A man in stretch pants and designer jacket loafed on the sun deck of the ski lodge, sipping a mixed drink. "I tell ya," he enthused, "Skiing's gotta be the best thing since the Niagara adjustable bed." His buddy with the neon headband chimed in, "Man, the exhilaration of pounding down a gnarly, mogul-studded descent... it's just like... Nirvana--not the band, I mean."

The Rastafarian at the next table leaned over, his dreads almost falling into the first guy's mixed drink. "No, man, skiing's not religious. It's mystic." His eyes grew waxy, and he looked to the sky. "Floating through an ocean of white, bounded by towering, majestic mountains... that's just plain ecstasy."

Right then a haggard man with a six-inch long beard and wool pants climbed the stairs to the sun deck. He carried wooden skis over his shoulder, partially obscuring the bear trap bindings. The three babblers hushed in quiet deference. As the mountain man passed, he sighed, but not too reproachfully.

His sigh spoke tomes: beware the Niagara bed gone awry, epileptic; sometimes it is the band, Nirvana, instead of the state of blessedness; and occasionally, but the Rastafarian didn't admit it, one takes a bad trip.

We ventured forth after school on Thursday. Our spirits were high, and we felt a levity in the air that can only come from anticipation of a weekend sans parents. Todd, Hunter, and I opted to miss school on Friday, although only after much deliberation and great reluctance, to enjoy a rollicking three day trip to the snow. On the western front, angry, dark clouds hunkered down, lending a touch of credibility to the weather man's claim that a huge storm was on its way. Concerned parentals warned us several times that we were making a mistake. They begged us to remain in the safety of our homes. "Cowards!" we exclaimed and piled ourselves and our gear into Todd's Suburban. We checked the clock, 6:37 p.m., to get an accurate measure of our total traveling time. Time was crucial, for bragging rights amongst friends and to prove your parents wrong about the delays from traffic and weather they inevitably foresaw. We headed out, titillated by a sense of uncertainty at the beginning of our road trip. Truckee was our destination, a four and half hour trip with parents, sub three and a half with one of my peers at the wheel.

Rain fell steadily during the initial stages of our trek. Slowly it turned to timid, white, powdery snow that scurried in our headlights. After two and a half hours of driving, we came to the town of Applegate, elevation 1800, well into the foothills of the Sierras. No longer dancing in our headlights, the snow had thickened and now assaulted the car in frenzied, wind-driven blasts, engulfing us completely and caking on the windshield. Our headlights formed a kaleidoscopic white tunnel in the falling flakes that mesmerized us as we drove. Attached to an overpass above, a huge sign loomed, reporting, "Road closed to all vehicles at Applegate." Likening our journey to that of the Donner Party, we pushed ahead, dismissing the sign as meant only for heartless ski bunnies. We rolled forth into the driving snow, until we met a burly CHP who personally insured our halt. The white analog hands on the car clock pointed out 9:00 p.m. No speed records were to be broken on this trip.

We pulled into a snow-covered gas station and eventually located a pay phone to call our parents. They laughed smugly. "I told you so" virtually dripped out the receiver on our end. They of course urged us to turn back now, before it was too late.

The thoughts running through our heads were these. If we came home now we'd have to go to school on Friday. Not only that, we'd have to face the laughter of our friends when we told them a little cold weather and some snow flakes had beaten us. We concurred in the impossibility of returning home and went back to the Suburban. After edging into a spot on an overpass along with about thirty other cars, we wasted time.

Round about 1:00 a.m. icicles began forming on our nose hairs, and we decided that a warm motel room sounded very pleasant. Actually, it sounded essential if we wanted to wake up with full usage of our limbs. We weren't the only brilliant travelers with this idea; every motel was full. The harsh red glare of "No Vacancy" signs drowned our spirits as we perused at least six full motels. We headed back dejectedly to our spot on the overpass and tried to get some sleep in the frigid car. Lacking sleeping bags, we managed to endure the cold for thirty minute stretches by putting on all our ski clothes, including hat and boots. When the cold became unbearable we'd crank up the car, blast the heater, and drive around aimlessly until it warmed. Then we'd park and feign sleep for another half hour.

Sometime around 2:30 a.m. intense hunger pangs roused us from our numbness, and we made a trip to the nearest mini-market. Here, Todd and Hunter purchased traditional mini-market delectables, Hostess doughnuts, microwaveable beef and bean burritos, and coke. I opted instead for a turkey and cheese sandwich in a plastic triangle. I think mine had been in the frige for about four months.

With appetites sufficiently sated, we resumed our post on the overpass. The glorious sound of starting engines, like the song of birdcalls at sunrise, awakened us the next morning at about 6:30 a.m. Glory be! I-80 had reopened. We moved out.

Our hearty suburban moved forward doggedly. Snow still fell heavily, obscuring vision. There were no lanes, so we drove in the tracks of the car in front of us to make sure we didn't run off the road. Speed was kept about 15 mph. Sadly after an hour and a half of travel the road closed again.

We passed time making farting sounds with our hands and heaving snowballs at each other, and numerous strangers who crossed our path. Afterwards Hunter and Todd decided to go for a stroll and were reprimanded by an officer of the law for walking on the freeway. They didn't mean to walk on the freeway. They just couldn't tell it was a freeway because everything was covered with three feet of snow. At 10:30 a.m. the CHP decided the highway was safe for four-wheel drive vehicles with snow tires. We were back on the road.

The snow was falling less heavily now, so we were able to maintain a decent speed. Everything went great until about forty yards from our exit. It was here that Todd, for no legitimate reason, merely satisfying his desire for retrospection, decided to look into the rear view mirror for a long time, too long. Oblivious to our impending mishap, Todd steered us off the road and plowed into a snowbank at about forty miles an hour. Hunter and I uttered harsh words about Todd's general inadequacy as we exited the car to check how bad it was. After many long minutes of attempting to free the car, being frustrated, scolding Todd, and drawing entertaining pictures in the snow, we finally got the car out.

We made it all the way up to about two hundred yards from the cabin. Here the evil snow god struck. Thankfully for Todd, it wasn't his fault this time. We were trapped on a patch of ice, and valiant bouts of man against car proved useless. A snow plow just happened by. Pure coincidence, or Divine Providence? We all agreed on the latter. He pushed us out, and then we followed in the wide, grooved tracks left by his enormous snow tires to the cabin. He also plowed the driveway for what at that time we considered a nominal fee, forty bucks.

The hands on the clock had completed their weary rotation to tell us that it was noon on Friday. It had taken us sixteen hours to make a four hour trip.

Once at the cabin we were greeted by monstrous snow drifts--inside the house. Cabin's are supposed to be weatherproof right? That's what my grandpappy, an hoary old man with a white beard, once told me. I guess he lied. To our dismay, snow had been driven by powerful winds through cracks in the doors and windows and piled up in places to a height of over two feet, and it hadn't melted. By simple deduction we concluded that the temperature inside the house was below freezing. Needless to say, the ski clothes stayed on.

Making the house livable again required a fair amount of effort. We shoveled the snowdrifts out of the house. Then we tried to start a fire in the frozen fireplace. The glowing embers of kindling would light, burn feebly for a moment, and slowly fizzle against the frigid steel. So we spent most of the day eating sweet rolls with our ski gloves on. Late in the evening fate begrudged us a fire, so we stoked it heavily and went to bed, looking forward to great powder skiing the next day.

Morning arrived, and we bounced out of bed to see that the snow outside, and inside, had piled even higher, and it was still coming down hard. We were ecstatic. Thoughts of deep powder and no lift lines played through our heads. We donned our goggles and pulled our hats down over our heads like knights armoring up for battle, and then clambered into the car. We waited for the glow plugs to warm and tried the ignition. Ka-chug, kaa-chuug, kaaa-chuuug. The engine struggled to turn over. Apparently the near arctic conditions had frozen the oil and engine fluids. It looked like our tuned ski bottoms were not to christen the slopes of Squaw Valley with perfect figure eights that day, or any designs at all.

My friends and I remained in the car, staring blankly, morbidly ahead, slowly acquiescing the cruel plan that fate had designed for us. Hunter burst into laughter, albeit not of the contagious kind. Smiles crept into the lips of neither Todd nor me, and eventually the mirth left Hunter's face as we stared him down.

The AAA man was the next person to know of our misfortune. He hurried over about three hours later at 1:30 p.m. Had he known what miraculous events we were performing within those three hours, I'm sure he would have rushed over much sooner to spectate.

On the powdery slopes outside the cabin, while frolicking in the snow, Hunter was possessed by an insanely daredevil idea. The generous amounts of snow around our abode had kindly formed what we turned into a ladder that led onto the roof of a house nearby. Maybe fate had more in mind than just not letting us ski that day. For if we had gone skiing we never would have been blessed with the conception of Extreme Sledding. At one corner of the aforementioned roof, we estimated the drop into the depths of snow below at twenty feet. Hunter, face aglow with the potential, suggested that we climb onto the roof and sled off the drop.

Todd and I looked at the drop, then at each other, then, shaking our heads at Hunter's stupidity, watched him pull himself and his sled onto the roof. He struggled up the icy path, much in the manner that a penguin waddles, to the crest, then across to the point above the drop. Camera ready, we waited for Hunter to screw up his courage. He adjusted his goggles, trying to look nonchalant, and prepared to sled off. Next I saw, he was bulleting toward the edge of the roof. His skewed countenance betrayed inner horror as he neared the take off point. Hunter flew in perfect form, sled and body as one, like he'd done it a hundred times. I snapped a picture as he flew and then watched him disappear, gobbled up by the snow.

Todd and I rushed over to where he landed and could see only his arm sticking frailly out of the snow, like a hapless horror-movie victim, not yet completely swallowed. We dug him out slowly, taking pictures at various intervals in the process. Hunter emerged with a look of exaltation on his face.

For a brief moment, the glory was wholly his. He had conquered the roof and was basking in our utter admiration. But soon, I gripped the sled and followed his course up the slippery roof and over to the launch point. I sat there for a moment listening to words of "encouragement" from Todd and Hunter, grins rising on their faces as they began to comprehend the fear I was facing and the impossibility of my escape. For to quit now was worse than to not have attempted it at all. Unable to see the actual drop, my imagination came up with daunting pictures of mangled limbs and bland hospital walls. The visions I conjured began to assault my sense of self-preservation. What if there were rocks beneath the snow? Fear and uncertainty tugged at my common sense, whispering softly, "Better safe than sorry...."

I whispered back, "No guts, no glory" or "he who hesitates is lost" or something like that, tucked my legs into the sled and initiated my descent. Drifting sideways I hit the end of the roof at a near perpendicular angle with a prayer on my lips. I regained composure just in time to "cowboy over the ledge." I flew through the air with the grace of a nosetackle. Amazingly, I landed softly and wasn't eaten by the snow like Hunter. I wouldn't have gotten great marks for technical merit. Sympathy votes might have salvaged my score.

Hunter, Todd, and I scoured the neighborhood for more prospective roofs. We found one more but not nearly of the same caliber as the first. Alas, the neighborhood did not contain the attributes of an Extreme Sledder's heaven.

Eventually the AAA man showed up and started the car. It was too late to ski now, so we frolicked in the snow for awhile longer then went inside. Another storm was coming. Our parents pleaded that we come home. We had proved our manliness; bearing the storm on the way up was enough--no need to take more than our fair share of bravado. Grudgingly, we left our courage in the cabin, relented to parental pressure and went home, although the idea of getting snowed in and missing school nearly enticed us into staying.

Fate had beaten us. Despite our fierce determination and Donner Party stoicism on the way up, we never did get to ski, which we decided was all for the better. The pictures and memories of this trip will last a lifetime, along with the strengthened bonds of friendship that such trips always bring. For me our journey stands as an indelible monument to the companionship and adventure that's as much a part of skiing as boots and poles.

The look of exultation on Hunter's face as we dug him from his hole ranks right up there with days of sparkling blue sky, of puffy gentle flakes floating down into an idyllic, white, tree-beset wonderland, of perfect runs, and unrestrained joy and energy at being in the mountains away from all concerns. Hunter's expression, following his first Extreme Sledding run, had a deep emotional, even spiritual, impact, and brings an enlivened smile to my face whenever I think about it... a lot like the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.

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