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West Yellowstone 2004
West Yellowstone 2004 - the Boys from Braintree
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\r\nFifteen passenger vans benefit from momentum. A beast of machine, 6,000 pounds of Michigan muscle, gulps oxygen, burns gallons of gasoline. Soon weight becomes advantage, so long as the road rolls straight into the horizon. The speedometer races past 80, 90 miles an hour before settling into a steady 93. Scrub, sage and gas stations advertising Crispy Crème donuts flash by. Four-lane interstates - got to love them. No better way to go from place to place without ever seeing anything.
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\r\nNo matter. Seasons change. And just as orchard buds blossom, then months pass before harvest, ski preparation begins in early spring. As summer expires, aspen groves turn from green to gold. Some years snow comes early. An October ski season is in the cards. Other years it’s not until December hometown snow begins to fly. Among cross-country ski circles, though, there is one constant – fall camp in West Yellowstone, Montana.
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\r\nLike opening day of big league baseball, the twelve-day Thanksgiving pilgrimage to Montana is special. These are the times for giddy, loud talking high school skiers to sling snowballs, and chase each other along logging-roads-turned-ski-trails. It’s a time to see fresh faces from the collegiate circuit, universities luring overseas talent in search of NCAA hard wear. On trail master blasters chug by, chasing shadows. Still crazy, still loving skiing and life, after all these years.
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\r\nFirst days skiing are a lesson in humility. Skating skis feel like ten-foot planks. Rocketing downhill, instead of arcing corners, I pick a line and ride it out, never quite in control, just holding on. Reckless. Unstable. Invigorating.
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\r\nNot as invigorating, though, as meeting old friends, sharing stories and a few laughs, out on the trails. First I run into New Englander Ethan Foster. Within minutes, banter settles on BoSox baseball with conversation closing with an unforgettable line. “Who else, really does a white guy have to look up to than Curt Schilling, George Bush or Earnhardt Jr. these days?” Foster’s mantra could surely be, “I come from VerMONT. Back home we do what we WANT.” Perhaps his wallet has a picture of his girlfriend but there certainly is one of his 1988 Chevy Truck, complete with 35” SuperSwampers and nine-inch lift. One sweet truck.
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\r\nNordic combiner Billy Demong keeps the Red Sox vibe rolling. “So get this, its game Seven of the ALCS. We roll to Yawney Ave. then saddle up right behind Green Monster, the real estate where balls land when Ortiz sends them 400 plus feet. The city is breathing and exhaling with every strikeout or base hit. Eventually we get into this little alleyway where cars can park for like 12 bucks. The parking attendants got this bootleg tv tied to a rope, set atop a milk crate. Along with two cops on horseback, we watch the game on the fuzzy green tv screen. Networks show the game on three-second delay, so we could tell what went down with the pitch even before he threw it. It was mad cold.
\r\n“The big Texan takes the mound for the Sox. Sausage vendors and kids with little radio antennas are jumping up and down, praying ‘one more out, one more out.’ Out of nowhere a phalanx of riot brigade police roll onto the scene. They are dressed to the T in all black hit squad gear from helmets and billy clubs. Some swing the billy clubs like they're getting ready to step up to the plate. The master sergeant walks along one side of the two columns of soldiers, giving orders through a bull horn. Just pounding that thee foot club repetitively into his black gloved hand. Thump, Thump, thump. He gives command to stop and take position- right in front of gate C. Soon 46,000 will be pouring out this gate into the streets of Fenway.
\r\n“The penned up crowd inside the park want this game over so the pillage can begin. It’s rally time in Fenway and Eminem's 8 Mile song comes on over the loud speakers. I'm not that much a fan of Slim Shadey, but at this particular moment, the combination of music and riot ready atmosphere was almost too much to handle.
\r\n“I'm running along side the shock troopers as they march into position. The storm trooper’s heavy duty soled boots all stomping in unison. I sprint ahead to get a full on shot. A keepsake from the night, you know? Swing by my place. I have a copy for you.”
\r\nThe pictures captured the moment. But not more than the story. Living out of a suitcase, testing skis and tendonitis might get old, all occupational hazards of ski racing but I’ll never tire of the stories or times spent along the trails with my friends.
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Written By: TKoosDate Posted: 12/8/2004Number of Views: 238
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