Ass, Cash, or Grass by SBC Skier

Ass, Cash or Grass

Skiers reclaim the old-school ski adventure. text Leah Evans, Cody Haggard, Izzy Lynch :: photos Amy McDermid, Justin Dersham, Cory Leis Leah Evans had a crazy idea to reclaim the ultimate old-school ski adventure by forcing herself and friends to have one. That sounded like a pissing contest to us. Next thing we knew three teams were ready to do battle: an all-female squad was up against a male counterpart and an equipe co-ed. Each team included a photographer to capture the mayhem generated by being forced to start in the same location—Charlie’s Diner in Salmo, B.C.—with the same survival pack stuffed with a $300 stake, a treasure-hunt style list of stuff to do, and a random direction, they would have to lead off for at least 40 kilometres before turning toward the ultimate destination of Revelstoke. Once in Revelstoke, the teams would present a slideshow to be MCed by local ginger mountain man Joe Lammers and judged by a panel of their peers with the gathering, naturally, erupting into a massive celebration. We don’t remember how this all got worked out. And we have no idea what the title of this article actually means. But it’s as a good a name for a contest as any contributor has ever dreamt up so it stands. What follows are frontline reports from each team: remember, these are skiers, not writers, so they tell it like it is. Ish.

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Dersham photo

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Ass, Cash or Grass

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Victorious Secret by Izzy Lynch McDermid photo

blonde, a brunette and a redhead meet in Salmo. They call themselves Victorious Secret… Except it isn’t a joke: there’s Amy McDermid, a chirpy redheaded photographer from Whistler; Zoya Lynch, a (dirty) blonde who can usually be tracked following the snow between her mom’s house in Whistler and that of her brunette “big sister” (me) in Revelstoke by the valuables left along the way. The ski season is winding down and we’re giddy over the idea of some lateseason goodness. We open our survival pack and read our compass fortune: “Castlegar.” We pack our last meals in our bellies and are sent on our way by an enthusiastic waitress named Nancy, clad in high-wasted jeans [ed: the writer may have meant “high-waisted,” but since this is the Kootenays we won’t assume anything] and a freshly permed mullet. Stepping outside it seems fate is on our side—our chariot awaits. A van with ample room and sweet-smelling smoke seeping from the doors sits idling. Izzy sidles up to the driver and asks if he’d mind taking us on a quick jaunt to Castlegar. No sooner does he open the back door than we’re shoved out of the way as the boys team clambers in.

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“Nice try girls! This is our ride!” The door slams and the smoke is replaced with cackling laughter, a backfire, and black exhaust in our faces. As the dust settles we stand in disbelief, incredulous at the boys’ shamelessness and nose-thumbing at the spirit of the event. We sure as hell haven’t prearranged any rides. We drag our stuff to the highway wondering where we’ll sleep that night and stick out our thumbs. To our delight the first hitch comes easily [ed: Three girls. Surprised to get a ride. In the Kootenays. Prepare to suspend disbelief.]. A 19-year-old truck salesman named Jesse loads our skis into his shiny Ford without hesitation. Something seems peculiar about how assured he is that we would take his ride and, after interrogation, he blushes and admits to being the son of our mulleted waitress. Nancy is apparently notorious for trying to find her son a pretty and adventurous girlfriend, tipping him off that three ladies would be prowling the highway for a ride. Snow is in the forecast for Nelson and despite the long way home for him, Jesse drops us there. We dial up some long-lost friends and find an air mattress fit for three. We roll into Whitewater Ski Resort the next morning on one of the

deepest days of the year. Amy hurries over to guest services and chats our way into lift tickets and a VIP food card in return for a pack of dunkaroos and some rocket candy from our survival pack. Good trade. We ride bell-to-bell fueled by local stoke and Whitewater’s famous granola bars. It’s a repetition of faceshots, long slackcountry laps, bottomless landings, high fives, and seven separate invitations to liftie Steve’s birthday party that night. Night has fallen when we return to home base where we refuel with the famous homemade curry of our gracious host Nigel. After dinner, we head to the local legion hall to start the night with a round of boilermakers. To our surprise we find the co-ed team already chugging cheap draft infused with CC whiskey. We hang for a bit with some legion boys then rally the troops. The birthday party is rockin’ and the ski bums join the dance floor and infiltrate the Jenga table, reminiscing about the day with WH20 staff. Word at the party is that Mary Woodward is the legend to meet in these parts (a checkmark on our “to-do” list). The oldest female shredder on the mountain at age 75 and head of a ski gang called the Silver Sliders, Mary has a reputation for uncountable daily vert in “backsides” (aka Road Laps). We find a phonebook, get Mary on the line and setup a date for pre-ski coffee.

McDermid photo

Izzy Lynch at Whitewater, B.C. McDermid photo

We roll into Whitewater Ski Resort the next morning on one of the deepest days of the year.

Next morning, over a strong brew, Mary tells us that she has been in Nelson 30 years and has ski passes to prove it. She even has her own parking spot at the mountain. “I’m a peak bagger” she says. “On my 70th birthday I climbed Mt. Loki and on my 76th I hope to summit Mt. Begbie.” Halfway through our coffees she mentions that the rest of the Silver Sliders (Joan Harvie and Bud Stovel) are probably waiting at the hitching spot so we best be on our way. We spend a good part of the day checking out Mary’s favourite backside lines along with her grandson and Joan. Mary skis faultlessly through the trees and we attempt to imitate her smooth technique. A true soul skier, she tells us she loves being out here all alone in the mountains. As we collapse at the end of our final run, Mary hugs each of us and whispers “Whitewater is freedom.” Exhausted, it’s time to start the journey north. Nineteen hours, five hitches, one bus, naked hot tub, sleep in a Dome hotel, ferry ride, Revelstoke. Along the way we’ve sacrificed a camera, cellphone, wallet and two of Zoya’s ski poles, leading us to walk into the Modern Bakeshop with a collective sense of defeat. We order all the comfort food and coffee we can afford and pour the remainder of our survival budget on the counter. We indulge silently for a few moments until, one by one, we explode into delirious laughter. Our token blonde has lost every valuable she owns, our stench is toxic and we’ve become so accustomed to the threeway spoon that it’s hard to imagine sleeping in a bed by ourselves. But, if the quality of our trip is determined strictly by how many times we’ve laughed until we peed our pants, then we were truly Victorious.

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BoysWill be Boys by Cody Haggard

Pierrot Bernier. Leis photo

t a large table in a small town, I listen to friendly shit talk and alleged plans coming from the other teams. Dinner finishes, the banter and laughter subside to a dull roar. Our survival pack sends us east to Trail. Outside is our first ride, Peter Greene and his cohort Joy Flemke. For some reason the ladies team think they might share but, alas… no more room. Pete drives a 15-passenger van that’s, well, personalized. The seats in the back have been replaced with a fully functioning Hookah Lounge complete with hammock, cushions, and Dance Mix ’93. We smoke and tell lies all the way to Trail, where we take some pictures before carrying on to a warm welcome in Rossland. We put up at the Severin (Mike, Steph and John) house on the pay-yalata program. There’s a lot of love and baking floating around, but before they let us eat anything, Pete and Joy take us to the Rossland “late-night market,” a.k.a. a dumpster! We do pretty good, finding peppers, parsnips, bags of chips, zucchini… and a plethora of stuff you couldn’t eat.

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The 6:30 a.m. alarm comes early next morning, but it’s easy to wake up to the nice home-cooked dumpster breakfast. Snow starts falling so we get our stuff ready, say bye to the gang and head up to the hitchin spot by the Ol’ Steamshovel Pub. We haven’t even put our gear down to hoist a thumb when a pretty woman pulls her truck over and offers us a ride. Getting up to Red Mountain always

feels good on a weekday even if it’s blowing a gale and there’s no light for photos. We hook passes up, ski the coolers a couple laps then get after it on Mt. Roberts—short hike, long run, great snow. I drop my heated mitt down a chute and off a cliff. Then Rosie tries to throw me his gloves and they both fall to the same end. Getting off the resort super late we have to hike out, but hitching back to town

Cody Haggard. Leis photo

Leis photo

We haven’t even put our gear down to hoist a thumb when a pretty woman pulls her truck over and offers us a ride. proves just as easy as getting here. We have to be in Ymir to meet Trevor Holsworth of Wild Horse Cat Skiing at 7 p.m., so we do what any sane Canadian would do in a rush... head to the legion hall for a broilermaker [ed: this isn’t the drink they were supposed to have. #fail], and a game of pool with a vet who kicks my ass. Then it’s back to the Severin house where we pack and trade a one-pound chocolate bunny for a headlamp. My friend Mike Hopkins agrees to drive us to Ymir (pronounced why-my-here). On the way he buys us Tims coffee and a Timbit to split three ways. After we meet with Trevor in Ymir, we ask Mike if

he’ll drive an extra half hour to the sled rickshaw. But like most adventures in the bush, if you’re late or on a timeline at all someone’s gonna get stuck… like us. Mike’s truck has punched through the soft snow on the shoulder and we end up watching Trevor’s taillights driving away. Soon enough the truck’s unstuck and we’re off. The homemade snowmobiledrawn rickshaw, although questionable looking, proves to be the draft horse of the operation and carries us safely to the cabin by 11:30 p.m. We get settled and immediately head out into the cold starry night and start shooting. We wake to a beautiful sunny morning. After skinning an hour to the peak and digging a pit (to confirm the horrible avalanche conditions) another storm rolls in. Thankfully there’s no shortage of tree skiing. At the bottom, Trevor offers to drive us to Nelson; we buy him dinner and a beer at the Ymir Hotel/art gallery. In Nelson, my sister Bobbi is unaware that she’s about to give us a two-and-a-

half-hour drive to the Galena Bay ferry to Revelstoke. She agrees with minimal “I owe you big-time” on my part. Leaving Nelson at 8:30 p.m., we rip it trying to make the 10:30 ferry but just miss it. We say thanks and goodbye and wait the hour for the next ferry. Thankfully, Mike Shaver was still waiting in Revie, beer in hand, ready to drive us to his casa for the night. We hit the hay at 2:30 a.m. It’s egg on toast in the morning. Mike left us his van for the day so we head to the resort, score some passes and get after it. Our last day proves to be the best. Finally we got what we were looking for—sunny and deep. With tired eyes and big smiles we descend the mountain and head for the Great White North Pub. After three and a half days of doing what felt like everything humanly possible except eating or drinking water, we’re at the finish line, beers in hand, laughing and telling stories. Thanks to everyone involved and everyone who helped us along the way—pay-ya-lata!

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RapUp T

he pen scribbles “We would pick you up!” onto a tattered piece of cardboard pilfered from the Charlie’s Diner dumpster. There we are: three ski bums, three eager thumbs out in hopes of making it to our recently predetermined destination, Nelson. Our feet dance on the pavement to warn off cooling temperatures and to celebrate that the sun has already transitioned into moon. The street light becomes the only beacon of hope in our official exodus from Salmo. Feasting on second-hand smoke and an endless river of coffee, it dawns on us that we need a soundtrack for our trip, the hiphop lyrics immediately streaming in:

With our bags packed, starting in Salmo. The other team left, it was time to go. Dinner over, we were on the street In three days time we had to meet. Our goal was to hitch to Nelson. Checklist in hand to start the mission. $300 bucks, bags and skis. Thumbs up on the road… pick us up please!

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by Leah Evans Leis photo

In our deliriously sleepy state we slump down at the bus stop only to re-read the schedule and realize we have missed the bus. Leis photo

Our rapping attracts a thunderous Ford F350 driven by local Sean. The warm cab thaws our chilled hitching thumbs as we cruise to Mike’s Pub located square in the heart of Nelson. We walk in, sprawl out our ski stuff and, just like clockwork, sit down with a collection of Nelson powderhounds. Amongst these diehard locals is old-time friend Ralphie (a.k.a. Bryan Ralph) who offers us an archaic couch to rest our heads for the night. Wiping ski-bum residue [ed: we have as little idea about this substance as you do] from our tired eyes we quickly slim down our backpacks and follow our nose to the nearest food source. We purchase only items on sale, including some questionable bagels priced at $.99 for a package of 10. Jacked with carbohydrates, our thumbs perk high as we wave down a familiar “homey” van belonging to Colorado Casey. We pile in and motor up to Whitewater Ski Resort. A quick goggle reflection appearance check later [ed: no idea what this means], we approach guest services for lift tickets only to be informed that the girls team is already relentlessly ticking off items on their checklist. Lift tickets in hand, Dersh (aka Justin Dersham), our photographer, puts down a rhythmic beatbox to fuel our two-day checklist task at WH2O:

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Allistar MacDonald, 80 years old, Skiing for a lifetime, stories he told. 300 meters up, where do we go? Kirk Jensen’s the legend that found us some snow. Big-Mountain skiers gots to freestyle, Jumpin’ shacks, tappin trees. Put that on file! Spread Eagles and crotch grabs, Doing them in tandem, Oh shit we can’t land ’em! Yo, Leah… I heard there’s new snow, Avy Conditions, whadda ya know? Hey Tats. just got done digging a pit, Shovel and probe, this shit is legit. Black diamonds on a snowboard? Don’t you worry, We made it down in a hurry. Down the hill, off the snow, Back to town, we had to go. Ski bummin’ ain’t easy, but with friends it’s nice, Peter Velisek cooked up salmon and rice. After dinner and full of rum, We ditched our clothes and showed some bum. The tub was hot... We damn near got caught... By the lady in the kitchen washing a pot! That ain’t it, that ain’t all, Stills got to crash the legion hall. Four boilermakers down the hatch, Oh shit, there’s the girls team on our tracks!

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Leis photo

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With the checklist completed, one day left for travel, and over $200 left in our mission budget, our little trio enjoys a plethora of celebratory drinks at our adopted homebase, Mike’s Place. Energy is riding high, quickly moving throughout the bar; we even convince a WH2O employee, Hailey, to tag along for the last leg of our journey. Two in the morning rang true, and we left the pub, Hailey agreeing to meet us in three hours at the crack of dawn to catch a free shuttle to Slocan city. Nearly five in the morning, in our deliriously sleepy state we slump down at the bus stop only to re-read the schedule and realize we have missed the bus. Almost instantaneously, a minivan taxi driver rolls down his window and hollers, “When is the article going to be out?”

Dale, our new friend from the Nelson Canadian Legion urges us to pile into his taxi so he can drive us to the hitchhiking spot on the outskirts of town. Bidding us farewell and casting us a good-luck hitchhiking spell, rides come easy all the way to Revelstoke. Just outside Nakusp, on our sixth ride of the day, Dersh feverishly asks Kate (a local welder and artist) “to smoothly slow down and pull over.” There, perched on the roof of the van is Dersh’s camera. As we stroll into Revelstoke, the last rhythms slipped from our smiling mouths: At the end of the trip, We were tired and broke. Some powerstances later, We had bummed to Revelstoke! ×