Ski Bum Chronicles

By Jeff Lyon

It's 1981. Ross Ryan leaves Texas to pursue ski bum dreams. He joins a cast of outlandish characters that work and run fictional Elk Valley Ranch near Winter Park, Colorado modeled after Snow Mountain Ranch. They are seasonal staffers willing to postpone careers and take menial jobs to live and ski among the wealthy in the Rocky Mountains.

The peons of paradise are survivors of the disco decade and careen into the 80s with a vengeance. Self-centered baby boomers flourish. Conspicuous consumption is cool. Status seekers are the rage. The reckless youth that cook meals and clean rooms are often fueled by hormones, pot, and alcohol.

Ross’s attempt to delay growing up is derailed by a near fatal skiing accident, getting busted, death of a friend, tragic romances, and work responsibilities. He discovers that the bonds of love and friendship will pull him through catastrophic events, even when the people he feels closest to are just passing through.

Crank up your bindings and get ready for some wild bumps and deep powder. This is an out of control run full of fun and mayhem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Lyon
• Release date: Apr 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458156419

Jeff Lyon

Jeff Lyon is the son of a truck driver and preacher’s daughter. He grew up in Irving, Texas, earned a Communications BA from the University of North Texas and then went ski bumming in Colorado. Jeff returned to Texas to work for the City of Lewisville before heading to Florida to become a licensed yacht captain. Jeff's next move was Chicago where he spent twelve years teaching sailing and captaining charters on Lake Michigan. During Chicago’s harsh winters he wrote travelogues, books, short stories and screenplays. Jeff returned to Florida to write and captain boats. The next move landed Jeff with his wife Karen in Charlotte, NC. Currently, Jeff and Karen live on Chickamauga Lake in Chattanooga, TN. Jeff's adventurous tales are based on personal escapades and filled with extraordinary characters.

Book preview

Chapter One-Death of the Beast

Time softens sins we commit as kids. Forgiveness comes easy from family and friends when youthful indiscretions are revealed long after the social statute of limitations have run out.

For me it was turning fifty and the arrival of my AARP card invitation that made me feel ready to look back over thirty years and delve into my awkward post college stage. Attending high school and college in the 70s motivated me to flee a strict Christian upbringing in 1981.

My plan was to head for a carefree life in the Colorado Rockies. I just wanted to be a ski bum. Heartbreak, hardships and the responsibilities of growing up were unavoidable consequences.

The vacuum wipers were no match for the driving snow that caked in slushy clumps on the windshield of my old Ford pickup. The heater made them slide away like mini glaciers. Visibility was near zero. I steered into the ruts ahead and could barely make out the faint red glow of the taillights on the church bus we were following. It was still another fifty miles to Amarillo. That was only halfway.

Jon Ryan wrapped a dingy serape tighter around his legs and complained, I'm freezing!

The heater cores in these '57s are small. Nobody figured these old trucks would ever get off the farm. We gotta keep it on defrost or the windshield will freeze.

Jon fiddled with the radio until Hank Snow’s lament, When it’s springtime in Alaska it’s forty below, cut through the heavy static. Jon peered at me and said, People die out here you know.

You could have ridden with the church kids.

Nah, no telling when I'll see you again, once you get to Colorado. Jon's breath turned to tiny crystallized clouds in the faint glow of the cab.

What the hell was I thinking, driving a cobbled together hot rod to the mountains on Christmas Eve? Trading a lifetime of living in north Texas for a ski pass, room and board, and $2.25 an hour, that's what. It sure beat working on commercial floors when job offers for my major in Radio, TV and Film failed to materialize after graduation.

Boom! What was that? Jon stared ahead with gaping eyes.

I turned the radio off and listened hard. I think we lost a cylinder.

The high-performance Vette engine suddenly went weak and vibrated like a washer with an uneven load. We started to fall behind the bus. I mashed the accelerator to the floorboard. We slowed to just creeping through the swirling white night.

Now what?

Just hope this bucket keeps running.

I haven't seen another car for hours.

Your church buddies know we're back here.

Who knows when they'll stop and figure out we're not behind them anymore.

I pounded the metal dash. Come on you beautiful Beast! Get us to Amarillo.

We limped along praying. The engine shuddered and we lurched though the snow consumed by the constant fear that we'd suddenly be stranded in the miserable whiteout.

I don't feel so cold anymore, Jon murmured.

I heard fear can do that. We'll freeze our keisters off if this thing quits on us. I didn't mention the temperature gauge was edging up.

I never located a cable to hook the Ford's speedometer to its Vette transmission, but the tachometer was telling me plenty. We were averaging about twenty miles an hour and the dial was slowly creeping lower. My Frankenstein contraption was turning on me.

Jon pointed ahead. He tried to sound cool, but his voice betrayed his excitement. I think I see lights up there.

Where?

Up ahead to the right.

God, I hope so.

A dim glow filtered through the wall of white. I kept the truck in the rapidly filling ruts the bus had made. They took us on an arcing path toward the growing light in the distance. The pickup had begun to cough and buck by the time we exited the freeway into a truck stop’s mammoth parking lot on the edge of Amarillo. I brought the Beast to a coughing demise near the entrance of a cavernous garage.

Jon threw off his serape and high-fived me. "Dude, we made it!

Well, we're somewhere anyway. Let's go inside and see if they have a mechanic working on Christmas Eve.

We jumped out of the cab and ran for the brightly lit diner across the icy lot. Jon shouted through the muffling snow, The place is packed.

I pointed toward the front parking lot before we entered. There's your bus. At least you have a ride.

The Irving Assembly of God youth group occupied ten tables in the starkly lit dining area and one frazzled waitress was attempting to supply their endless demands for burgers, fries and soft drink refills. It was just past midnight and the gospel invasion had forced the sleepy oasis into high gear. Greasy smoke wafted about the place when the wind outside forced it back down the overloaded vent hood. Fire leapt from meat patties as they smacked the grill and splattered thick fat on the sizzling surface.

Jon joined his boisterous group. I approached the aging cashier stationed at a counter near the exit reading a tattered copy of Owner Operator magazine. He looked up from a crinkled picture of Miss Mac Truck December, who was wearing a bikini and draped over the fender of a new semi. Whatcha want?

Do you have a mechanic on duty?

If you call 'em that. Best we could do being Christmas Eve and all.

Can I talk to him?

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, He's out back in the shop, before returning his attention to Miss December.

I headed for the rear exit and Jon stopped me. How's it look?

I gotta talk to the mechanic out back.

Should I call Mom and Dad?

No way! Why get them all lathered up in the middle of the night? Nothing they can do. Just sit tight. I'll be right back.

The night seemed much colder after briefly warming up in the cozy diner. I pushed the side entry door open to the metal garage. Jimi Hendrix was playing Silent Night on tinny speakers from somewhere behind half a dozen semis with their engines exposed. I found the mechanic hunched over a cleaning vat polishing a bucket-sized piston from a Cummings diesel. He looked up and grunted, Who the hell are you?

My name's Ross. Can you look at my pickup?

What's wrong with it?

I'm not sure. I think it's running on seven cylinders.

Where is it?

Right outside that door. I pointed at the big overhead roll-up behind me.

Will it run?

Maybe.

I'll raise the door. Pull it inside. Sort of a slow night anyway.

The Beast convulsed to life. I drove inside, got out and popped the hood while the mechanic circled.

Damn, son! This thing belongs on a drag strip.

I put a lot of work into rebuilding her. She sort of turned into a monster.

The mechanic drug a droplight over and held it above the laboring engine. That a 350 Chevy?

Yep.

Damn, son! He put his ear near each valve cover and listened intently. OK. Shut her off. It's definitely the left bank that's missing.

I killed the motor. The mechanic fetched a ratchet and pulled the valve cover. Lying next to the number six valve springs was the rocker arm that's supposed to move them up and down. The stud had snapped leaving the cylinder no way to breathe.

The mechanic picked up the loose rocker arm and pointed at the broken stud.

There's your problem.

Any chance you got one of those?

Hell no! Won't be no parts house open until after Christmas.

I gotta report for work in Colorado tomorrow.

Ain't my worry.

Can I leave it with you?

Sure, but you gotta leave the pink slip. Don't want no problems with the law.

How do I know you'll take care of her?

Well ya don't, but I don't need no dang hot rod truck and I ain't goin' nowhere. That's all you got. Take it or leave it.

OK. You got a card or something?

Get a number from the cashier inside and ask for Buzzard when you call. I'll park this heap out back and work on it when I get time.

I trudged to the diner with my suitcase. The waitress was trying to sort out her pile of tickets. Jon was talking to Phil, the youth pastor, when I walked up covered in wet snow.

What’s the deal?

Broke a rocker arm stud. No part 'til after Christmas. Gotta leave it here.

Phil put his hand on my shoulder. Jon filled me in. You got a plan B?

You’re my plan B.

You can ride to Boulder with us. The local pastor probably has something Jon can take you to Winter Park in.

That’s the best thing I’ve heard tonight.

Phil smiled. The Lord giveth and taketh away. I won't go into the mysterious stuff. I know you're not exactly a huge fan.

Thanks! I mean, really, thanks a lot.

No problem.

Sitting in the back of the bus I peered into the snowy darkness while Jon snored softly in the seat next to me. Two rows up a quiet game of spades was being played while the rest of the passengers squirmed and lapsed into fitful sleep. The smell of wet clothes and teenagers passing greasy spoon gas permeated the air as we rumbled through the night.

It looked like I was going to Elk Valley Ranch and report to work on time without the Beast. That truck was never meant to leave Texas. Maybe I wasn't supposed to run off either. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, Ross.

Chapter Two-Berthoud Pass

The big bus let out a heavy sigh as we stopped near the entrance to the Boulder Bible Church. It was a little past noon. Bleary-eyed passengers oozed into the cold parking lot. Pastor Brainard bounded out of his church office, all six-foot-seven of him, and strode purposefully toward the group waving and yelling, Merry Christmas!

The Boulder Bible Church strayed from the Assembly of God organization and was considered a bit of a maverick in religious circles. Boulder is full of free-spirited people with eccentric tastes and no patience for being told exactly what to do. The church adopted a looser version of the core Assembly of God tenets, but the basic doctrine was still in tact. Church elders understood some altered dogma was unavoidable if they wanted to fill the place on Sundays with tithe-paying believers. The split was generally well accepted by the sister churches.

The Irving Assembly of God youth choir was to perform for the Boulder Bible Church's congregation in return for a place to stay while they skied at nearby Eldora Mountain Resort. It was their second year to visit.

Thrusting out a hand that could easily palm a basketball, Pastor Brainard introduced himself to Phil. You must be Pastor Phil?

Just call me, Phil. I'm considered the youth pastor of this ragtag bunch, but I don't have any formal church accreditation."

No problem. We don't hold much to formality around here anyway. You can call me Garret.

Garret it is. I have a rather unusual request.

Oh?

We have a young man who needs to be in Winter Park to start a new job today. I was wondering if you might have some sort of vehicle I could send him over there in.

The church has an old van, but there's no driver.

I've got a couple of real responsible kids to handle the driving chore, if you're good with that? They should be able to get over there and back in time for tonight's service.

Let's get your group inside and acquainted with our makeshift dormitory. Then we'll see about your delivery.

The haggard driver had opened all the storage lockers in the bowels of the bus and travel weary teenagers were pulling frozen suitcases and hanging bags from the dank compartments. The crowd slowly shuffled into the sprawling church clutching their belongings.

Phil had already corralled Jon and his best friend Kale when he saw me claim my suitcase from the pile. He motioned me over to meet Pastor Brainard.

Garrett, this is Ross Ryan. He's the young man who needs a lift to Winter Park.

I shook the giant man's hand. Pleased to meet you, sir. I hope I'm not too much trouble.

Pastor Brainard shook my entire right side and replied, Nonsense. I worked a ski season or two when I was your age. Wouldn't take anything for the experience. Who you working for?

An outfit called Elk Valley Ranch. Hired on from an ad in the Dallas paper.

"Small world. You tell Old Nick Bingle, I said hello.

I will.

You boys drive careful. God's blessing and good luck.

That was it. Pastor Brainard wheeled around like a basketball center under the bucket and bounded inside to get people situated. Phil pointed at a well-worn van parked across the lot. Garrett says the keys are under the mat. You boys know how to get where you're going?

Yes, sir, I've got a map in my suitcase. I can't thank you enough for this.

Putting his hands on Jon and Kale's shoulders Phil began to pray, Lord, keep a watchful eye on these boys and allow them to travel safely. Amen.

We all chimed in on cue, Amen!

You guys put your bags up and I'll warm up the van.

Kale started to leave then stopped. Are we gonna eat first?

We'll pick up something on the way, I shouted over my shoulder. I walked toward our chariot. It was unlocked and the key was right where Garrett said it would be. The exterior of the rusty Econoline was faded baby blue with a huge bible painted on each side open to Proverbs 16:3: Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and your plans will succeed. Sounded good to me, especially when the motor fired right up.

Rock and roll stations came and then faded away as we headed south from Boulder, rounded the corner onto I-70 at Denver and headed into the mountains. The well maintained van chugged merrily along. Jon tweaked the radio to find the next brief signal to keep our stream of Christmas anthems by rock legends pounding away through the cheap dash mounted speaker.

Kale leaned forward from the first of three rows of seats in the back when we turned north on Highway 40 and whined, Honest to God, I'm starving to death. I ignored him until we eased into Empire. I was shocked to see the Dairy King open.

It's a Christmas miracle! Kale exclaimed.

I pulled into the tiny lot just off the main road and we went inside. An extremely weathered man was watching a snowy black and white television behind the counter. He never even turned around to tell us, I got a few burgers left over from the Christmas party. That's it 'cause I'm lockin' up and headed to home.

Kale ordered in a desperately high pitch, We'll take three!

The old timer put three wax paper wrapped burgers in a white bag. The grease bled through it on contact. He added some faded squeeze packets of ketchup and mustard then tossed a handful of thin napkins on top. Kale laid three bags of chips on the counter. I paid for our little feast.

We were back on the road, balancing bags of chips in our laps and attempting to gulp down our overly juicy sandwiches as condiments and grease oozed down our arms. The little napkins were soaked in short order. Jon was searching through the glove box for backups when we made the first switchback at the foot of Berthoud Pass.

I rounded the hairpin turn and hit the gas. The van kicked into low gear as we started up the wickedly steep grade. It became harder to manage our meals as we banked through the tight turns and climbed ever higher into low hanging clouds. I looked down for a nanosecond to get some chips. I never saw where the giant porcupine came from when I looked back at the road.

The tires made a sickening squeal when they locked up. We were sliding sideways instantly. Chips and partially eaten burgers flew forward. The porcupine went by in a blur. The front bumper missed his head by inches. It didn’t even wince. With mouths full, our screams spewed ugly food splatter on the windshield and dash.

We came to a stop facing downhill. The van teetered precariously. Our right rear tire dangled in space.

At first we just sat and stared. The porcupine checked the air for scent. It waddled off the road and disappeared instantly into the brush. Jon and Kale's eyes were wide as saucers. I'm sure mine were too.

The boys were statues when I snapped out of it. We gotta get this freakin' van turned around.

Kale reached for the back door and the van dipped toward the cliff. He froze and mumbled, Nobody move. It didn’t have to be said. We couldn’t even breathe.

Kale ease up here in the front with me and Jon.

With agonizing deliberateness Kale crept between the front seats and pressed himself against the engine cover. The nose of the van lowered a hair.

We heard him coming long before he rounded the bend fifty-yards ahead of us. Andy Boggs was headed home for Christmas and pushing his empty logging truck for all it was worth. The surprise he had planned for his wife and son was nothing compared to the one he got when he rounded the turn to find us across the road.

A semi with a head of steam carries a lot of momentum, even when going uphill. Andy slammed on his brakes, yanked the air horn and skidded toward us with smoke pouring off his screeching tires.

We watched helplessly as the big truck scraped along the mountainside. It looked for an instant like it might just squeeze past, but the wind and vibration was enough to send us over the edge. The nose of the van tipped skyward, Kale fell into the back seat and we shrieked with the passion of those surely damned.

Suddenly the nose of the van was yanked uphill. We were snatched from our plunge into the canyon. A flailing log chain hooked our bumper and drug the van alongside the truck to a wheezing stop.

The next thing I remember was Andy pulling open my door to see if we were dead. Are you guys OK?

I think so.

My God. Did someone throw up?

It’s our lunch.

We gotto get off the road. Will this thing start?

I tried the starter. The engine came to life on the seventh try."

Andy untangled our mess. We crept to the Berthoud Pass Ski Area at the top of the hill in silent shock. With half of our front bumper sticking straight up, the van looked like a big blue rhino. We parked by the surprisingly intact semi.

Andy took tools from his truck and began removing the last two bolts holding on our phallic fender. You kids better thank the good Lord for working overtime on Christmas.

As we pushed the mangled bumper under the van’s seats from the rear I asked Andy, What about your truck?

You ever see a logging truck without scratches?

Guess not.

Andy waited until the van restarted before leaving us. Try and keep it on the road, he yelled and drove away.

As we headed down into Grand County I said, I hope Pastor Brainard practices the forgiveness he preaches.

With a nervous grin Jon assured me, The van don’t look that bad and hey, it still runs good.

To calm my nerves I gave my best tour director's speech as we cruised past the ski areas and through Winter Park. I made my first ever ski trip here in 1976. Mary Jane Mountain didn't have any lifts. You had to pole through the trees back to Winter Park. I slowed to 30 MPH at the edge of town. We stayed right there at the Mountain Haus Condos. I was just a high school senior like you guys. Kale and Jon listened. They were still reeling from the shock.

It was a killer trip, man. Now I'm back. I can't believe it.

Chapter Three-Elk Valley Ranch

Elijah Smoot homesteaded five thousand acres at the base of the Continental Divide in the shadow of Devil's Thumb in 1896. He called it Elk Valley Ranch after the first meal he shot and ate on the site of his original log cabin. Folks say Elijah was a religious man, but highly superstitious might be a more appropriate description. Elijah believed in God. He also had a healthy respect for the Great Indian Spirits, Buddha, black magic and dumb luck.

More than anything Elijah believed that the railroad would someday run across his property and it did. Northwestern and Pacific laid tracks over Rollins Pass in 1904. They plunged into the valley below the Divide in a breathtaking switchback onto Elijah's land.

Elijah was a loner and never took up with a woman. He claimed they were too soft for pioneer living. They could cause a man so much misery their comforts were hardly worth keeping one around. It was rumored that Elijah visited a squaw in the foothills when the urge was upon him. There was no end to the rumors about Elijah Smoot.

Elijah worked at what all pioneers did, any and everything that might keep him alive. He hunted, trapped, farmed a dab and even ran a few cows on his place. Most of Elijah's money came from selling elk meat to an endless stream of hungry mountain transients. Elijah hit the big time when his elk meat began shipping back to Denver restaurants in boxcars packed with high country ice.

Summer tourists seeking mountain vistas began to travel by train to Winter Park. The railroad called it picnic and wildflower gathering excursions. Elijah was pretty put out with the flatlander invasion. Then he realized there was money to be plucked from the curious flock of visiting turkeys.

Elijah started with a rustic lodge of Indian design. He added a rough-hewn log cabin each summer. Elk Valley Ranch became quite the get