We were somewhere near Barrier at the edge of the mountains when the drugs began to take hold. I remember Dr. Goldfinger saying something like "I feel a little light headed; maybe you should drive". We were pointing north, on the road again, heading for Clearwater, a small caravan of trucks, sleds and desperate skiers looking for deep snow in an abysmal winter. Three serious men on a serious journey to the heart of the Canadian dream. Powder. We needed it and were willing to do what ever it took. Early mornings, long drives, expensive sleds and hours of trail
breaking, all par for the Powder Warden course. We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescalin, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multi-coloured uppers and downers, laughers and screamers. Also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum and a pint of raw ether. Like I said, serious men.
The drive and sled ride went by like they never happened. Who knows, maybe they didn't. We found ourselves deep in Spahats creek, Dr.
Goldfinger breaking trail through a foot of fresh followed by Rex and Wolfgang, heading for parts unknown. You sometimes need to hoe a new row if you want to harvest good crop. We climbed into the clouds for 1500 feet where the first order of business was to get rid of the skins and choose a line. We decided on down. You can't make the turns happen, you have to let them happen. And happen they did, down down, past a nice steep bowl that figured prominently late in the day. Down down, turning and jumping through the old growth 'til the forest spat us out, legs spent, onto the logging road.
Re-grouping for a quick bite and a snort from the salt shaker, we attached climbing skins, and commenced with the second climb. 800 feet into it, we came upon the entrance to a steep, narrow chute dumping into a small bowl. Room for only one, Wolfgang volunteered to do the deed and check out the avy conditions by skiing the 45 degree line. Goldfinger and Femorous found their own lines. Fortunately, the stability agreed with our test pit and only mild sloughing occurred. Down through the trees again and we start up for run #3.
On the way up we cross a large slope that is begging like a fat man in a pie shop without his wallet, to be skied. Rex scoped his line, and Wofgang slashed four quick turns down to document it for the blog. As Rex enters the view finder he is looking good, but it is soon evident that not all is well, as a tip dives, a groin is stretched, and three or four cartwheels are executed in pure Powder Warden style! All captured for you greasy, unwashed heathens to behold. It had to be the ether. Rex had been acting suspicious at the last break, and had soaked his balaclava in the vile substance and had been breathing deeply for the last 45 minutes It is a wonder that he was ambulatory at all, never mind able to ski!
We still had to skin back up to the top in order to be able to ski back to the sleds. The coke was wearing off, and Wolfgang was very weary. He settled in to strange state of semi- consciousness and slowly meandered up the skin track in pursuit of Goldfinger who had discovered a sweet chute that dumped out into big open bowl. Diving into the best run of the day, it seemed that the Powder Wardens had stumbled into the very beating heart of the Canadian dream! When we got to the sleds, our hearts were filled with joy. We felt like monster reincarnations of Horatio Alger, Men on the Move, just sick enough to be totally confident.
