Desperate times had come. Staring down the barrel of the first ski-less weekend since late November, something had to be done. All local hills were closed and the rain poured down on Saturday. With it, came a chill that made any thoughts of scrounging for turns totally unappealing.
But Sunday dawned clear(ish). A noontime phone call was made and within 45-minutes, skis were being loaded in the car and operation salvage-the-weekend was underway.
An hour later, the slopes of Bromont greeted us like a chocolate chip cookie. Ribbons of white danced around blotches of brown and we began scoping for anything that could be stitched into a continuous line. Through the hazy lens of desperation it looked good to go.
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Plenty of lines. Really.
The parking lot was mostly empty, as ski parking lots tend to be after the lifts have stopped turning. A few wanderers and hikers gave us odd looks, but for the most part we were alone as we packed up and set boot to mud. We went for the direct route right up the middle, with the constant slog broken only by the collection of ground score. Final tally: two individual skis, a decent pole basket, a caribiner keychain, two dollars and 25 cents, and an unopened bottle of Heineken. Sweet. The shabby skis were tossed aside, but the rest joined us on our one-hour trek to the summit.
Little time was taken at the top, as we were so stoked to rip up the pristine conditions. Mit led the way with some solid turns over the sun-cupped surface and a series of ballsy straight-lines through the dirt and grass. Rock skis are good skis.
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Mit displaying some fine stitching steeze
High fives were exchanged and shouts of “boner city” echoed through the valley. We couldn’t help but feel sorry for the city dwellers who sat at home, so unaware of the sickness being had just outside their walls.
We climbed up for another go at these epic conditions, not content to let this day slip away just yet. All we needed now was a little rain to cool our excited minds. As we approached the summit once again, our request was granted as a decent shower came down on us. So, as before, we wasted little time in clicking into our skis for one of the last times of the season.
The vertical dropped quickly as we went from granular to ice to dirt to grass to occasional patches of sweet, sweet corn. Stoked, we sewed our way all the way back to the base area before finally calling it a day.
But not yet a season.
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Carving the brown.
(26mb, 3.5 minute video here.)
Sick and ashamed and happy (and, clearly, these are the acts of desperate men),
d.
