue runs in my blue jeans and KMart puffy coat for several days…mostly on my face and my back. I moved to Vail, Colorado at the age of 33, far past the age of “ski bum.” But I’d already been hired to announce the US Pro Ski Tour. So suddenly I was on skis for 100 days a season and surrounded by the best skiers in the world. Even my new friends and my girlfriend in Vail had all been ski racers. With a lot of goading and friendly coaching and mentoring I learned fast. My legs were strong from decades of football, track, and Ultimate.

Who has that opportunity? To not grow up anywhere near skiing and then suddenly at the age of 30+ to have the chance to ski every day of every season for the next 10 years with the best skiers in the world? I did.

Not only did I learn how to ski, but I learned how to ski like a racer, which suited my personality just fine. No pretty and perfect swishy turns down the hill for me. Fast. Maybe ugly but effective. I learned how to navigate a crowded mountain and overtake people safely from behind. Spending most of my time on groomed steeps that were set up for a race hill, I didn’t ever really learn how to navigate a tricky mogul field. (What do they do with those moguls in the summertime anyway?)

Back to the top of Snowbird. 5 feet of fresh powder. Avalanche cannons still going off across the canyon. A pack of elite skiers taking in the sights and working on their breathing. My heart doing double time with excitement and fear. “Crank down your bindings” one guy said. “Keep your feet underneath you…just bounce. The snow will support you,” said another. “Hold your breath until you surface again. This is snorkel skiing baby!” Wait, what????? We talked about where everyone should stop after the first pitch and settled on a knoll just above a small group of pines about 1,000 feet down.

Off they went. Sure enough, the first few guys in front of me disappeared under the snow. I would see a bright wool hat or a helmet pop up about 40 yards down the slope…maybe a hint of shoulders. And then gone underneath again. These guys knew that this was a bit over my head, and they didn’t want me to chicken out or to go last and be left behind somewhere in a tree hole. It was my turn. “Do it Dee. You got this. Time of your life. Have fun you can’t really hurt yourself in this soft stuff…just don’t fall face first where you can’t get up or out.”

The first sensation was “holy shit I’m pushing snow with my chest.” Never before. Anyone familiar with Utah powder knows there’s no comparison. You can blow 6 inches of it off the hood of your car in one breath. The second sensation was needing to breathe. I surfaced like I’d been…like I’d been snorkeling…quick exhale, deep breath, and then back under. All I saw was white all around me. Then a flash of bright blue. An occasional glimpse of yellow or red or green or blue of the hats and helmets bouncing around in front of me and beside me. Then finally when my heart stopped pounding so loudly in my ears, I heard the shouting and the hooting and the cursing from all around me. Sheer joy.

We did similar first-track runs for about 3-4 hours until the mountain opened up later than normal for the locals streaming bumper to bumper up the road into Little Cottonwood Canyon to enjoy a powder day at Alta or Snowbird. The race had been set for Sunday if the crew could get the racecourse cleared that day. In most ski towns, all bets are off on a powder day, but we had contracts to fulfill and a show to deliver. Most of us got to enjoy more powder that afternoon inside the fences of the racecourse which was blocked off to anyone else. A downhill course groomed to perfection with a pile of powder on top of it is a really special experience.

That night to the cheers of “zike zake zike zake hoi hoi hoi” many pints were enjoyed. Powder perma-grins were plentiful that night. I distinctly remember Austrian Leonard Stock saying to me, “pretty fun today.” Uh…yeah Leo…it was.

Snowpack is good thing. The West needs it. Let it freakin’ snow.