March 27-28, 1976
Juggle three skiers, three frame packs, three sets of skis and poles into a Volkswagon Bug. Stop for a half-cooked still-dripping-raw-egg French Toast breakfast. Slowly realize you’re not all that dedicated to eight miles of skiing.
Pamelia Lake becomes Fay Lake instead. No arguments. Wet snow. Red wax. Ski a ways and start slipping. Remove skis. Goop on yellow wax. Like thick molasses. Ski a ways. Hit some powder snow. Stop to scrape off four inches of powder from sticky skis. Try purple wax instead Curse at Tom, whose waxless skis run circles around the others. More slipping going uphill. More sticking going down. Remove skis. Scrape off all old wax. Try blue. No good. Scrape it off, Getting desperate. Only one wax left—green. Put it on. It works! Well, better than the others, anyway. Green on slushy snow? Can’t believe it. Tom whizzes past.
Ski 1½ miles. Decide that’s far enough. After all, skiing is a very demanding sport. Make camp under snow-laden trees. Whump! Avalanches onto tents all night long. Wake up immobilized by pounds of snow. Discover one mangled tent pole.
Jay and I groggily break camp. Tom turns somersaults in the snow. Am tempted to break his skis. Feed camp robbers instead. Big mistake. Appear everywhere—on packs, on skis, on ground, in food bags. “Hey! Get out of my gorp!” Ghastly creatures. Reminiscent of Hitchcock’s “Birds”.
Ski on into Fay Lake, somehow reach it. Amazing. Wax is working perfectly. Good thing. Tom pushes me off skis. I’m up and skiing with a vengeance. Full speed pursuit for 1/8 mile. Finally catch up, breathless. Revenge—at last. Tom picks himself out of snow. Jay catches up—gets in his money’s worth too. Tom gets up again. Agrees to an uneasy truce.
Somehow we stagger back to the car. Nobody lost; no broken legs. Find car hopelessly stuck. Flag down a Highway Department truck to pull us free. Won’t mention that part, though.
The intrepid skiers were: Jay Anderson, Tom Rhodes, and Bert Ewing, the leader.