Fracture

By Gordon Dickie

There is a grain of truth to every Aspen legend which subtly augments the unique mystique of this adulated mountain Mecca.



Aspen is a collection of the notable and the notorious, the famous and the infamous, and those who live by chicanery while socially conscious tycoons surreptitiously ogle each others jets. Extremes of habitation range from the sumptuous castles to the humble abodes yet all residents zealously imbibe the elixir of a blissful nirvana in a Cinderella setting.



It is a perennial stage for mind boggling incidents of movie stars shooting disenchanted lovers, gonzo journalists shooting themselves, physicists grappling with sub atomic particles while writing cookbooks and divorced Red Mountain piranhas disciplining their wayward houseboys.



Everyone has their favorite reminiscence which they have deliciously nourished and disseminated. There are many tall tales, hyperbolical exaggerations, mesmerizing myths, macho posturing; all heavily embellished during the many years of amusing, audacious spectacles and overflowing buckets of Red Onion frothy libations.



Recently, this electrifying recollection of a lamentable Aspen episode was guilefully coaxed out of a reluctant, aging powder hound by his spellbound audience in the desolation of the Canadian Bugaboos after a memorable heli-skiing day caressing

the crystalline fluff.



Whether this story is fact, fiction or fantasy, a discreet mention of it in hushed tones still raises a few gray eyebrows of those from previous generations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 1, 2006
• ISBN: 9781463497149

Gordon Dickie

E. Gordon Dickie, M.D. is a physician and was the only gynecologist in Waikiki during his medical practice.  He has written books on biological warfare, “1976”, and on the primitive instincts of homo sapiens, “Listen to the Animals” and how they effect our daily existence.  He has also written screen plays and medical articles.  Dr Dickie was the first to ski the summit of the 14,000 foot volcano, Mauna Kea on the Big Island of Hawaii.  He now divides his time between winters in Aspen, Colorado, summers at his island in Ontario, Canada and spring and fall in Carmel, California. Dr. Dickie is a graduate of Stanford University and McGill Medical School.

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Contents

THE CANADIAN BUGABOOS

CHAPTER ONE

(Monday)

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

(Tuesday)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

(Wednesday)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

(Thursday)

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

(Friday)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

for

Mary Ann

my wife

who loves to ski

THE CANADIAN BUGABOOS

The helicopter landed with a loud, reverberating thump. Then it rose and thumped two more times as is the custom in determining if an overhanging cornice is stable enough to land on.

Four powder skiers clutched their seats and tried to ignore the procedure.

One more thump for Good Luck, shouted the pilot as he slammed the helicopter down again which immediately fractured a hundred yard wide section of the cornice and sent it tumbling into oblivion. The pilot shoved the throttle forwards and the helicopter peeled away from the falling ledge to another potential landing site.

It had happened before and it would happen again as all heli-skiers realized, but it was unnerving. Even the most stalwart enthusiast would cringe when it happened. But that was the price that one paid to ski the untracked, deep powder of the majestic Canadian Rockies.

Once down on solid ground the skiers piled out into a howling blizzard, unloaded their skis from the baskets, quickly stepped into the bindings and fastened the safety straps around their legs, and followed their imperturbable guide for another pristine frolic through the weightless fluff.

Fly like an eagle down two to three thousand feet between snow laden trees and luxuriate in the euphoria and exhilaration of the weightlessness immersed in one of nature’s wonders. It is thoroughly addicting as the dedicated diehards mystically fantasize when recalling their experiences.

Far below in the valley, the helicopter patiently waited to take the adventuresome straight back up to the summit for another peek at paradise.

The huffing and puffing, sweat drenched skiers threw their skis into the baskets and clamored aboard echoing glees of ecstasy. Within a minute they were back on top with barely enough time to catch their breath, yet they hated to see the day end.

Back at the lodge there was much high fiving and whoops of jubilation, recalling sensations that would last a lifetime. There were 12 guests, 4 to a helicopter; the rational being that all guests were always guaranteed fresh untracked power rather than all 12 skiing in the same area.

After dinner everyone crowded around the roaring fireplace in huge overstuffed couches and chairs in anticipation of another fable filled evening.

As the entertaining evening blossomed there were breathtaking stories to tell of escapades on other mountains and on other continents. It was a time for camaraderie and bonding of similar such thrill seeking souls. It was also a time to relate bizarre incidents and precarious predicaments that they had unexpectedly encountered and fortunately survived; circumstances that those who never skied could never appreciate nor even remotely fathom.

Sheryl, a striking, blond, athletic lady in her mid forties, who had skied Squaw Valley all her life, suddenly turned to the oldest member of the group.

Jim, we don’t know anything about you. How about opening up, teased Sheryl.

All attention was suddenly riveted on Jim Stockwell, a chiseled faced, robust, gray haired man, who had been perfectly content just watching the activities and listening to all the embellished recollections.

I really don’t have much to say, said Jim in a self confident and reserved manner.

Oh, come on Jim, urged Sheryl. You’ve got to add one of your stories to this group. Everyone has to contribute.

Yeh, Jim, pressured another guest. I’m sure you’ve seen it all, and you’re still powder skiing at your age. How old are you anyway?

Seventy four, Jim reluctantly replied. But this is my last year.

Why give it up? said Sheryl. You’re in good shape.

The others were quiet. They were all impressed with Jim’s athletic ability and boundless stamina; never stopping all the way down the meandering face of the mountain. They all realized that he was a man of many talents and a wealth of knowledge. Abruptly, everyone began begging Jim to share part of his exciting life with them.

Well, said Jim thoughtfully, I used to come up here fairly regularly with my closest friend, Gavin, a college fraternity brother and fellow law firm partner. But Gav got hit by a snowboarder in Aspen last year and got pretty badly banged up.

After a week in the hospital he said he’d had enough. He didn’t want any more accidents that would jeopardize his golf game. We both retired at the same time a few years ago, and we both have condos in Maui. We play a lot of golf together, so I guess I feel the same way.

Tell us one of your wildest adventures, coaxed Sheryl excitedly. I’m sure you’ve experienced a bundle of them.

Jim was silent then slowly shook his head a few times and said, Yeh, I’ll tell you one.

Two weeks ago Gav and I has just finished a round of golf and went in for a few beers. We were in that bar for three solid hours talking about Aspen, Colorado.

The group was silent. They settled into their chairs and couches and listened with rapt attention.

Aspen was a small town in those days. Lift tickets were thirteen dollars. You could buy a studio condo at the Tippler for fourteen thousand and ski equipment didn’t cost and arm and a leg. The snow was the best in the country with frequent days of two to three feet of Champagne powder.

It was a time of low prices when the local ski bums could survive on a meager pay check, when a hundred dollars was a fortune that lasted a couple of months.

Aspen was unknown to the Hollywood wannabes and nouveau riche types. But times were changing. It was a few years after the sixties riots, civil rights marches and feminist antics. In fact it was the first time women were allowed on the ski patrol.

Gav was skiing in Aspen with his wife Linda. She had a terrible accident and was nearly paralyzed. Usually my wife and I went with them, but I was in the middle of some important litigation and couldn’t get away. In fact we missed that whole season, but we made up for it afterwards. Marcia got breast cancer and died about five years ago or she would have been up here with me.

I never knew what actually happened in Aspen when Linda had her accident. Gav never wanted to talk about it.

After a few beers I began pressuring him again. I really wanted to know why he was so reluctant to talk about it and why he preferred to ski Sun Valley afterwards.

Suddenly, after all those years, he just totally opened up and told me the whole story.

It was almost dark when we got back to our condos. His last words were that no one would ever believe me if I ever told anyone else about it.

This is his story.

CHAPTER ONE

(Monday)

Karen Anderson had not slept all night. Today was the day that she had anxiously and patiently waited for. Today would determine the rest of her life. It was an awesome realization. Everything had been meticulously planned so that even the tiniest and least insignificant detail would not be overlooked. It had to be perfect.

Karen quickly glanced at the tiny alarm clock perched on a bare bookshelf in the corner of the room. She could barely make out the rusty hands on the ancient, faded face pointing to eight o’clock.

The early morning sun was already streaming through the faded curtains into an unfamiliar bedroom, but one that would become a sensuous and loving sanctuary within the next twelve hours. Scott would he there.

Excitedly, she jumped out of bed, ran into the living room and threw back the curtains. There it was. The huge intimidating and overwhelming, yet gentle and protective mother bear, Ajax. The huge mountain, rimmed in the cobalt canopy of the Colorado Rockies, loomed up over the fabled little town of Aspen.

It was an intense emotional moment since the mountain looked so alive to her; a creature of sensations and emotions, one that would know all, feel all and act as the great providence of all those who came to worship at the altar of the prince of all sports, skiing.

Yesterday there had been a raging blizzard. The roller-coaster flight into the narrow valley on Aspen Airways had been a hideous nightmare for Karen. She hated to fly. She was terrified that at any moment, the ancient lumbering DC-3 would go crashing into the nearest mountain. The unexpected and sudden bumping, and then the circling, had scared her.

She much preferred to be back in Houston, Texas, calmly taking dictation and writing boring letters in the peace and comfort of the plush corporate offices of the monolithic Gulf States Oil Company.

But Scott had unexpectedly phoned and ardently requested that she meet him in Aspen for an entire week. He had already made all the necessary reservations and impishly implied he wanted to discuss some very important matters with her.

She desperately hoped the subject was matrimony.

Scott had finished graduate business school the previous year and had sought out and been hired by a very prestigious firm in New York. It was an exciting opportunity that no young man could afford to pass up, even if it was just for the experience alone.

His profession always came first; education, advancement and goals were the most cardinal and consequential things in his mind. Marriage, unfortunately, was a distant fourth. The subject was quickly, but diplomatically, dismissed every time she had approached it during the last three years, ever since they had been at Rice together.

Tonight, they would be together again, almost like a honeymoon, in beautiful snow country, in front of a romantic and roaring fire, the perfect place for an emotional and sentimental proposal.

Brightly dressed skiers were beginning to populate the streets, mostly going to breakfast at the numerous cozy and inviting cafes around the base of Little Nell. Snow covered cars and buses gingerly crept down the icy streets with full loads of smiling, chattering passengers.

The multi-colored Aspen Shuttle Buses started their early morning rounds as attendants arrived to operate the ski lifts. Happy, laughing couples clad in every type of ski clothes walked by under her window, all visibly excited and heady in the high mountain altitude.

It was a beautiful day, the perfect day. Not a single cloud punctuated the brilliant, blue sky. It was the first day of a whole new life.

Enthusiastically, Karen scampered into the tiny tile bathroom and slipped out of her white lace gown. She stood for a brief moment to admire her slim, flat stomach and full breasts in the mirror. Unconsciously she shivered and then smiled as she thought of how Scott loved her body.

Hurriedly she turned on the shower, adjusted the knobs until the steam poured out, and then jumped in for a quick soap and rinse. Efficiently, she dried herself, brushed her teeth, took her birth control pill, pulled on her robe and then went into the small kitchen.

First the coffee, then a few eggs and toast. Karen was now ready to wrestle with the draconian ski boots. She wished Scott were here to help her. It had been two years since she skied, but Karen always remembered to get her boots on as early as possible, so that any unpleasant surprises would happen while there was still time to adjust for the agonizing discomfort.

After pulling on the thick thermal socks and ski pants, she cautiously stared at the blue Dolomite boots. They sat in the corner like two huge steel bear traps, unyielding, impersonal blocks of plastic, eager to encase tender feet in their uncompromising jaws. Karen knew those horrid steel buckles were a sure guarantee of three broken fingernails which had been patiently grown and manicured during the last six months.

With trepidation Karen reached in one boot and tried to pull the front flaps apart. It took all the strength she had even to open them a few inches. She grimaced in despair and winced in pain as she attempted to force her foot down the throat of the unwilling beast, but it clamped tightly on her sensitive foot. She sat back in disgust. Determined, she tried once more, but it was hopeless. Defiantly, she cursed the wretched things.

She knew that she would never be a proficient skier nor would she ever truly enjoy the sport that much. But she would do anything for Scott, no matter how ridiculous or impossible. Maybe he was just testing her, and this was the final examination.

I’ll show those damn things, she grimaced." With a vigorous shove of her foot, while gripping the neck of the boot, she thrust her foot into the narrow crevice. The medieval instrument immediately and methodically began to exact its agonizing retribution.

Damn these things, Karen shouted at the top of her lungs, then courageously shoved her other foot into the other pernicious device. She sat back totally exhausted. Then she remembered that the boot liner had to be pulled up. She leaned forward, grasped the liner with both hands, then shoved her knee forward and jostled her heel down as hard as she could. Instant relief! The pains abated, somewhat. At least now she was able to tolerate the abusive insult. She repeated the ritual with the other boot then sat back and waited for the pains to subside.

The ski lift had already begun to take the ski patrol up Little Nell. Far up the slopes Karen could see the crawling cats starting their daily chores of meticulously grooming the slopes. They resembled something out of antiquity, like prehistoric dinosaurs, as they insidiously crept along the undulating white surface of the mountain, surefooted, solid and purposeful, like they were out for a day of harmless foraging on a landscape where they felt perfectly at home.

Squeamishly, Karen looked up at the face of Ajax and carefully studied its imposing steep faces and treacherous ravines. She shuddered. There was a frightening beauty to its majestic power, yet terrifying because of the silent dangers that lurked for the unwary around every corner. For those lucky few that were truly gifted, it was an exhilarating and refreshing escapade to frolic with the miracles of nature. But to those who were timid and less gifted athletically, it could be a paralyzing and intimidating encounter.

Karen realized that she was certainly no expert. She had skied only intermittently for the last few years. The fast movement always unnerved her. It was a fear that she could never control, no matter how hard she fought against it. It was an innate phobia of speed, of being out of control, of not having total command of her body, with absolutely no idea what was going to happen. That was the primary reason why she had come a day early, to practice, to try and remember what she had learned in former years, the down-up-downs, the bending of the knees, the shoulder alignments, the pole plants and everything else that Scott had taught her.

It all seemed so confusing to those that didn’t and maybe couldn’t and would never understand. Scott had picked the technique up so naturally and made it look so easy. It angered her that she couldn’t do it as proficiently as he did.

Activity at the base of Little Nell had intensified as more and more skiers were congregating, milling about, talking, laughing, buying tickets, adjusting equipment, all anticipating the thrilling adventure that awaited them. Karen leaned over and, with much anguish, buckled the lower buckles. The rest would have to wait.

Into the bedroom she clomped for the rest of her ski clothes. Carefully she held the formfitting one piece, light blue Bogner up in front of her, one that had cost a few week’s salary. She smiled and carefully hung it in the closet. That outfit was for tomorrow, when she would be with Scott. Today, it was old clothes, sweaters, parkas for warmth, not for show. Today was to be a day alone, in her private school, like going back to the first grade and learning how to write all over again.

When fully dressed, Karen picked up her 550 SM Rossignal skis and Scott poles and started down the stairs of the Aspen Square condos. She was impressed with the location because it was so close to the lift. Even though she preferred the gentler slopes of Buttermilk, the bus ride was too tedious, the early morning lift lines were horrendous and the crowds so Midwestern and talkative. Today, she wanted to be alone.

Her skis crashed rudely into the plastered wall and brought her thoughts back to the present. They were always so cumbersome. Four long, clumsy objects; the skis and poles always seemed to go at different angles and hit everything in sight. Skis were never designed to be carried. She cursed them and stopped to reassemble her cantankerous cargo in a parallel fashion, then continued on down the stairs.

Aspen was in full swing by now. Buses were lined up at the Center and filled with crowding, shoving, overdressed, baggy snow bunnies going to Buttermilk, Snowmass and the Highlands. Cars laden with skis and stuffed with passengers were crawling down the snow-covered streets. The hot breath of eager skiers precipitated an icy fog in front of their open mouths.

Karen made her way across the slippery street and over to the ticket windows. Only a few impatient people were waiting in line. She barely had time to put her skis down and pull the necessary thirteen dollars out of her pocket before the heavyset man behind the window bellowed, How many?

Karen obediently held up one finger and placed the money on the counter. Through the small window she watched the man take a rubber stamp and imprint a large black word on the ticket and slide it towards her. Quickly she picked it up and stared at the word LUV boldly emblazoned on the shiny ticket. Karen smiled and murmured, Yes, this is going to be my lucky day.

She stepped away from the windows and inserted a U shaped wire through a hole in the zipper handle of her parka then removed the waxed paper covering on the back of the ticket. Carefully she folded the ticket around the wire until the sticky faces came together, then zipped up her parka. She struggled to pick up her skis and poles and walked towards the bottom of the lift.

Surprisingly, there were relatively few people there, which pleased Karen. She was not in the mood for some egocentric, hustling ski jockey to pour out his stale, well rehearsed line so early in the morning. Carefully, she placed the skis on the ground and gingerly stepped into the bindings, which immediately clicked into place. She was locked in.

Karen hesitated for a moment, wondering if anything in the binding had rusted during the summer months and hoped that the safety releases were still as good as they had been when she last skied. The thought had passed through her mind to have them checked in the ski shop, but that would have taken time, and there would be a line. Karen was impatient to get up on the mountain and start practicing.

Next came the safety straps around her ankles, which were something she always hated because she felt so awkward bending over with her hind end protruding toward the heavens. She always grimaced when she saw some other girls in that position. It looked so unladylike and so undignified. Naturally the men would stare, which embarrassed her even more.

Karen was ready. Everything was in position. She slowly slid her skis along the fenced in corral toward the waiting attendant who dutifully punched a heart-shaped hole in her ticket, right through the middle of the LUV, which upset her, like someone messing up a pretty picture. The young, long blonde haired lift attendant was talking with his friend and nonchalantly steadied the chair as she sat down.

Immediately Karen found herself floating up the mountain. The cool morning air rushing by her face was refreshing. Suddenly she felt the thrill of adventure as she moved into the clutches of the yawning white monolith. Convoluted billows of white smoke were pouring out of the red bricked chimneys of the Aspen Alps on her left. As she passed their huge picture framed windows, Karen could see people inside still having their leisurely breakfasts.

She looked back over her shoulder and saw that most of the chairs were still empty, but a crowd below was rapidly congregating. In a few minutes, she reached the midway station on top of Little Nell and dutifully held up the tips of her skis as she prepared to unload. Dropping into a nervous snow plow, she carefully slid down the snow packed ramp and turned left towards the number five Bell Mountain Lift, then continued in her crouching position across the trail into the partitioned entrance. She struggled to push herself along with her poles until she had reached the loading area.

Well, little girl, said the lift attendant. It’s a mighty good day for skiing.

Sherm Bartles, an engaging, amiable, gray haired man with a twinkle in his eye, had been working the same lift almost since the day it opened. He took a personal interest in everyone and anyone who rode his lift, plus everything else that happened in his private domain. Sherm was a rancher in the summer and had never skied, but loved the mountains and enjoyed being part of all the never-ending, youth orientated activities. He looked like he had just stepped off his horse with his coffee colored Stetson hat, piercing blue eyes, weathered face and chiseled features and appeared deceptively young for his seventy-two years. Sherm was solid and strong. His five foot, nine inch, hundred and eighty pound frame worked easily and comfortably in the demanding alpine terrain.

Karen smiled, I don’t want to miss anything.

She liked him immediately. He was like a kind, concerned father figure. She glanced at his name tag and said, Sherm, did you order this perfect day especially for me?

Well, I try and do my best, Sherm countered, but sometimes I have a little more luck than other days. Today was my lucky day.

Karen slid into position. The next chair immediately picked her up and propelled her up the mountain.

Thanks, Sherm, she called back. Karen was glad to be alone. She loved the mountains, but was in awe of them. They were so imposing, so powerful and formidable. She always had a tremendous reverence for them. The chair serenely cruised up Bingo Slot which was closed throughout the day, accessible only to the ski patrol. Karen shuddered at the thought of ever having to be carried down off the mountain in a toboggan.

Quickly she dismissed the thought from her mind as she glanced to her left to examine the precipitous Jackpot ski trail. It was so steep that few would even realize that it was a ski trail, unless they searched for a few telltale ski marks between the precariously perched trees on its diabolical face.

As Karen looked to her right her mind was transported back a hundred years ago when the industrious miners had laboriously and hopefully trudged up these narrow valleys and crawled down the deep, dark and narrow mine shafts in the pitiful hope of finding a few precious fistfuls of silver. What a terrible life, she thought to herself, never knowing the joys that this beautiful mountain had to offer, only hungering to find a chunk of dull metal that had lain hidden for millions of years.

They never walked the lush green meadows of the summit, nor listened to the fluttering birds happily singing their love songs, nor did they caress the undulating fields of beckoning flowers. The rotting timbers of an old forgotten mine shaft lay in a disheveled heap, almost totally camouflaged among the jagged rocks. Scott had purposely pointed out the ancient edifice five years ago and related its colorful history.

Scott would be with her tomorrow on this chair. She would tell him she had remembered his captivating description of old Aspen during the silver mining days, when it was wild and bawdy.

Methodically, the chair continued on its appointed mission, crossing over the deserted and shaded Copper Bowl and on up the Ridge of Bell. Karen could see the sun ahead and shivered. She would be warmer when she was finally out of the shade of the deserted mountain and up on top.

She looked down below her at the deep treacherous moguls and shuddered to think how anyone could ever get through them. They were obtuse, sharp and irregular, like they had been violently slashed with a whip. There was no shape, no form, only a series of steps and deep gouges between the clawed, mogul remnants. It was not a pretty sight, but more like a battlefield, not like the symmetrical moguls up on top, but a hazardous and dangerous reminder of those young steel-legged, long-haired kids that jumped down the mountain, rather than trying to ski it.

She remembered Scott said that they usually burned themselves out in a few years with back problems because of the tremendous compression on the discs of their lower backs.

Suddenly she was in the sunlight. The lift carried Karen majestically over the crest to the upper part of the ridge. The beautiful, breathtaking Colorado Rockies spread out far before her in a spectacular panorama. The glistening white snow covered fields sprinkled with fir trees under such a clear, cloudless blue sky took her breath away. She had forgotten how imposing the mountains were and thought about the millions of people who would never know their magnificence, nor even more sadly, would they even care to know. The deep valley far off below to her left undulated up towards Independence Pass while the white shining mountain peaks stretched as far as she could see in every direction.

God, this is beautiful, Karen murmured to herself. It’s like being in church.

The snow below her shimmered like a million small diamonds dispersed upon a sterile white sheet that blanketed the precipitous landscape. The moving chair accentuated the glittering and brilliance. Karen was mesmerized by their incandescence. It was a never ending fascination, like watching a flickering fire or the gentle, rippling waves on a secluded lake. It was so peaceful up here, so tranquil. All the cares, worries, frustrations, jealousies and other mundane perplexities all faded away. Everything seemed so petty beside such majesty.

Karen slowly shook her head, She now understood why Scott loved the mountains the way he did and why he spoke about them with such reverence. He came to Aspen every chance he got. With his new job in New York, he had not been able to come for two years. He missed them terribly.

Karen felt she understood Scott better up here. She wished he was sitting beside her to explain his love for this Garden of Eden. It was an integral part of his complicated personality that until now had remained a mystery to her. She never understood why he loved to go off camping by himself for days or go skiing alone. She always preferred the company of others, not long periods of self imposed solitude that he ardently desired. Sitting alone on the chair, she was beginning to understand.

It was a very intense religious feeling. It made one’s consciousness open up and begin expanding, to keep in tune with the great expanse of the terrain. It seductively gave a new dimension to living that one could never experience in the big city. It was like a breath of pure fresh air which took over all the senses and magnified them and multiplied them a thousand times. Suddenly all one’s perceptions were alive and experiencing the sensations for which they were originally intended. It was indeed a mind boggling experience. She loved it.

The chair reached the top of Bell Mountain. Karen dutifully prepared to unload as the sign instructed. The chair slid across the platform, next to a warm, glassed-in room where a young, shirt-sleeved attendant sat passively watching the passing parade. She waved to him as she stood up and slid down the off ramp, down past the huge turnbuckle that sent the chairs back down the slopes.

She skied down past the top of the precipitous Sunset Trail. There she stopped to tighten her boots and struggle with the top two buckles. The straps of the poles were adjusted over her wrists as she began her slow snowplow down the catwalk to the top of the gentle Deer Park Trail which was blanketed with 2-3 inches of untracked, freshly fallen snow.

Determinedly she bit her lower lip and started down.

I’m going to ski this damn mountain, she screamed through her clenched teeth and started her pole plants and the down-up-down motions. The cold wind whistled past her sensitive ears and the chill air penetrated deeply into her exposed cheeks. Her eyes began to water.

The turns were beginning to flow. She was becoming more and more confident and increasing her speed. The snow was soft with no resistance. It was yielding to her exaggerated movements. She was making it happen. She was skiing.

Exhilaration flooded through her supple body as the Rocky Mountain high permeated the inner depths of her soul. She was mastering the mountain, caressing its sensuous features as they were meant to be. The trees flew by her in a blur until she reached the open expanse above the Number Three lift. It was perfectly smooth as if it had been manicured with a toothbrush. The glistening white crystals spewed out behind her like the shimmering spray behind a water skier.

Karen came to a stop above the roped entrance leading to the lift then slid herself along with her poles. There were still only a few people ahead of her and they were already on their way up by the time she reached the loading area.

The young, long haired, bearded attendant dutifully steadied the moving chair for her. Instantly she was on her way to the top of the mountain. There were several shady areas which, in addition to the rapidly moving chair, intensified the cold. She was glad that she had dressed warmly and wondered if her blue Bogner outfit would be warm enough for tomorrow. The chill morning air painfully bit into her cheeks and she rubbed them, pulling her heavy wool cap down over her ears. She glanced to her left to see other early morning skiers coming down through Deer Park carving up her powder tracks on their way to the Number Three lift.

In front of her were the tall, stately pines covered with dimpled scoops of whipped cream, clinging tenaciously to outstretched branches, having fallen from the heavens the previous night. An angry squirrel chattered vociferously from his hidden perch, then darted along a long branch and made a spectacular leap into the patiently waiting arms of a nearby tree. A few large, grayish and regal looking snowbirds cackled in unison and began their daily foraging amidst the spectacular winter wonderland.

The chair moved noiselessly up the deep valley between these tall imperturbable sentinels. As she passed over Silver Bell, she saw the telltale tracks of other skiers in the few inches of new snow and thought how much fun it was to make her own private tracks down through this enchanted fairyland. The chair continued on up between the trees, out across Pussy Foot and into the trees again, then up Dipsy Doodle and into the warm inviting rays of sunshine.

As Karen was hoisted to the summit, the entire grand panorama of the Colorado Rockies once again opened up, only this time she was much higher and the imposing view was continuous in every direction. She held herself motionless and tried to drink it all in at once.

There was not a breath of air. The new snow clinging to the luxuriant branches added to the spectacular beauty of this unforgettable experience. A few skiers moved effortlessly and quietly below her, their skis slicing through the freshly fallen snow, pushing it into little soft piles like down that had recently escaped from a pillow. The fluffy crystals catapulted up from the pressure of the passing skis and lingered for a few fleeting moments, suspended above the soft glistening carpet, then slowly came cascading down to join the amorphous cushion from which they had arisen.

The off ramp signs jolted her back to reality. Another impassive attendant sitting in a warm cozy hut watched her proceed off the chair and down the icy incline out to where other skiers were laughing and talking. Everyone was exhilarated and talking excitedly in anticipation of the experiences that lay ahead of them. Bright colored clothes were accentuated by the white background and anxious skiers did their last minute adjustments of clothes and equipment before hurtling down into the canyons below.

It was a moment that Karen wanted to savor for a few minutes so she skied over by herself. She took a deep breath and marveled once again at the beauty that lay all around her and felt a twinge of sorrow for those that had no conception of its existence.

Smoke curled lazily out of the chimney of the Sundeck restaurant behind her. Already some skiers were taking off their skis and walking up the snow packed stairs to have early morning coffee or hot chocolate before even taking their first run. Karen was tempted to do the same, but realized that she was only going to have this one day alone to get her skiing firmly under control before she would be skiing with Scott. She had to make the most of it.

Behind the Sundeck, the backbone of Aspen Mountain extended for miles to where wide open, white untracked fields of glistening snow lay beckoning. It was all too beautiful, too spectacular to be truly appreciated. She wanted to be able to ski and enjoy it for hours and hoped tomorrow would be the same. But the mountains are always more spectacular after a new snow storm that covers up the traces of the previous day’s skiers that had left their little blemishes scattered about like so many scratch marks.

Reluctantly, she allowed her skis to slide forward a few feet, then put her poles out to stop herself and once again took a deep breath and slowly surveyed the magnificent landscape. She glanced at her watch. Nearly ten o’clock. She realized that it had taken close to an hour to get to the top at over eleven thousand feet. Skiers were sliding past her and heading for the trail that she had chosen, Silver Bell. She thought about the powder and how it would be gone before she had time to leave more of her own personal imprints.

Karen always wanted to make a few tracks that were her very own, all hers, and then look at them from the chair. She had done a little bit once. It was such a thrill to see her unique impressions that she always wanted to do it again, but the new snow was always skied off so rapidly that she had never had the chance. Now was her chance. Karen glanced back once more, reluctant to leave the awe inspiring beauty of the majestic summits of Colorado, so magnificently displayed in the early morning sunlight. But it was time to practice.

Her skis slid smoothly down the wide Silver Bell trail, enclosed by a dense forest of tall pines. The quickness of the acceleration scared her, and she broke into a slight snowplow. Then determinedly, she reached out with a pole and hit the snow in front of her. She felt the jolting impact of the blow and the resulting pressure shot up through her arm and shoulder, pushing her weight to the opposite side of her body.

That was the sensation that Scott had emphasized to her, to use the pole for the weight shift, and not the stem snowplow. She reached out with the other pole and repeated the process and felt the hard, agonizing jolt against her small wrists, but the simple maneuver had turned both body and skis, and had caused her to go in the opposite direction. She repeated the process, trying to coordinate the poles with the down-up-down motion of her body. It was coming. She was finally beginning to understand it, which pleased her immensely since it had been a long time since she had been on skis. She thought she had forgotten everything.

Everything had started to come together that last day she had skied. She had wanted just one more day, but she and Scott had to leave. For the next few weeks afterwards, she kept telling him that she understood it and continued to demonstrate her recently perceived rhythm in the middle of her studio apartment. But Scott’s movies only showed that familiar little stem turn, accompanied by her knock knees and her protruding hind end, which she did everything she could to conceal. She seriously thought about those movies last night and about the poles and the mistakes that she had made in the past. Karen was more determined than ever to conquer her fear of moving so fast so that she could control her turns.

The long early morning shadows cast their silhouettes across the freshly carved tracks in the fluffy powder. Karen was moving rapidly, picking up speed and thoroughly concentrating on the Austrian wedelling method and ignoring the few other skiers on the trail. She looked ahead of her and saw some fresh, untracked snow near the edge of the trail next to the trees and maneuvered towards it. She entered the creamy white smooth surface and felt a sudden sense of triumph as she scribbled her trademark in its pristine stillness. There was an exuberant surge of exhilaration, ecstasy and euphoria that is known only to skiers who love the sport and know what emotions can be unexpectedly released deep within their psyche.

CRACK was all Karen heard before she found herself tumbling over and over, out of control, falling violently, skis clattering into each other, arms flailing, and then a snap, like that of a dry branch or the snap of one’s fingers.

Immediately there was an intense, lightning pain in her right lower leg. It twisted grotesquely under her body as her full weight came down on top of it. The pain was excruciating and stabbing like none other she had ever experienced before. Karen knew in that instant that she had broken her leg.

Oh God! No! she shrieked. No! No! No! No! she pleaded hysterically.

Other skiers came promptly to her assistance as she lay screaming and pleading.

This can’t happen! Please don’t let it happen! Karen kept repeating over and over. This is the most important day in my life. Now it’s all ruined.

She buried her face in the snow and cried, sobbing as she realized the most anticipated week of her entire life had been snuffed out in one pernicious instant.

What happened? moaned Karen. Everything was going so well. I was in complete control. Why had it gone wrong? What happened? Why so unexpectedly? Why so suddenly? Why? Why? Why?

Within minutes, Karen felt a tug on her ski boot and looked up to see the maroon jacket of a ski patrolman who was carefully removing her skis. Then gently, ever so gently, he brought her twisted leg out from under her body. She grimaced and moaned with the pain. He stopped and waited until he felt she could withstand more pain.

I know it hurts, he said sympathetically. We’ll have you down off the mountain in no time.

Karen looked at his name tag, Bart Thompson, and then up into his face. He was a big man, with dark hair, a thick, black mustache with several old scars on his weather beaten face. He reminded her a little of Burt Reynolds, but heavier. His muscular hands moved down Karen’s leg, carefully palpating the bones until they reached just above the ski boot, when Karen let out an agonizing scream.

I think you’ve broken your leg, said Bart. We’re going to have to take you down in the toboggan.

Bart stood up and barked the situation into his walkie-talkie.

Karen lay back and cried.

Why did this have to happen to me? she whimpered.

She rolled her head back and forth in the snow and bit her lower lip. It all seemed so senseless.

The toboggan arrived with Christi Farrington, an attractive, athletic, twenty seven year old blond haired ski patrolwoman.

In a rather disgusted voice, Christi said, Another one, Bart? Haven’t we had enough of our share of accidents this year?

Bart ignored her remarks. He quickly reached into the toboggan and grabbed the splints and bound up Karen’s leg and carefully lifted her into the toboggan and placed her skis beside her.

Christi reached for the toboggan, but Bart put his hand on one of the handles and jerked the sled in his direction and stepped in between the handles.

I’m perfectly capable of taking her down, said Christi defiantly.

Nobody said you weren’t, replied Bart nonchalantly as he moved off down the mountain with his shattered, sobbing passenger.

CHAPTER TWO

Vot der hell is going on? bellowed Hans Moser in his thick German accent. Everybody on dis damn mountain is breaking der damn leg.

Ron Davis looked up from his magazine behind the dispatch desk at his boss, the demanding head of the Aspen ski patrol, with concern and genuine fear.

Dae are falling like flies, Hans continued. I’ve never seen a year like dis.

Hans was in remarkably good condition for his 55 years. He was an inveterate mountain man; climbing the Swiss Alps every summer and the supervisor of the Aspen Ski patrol during the winter. His wiry, five foot eleven, one hundred and sixty pound frame was bristling with authority which he frequently exhibited. When Hans hammered the desk with his fist, Ron backed off and was intimidated.

Hans gritted his teeth, pounded the desk once more and shouted, Damn it! then started towards the door.

I’ll check der mountain myself, he bellowed as he walked out the door.

Ron looked towards the other end of the ski shack where several of the ski patrol were sitting on over stuffed, ratty old couches around the corner fireplace and could see the apprehension in their faces.

What the hell does he want us to do? said Steve Frazier, normally a quiet, husky, blond Montana carpenter. Spend all day with a tooth brush smoothing out the moguls. But, I guess we should show some concern.

Steve stood up and pulled on his parka and started for the door. Maybe I’ll meet some chick for tonight, he grinned.

He stopped in front of the dispatch desk and said, Ron, I’ll swing down Buckhorn, Midway and Ruthie’s to see what I can find. I’ll give you a shout on the squawk box when I reach the bottom.

The others watched in silence as Rick also pulled on his parka, hat and gloves and followed Steve out the door into the brilliant sunlight.

As the door closed, another figure appeared and the door swung open again. Christi Farrington stepped inside and headed straight for Ron Davis who was busy thumbing through the latest ski magazine.

Ron, you tell that Bart friend of yours that he is the most disrespectful son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever known. A typical male chauvinist pig, Christi spewed out through her clenched teeth.

Ron looked up impassively and stared at Christi who was visibly irritated.

Ron was a tall, thin, sandy haired, restless drifter who liked the solitude of hang gliding, skiing and surfing. He had held numerous temporary jobs, but never stayed in one place for too long. He avoided, like a plague, all permanent attachments to anyone, especially women. Those he disliked. Christi represented everything he disliked about women. She was aggressive and demanding and the only reason she had gotten the job on the ski patrol was that a women’s group had threatened to close down the whole mountain unless they started hiring women.

Around the ski patrol shack, Christi was known as the token. She sensed the derisive scorn for her invasion into the male dominated territory which made her even more determined.

Sorry, Bart made you unhappy, said Ron shrugging his shoulders, then returned to his magazine. His long, straggly, blond hair fell down over his thin face, hiding his eyes.

You patronizing men are all alike, Christi hissed through pursed lips. You think women are just good for the bedroom and that’s all.

Ron never looked up. A faint smile crossed his lips and he heard a whistle come from the other end of the room.

Another voice suddenly shouted, Christi, would you put another log on the fire?

Everyone in the room started laughing.

You bunch of bastards, Christi screamed.

Christi was convinced she had gotten the job on her own merits. She was an excellent skier, had raced all over Colorado ever since she was a child in Colorado Springs. She was in superb physical condition. She felt she was fully capable of doing anything that any of the men could do, even though she was only a petite five feet five inches and one hundred fifteen pounds. She had religiously practiced with the toboggan and was