It was all very hush-hush covert kind of stuff. He didn’t
know what to make of it at first, but later it became frighteningly
clear.
Thai take-out trash and pizza boxes littered the floor of his
apartment. A week ago he had received a strange phone call.
It had been brief and to the point.
“Hello,” he said with late evening attitude.
“Is this the fancy-boy writer man from the snowboard magazine?”
He thought it was one of his brothers’ tricks.
“Yes,” he said hesitantly.
“Well, we got a story for you, writer-boy. Endless pow,
sleddin’, shreddin’, you name it. 5,000 square miles
of paradise and it’s all ours, baby. Ain’t nobody
ever seen it and nobody’s gonna. Except you and yer little
camera. We’ll call you in exactly one week. Be ready to
leave at once.”
And that was it. Rumors
had been circulating around his town over the last few years.
A band of rogues, outlaws and ex-pro’s had staked a claim
on a huge chunk of real estate in the British Columbia interior
near the Alberta border. He had heard various second and third-hand
reports. “It’s sort of an anti-government, Jonestown
type thing,” someone said.
“They’re gay rednecks who had to retreat far away
to get the peace they so desired.”
At the root, it seemed to make sense. Many old pro’s have
come and gone through the centrifuge of the Canadian snowboard
scene. But where did they go? No one he knew could answer that
question, not even the wise old man who pumped gas. People just
seemed to disappear into a vortex of post-celebrity burnout.
Or were they burnouts in post celebrity?
The phone rang early one evening. A 25 year smoker voice grumbled:
“Listen up boy, we’re all real tired of them big city
punks gettin’ shots in them fancy magazines. The Man says
you can come out here. We’re ready for you now. If you
want yerself a real story, you’ll git yer ass down here.
We can show you how it’s really done. Life’s worth
livin’, son. Real people. Fuckin’ rights....”
The instructions were simple. Drive 8 hours into the interior
of British Columbia. Stop at the gas station at Roger’s
Pass on Highway 1. At exactly 9:15 a.m., order a black coffee
from the attendant. Walk outside and spill it on your crotch.
Yell “OH HOLY MOTHER OF TRINITY MY FREAKIN’ LOINS
ARE BURNING!” and proceed to roll in the snowbank.”
It sounded dodgy. Even sketchy. Perhaps a little dangerous.
He had heard worse from his journalism buddies’ wartime
experience.
The drive was long and difficult into the BC interior. If he
drove all night, he could be there with a couple hours to spare.
He couldn’t help but squeal like a choir boy after Sunday
worship. Four years ago, he had caught wind of the reclusive
group of snowboard gurus. The idea fascinated him, being far
from the maddening crowds of ultra-rich wannabe’s, free
from the groms clinging like sucker-fish. It would be a private
oasis, a white, fluffy heaven. A place to let your snowboarding
fame die a warrior’s death. Valhalla for the true shredders.
Feeling it in his deepest pockets, he realized that this was
a major leap of faith. He would be disappearing into the evergreen
forests of some unknown mountains with a bunch of David Coresh
types on snowmobiles. Beside the empty fruit bowl that his mother
had brought him from Mexico, he had left a letter to his loved
ones on the kitchen table. Danger was his co-worker. His loved
ones would understand.
Driving is a lonely, introspective experience. His thoughts
were wildly all over the board. He thought about ex-girlfriends.
He thought about people with office jobs. Were the questions
on ABC’s “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” getting
harder or was he losing it? Which life experiences were specifically
responsible for his destiny? The thoughts came like the dotted
lines on the highway under his headlights. The moon was full.
Along several straight stretches, he turned off his headlights,
drove slowly and surveyed the nightscape. A faux sense of Zen
came over him. This was the closest he could come to stealthiness.
He once heard a story about a Japanese millionaire who rented
luxury sports cars in various locales around the world and drove
the greatest highways with only night vision goggles.
He knew there must be a central figure in the group, some sort
of catalyst, alpha male or silverback. Every species has their
own group dynamics, hierarchy and the like. That week after
the first call, he had done his homework. Several conclusions
seemed almost certain: they were mobilized, decentralized, self-sufficient
and organized. And they had to have funding from somewhere.
But from where and how? Reclusive and isolated, they were probably
suspicious of outsiders. Possibly paranoid and most likely armed.
Their numbers had grown over the past several years. Other than
those suspicions, little was known. He had tapped every one
of his sources.
There was one question that had the hamster in the wheel working
overtime as he drove. “Why me?” he thought. Why had
they chosen him? He was a half-ass freelance writer with no
strong affiliations. Plus, he had a predilection for bad luck.
What was the purpose of his visit? Why had they now decided
to allow an outsider in their midst? The unknown is always a
distraction. He was only miles away now, but his eyelids felt
heavy. The blackness of night had turned to the grayish blue
of pre-dawn. The morning sun would return his sanity and shed
light on the mysteries ahead.
The caffeine was no longer working, so he switched to the sub-zero
technique. Opening all the windows, he froze himself awake.
Something had been growing inside of him for the past few hours.
At first, he couldn’t place the feeling and shrugged it
off. But he was close now, and whatever it was could not be
ignored. Was it arrival anxiety? No. Probably just fatigue.
No. He knew the feeling. It was like being alone in an elevator
or driving past a cop. He felt like he was writing an exam in
a gymnasium with 300 other kids. Was he being watched? It wasn’t
possible. The sensation of connectedness with the unknown grew
more powerful as he drove. He felt an Obi Won, Jedi-type force
in his presence. There was no hesitation or fear within him.
All he could do was push onward.
A man awakens to the first sunny day in over a week. The cabin
is lit by the early morning sun coming through the front windows.
Dust particles sparkle in the beams of light as he shuffles
out of his bed in the early morning cold. Wind whistles under
the old wood door, hitting his toes with the chill of death
and loneliness. Standing, he goes to the door and puts on his
heavy wool jacket. He opens the door and the cold air hits him
full force. The air has dropped ten degrees overnight. Outside,
the crisp and light snow blinds him momentarily. His pupils
contract, compensating for the whiteness. The dry air burns
his nostrils and he coughs as it enters his lungs. He pulls
a cigarette from the pack in his chest pocket and smokes for
a few moments, his eyes searching for signs, his mind searching
for patterns.
When he was a younger man, he also searched for signs. But those
were signs of a different kind and the search was more innocent.
At that time, his thoughts were on life and not on death.
He hides his hands in the deep coat pockets below his waist.
The smoke from his lungs is pushed away before crossing his
lips. A small, snowy tornado blows just to the edge of the cabin
corner, spinning close to the splitting axe which leans against
the woodpile. It had taken him almost the entire summer to stock
the pile. He grabs the ax and quickly chops a few pieces for
the fire. Flicking his cigarette into the snow, he goes back
inside. The stove heats the coffee pot as he adds another log
to the fire. He rubs his hands to warm them. “It’ll
be warmer by noon,” he thinks. “Maybe today he will
come.” The
fall had come late this year and did not last very long. The
rains were not as heavy. The rapid change from summer to winter
had caught a lot of people off-guard, but he had seen it coming.
He was ready. All he had to do now was wait. When the temperatures
dropped, the snows had flown frequently and heavily. Some days
he didn’t leave the cabin. He remained inside, smoking
and cooking venison stew. The hunt would begin soon enough and
he could wait as long as necessary.
Often, he would venture out into the evergreen forest when the
clouds were lofty and the light was good. His first kill had
come last month, when he had taken the ridge down to the valley
floor before the snows had become too thick. A lone 4 point
buck was quietly munching on what grasses were left when he
had taken it with one skillful shot.
There was nothing spectacular about the death. He had not needed
to chase it. The buck had not suffered a death full of panic,
fear and desperation. It had fallen where it was feeding. A
brief moment between bliss and death. It fell, unmoving, hitting
the shallow snow before the echo from the gunshot could be swallowed
by the vastness of the landscape.
The sun was just over the eastern mountains. The warm rays amplifying
through the windshield woke him up. It was 8 a.m. A few hours
of rest was all he had been able to get. His forehead was sweaty,
his mouth dry. He looked around and saw a gas station in the
middle of a huge mountain valley. The peaks were steep and rocky.
The lower trees were stripped with slide paths. The snow seemed
somehow different. Whiter. Lighter.
An hour to kill. He bought a coffee and a Rice Krispy Square
from the gas station. It was cold this morning, but he remained
outside and paced around his truck. The hot coffee felt so good.
It hardly mattered that it tasted like the insoles of his skate
shoes. Spinning around 360 degrees, he could now see the true
greatness of the landscape. A late season snow had fallen recently,
accenting the view like a set of diamond cuff links on an Armani
suit. He thought about the geography of the place. In all directions
there was access to different mountain ranges. Purcells, Columbia,
Rockies, Monashees. Where would they take him? It had to be
remote. North. The least populated. The Caribous? South? The
Purcells. Too many National Parks. Maybe they were poaching.
West? No. East? Alberta? Birthplace of the Redneck. Seemed possible.
He smiled at the cleverness of this meeting point as he climbed
back in the truck for a final gear check.
Sitting there in the cab, he felt lethargic. His head bobbed
like a newborn. It was a couple minutes after nine. He needed
to wake up before meeting his hosts. A splash of water on his
face, an order of coffee. He did the thing and was off. He walked
into the gas station store again and noticed a few cars and
a van parked on the side. He got the bathroom key from the attendant
and went to the bathroom. The cars were all empty and looked
like they hadn’t been driven since September. The van however,
was newer, a raised 4x4. It was windowless, something which
added to his suspicion.
The water from the bathroom tap was painfully cold. He was definitely
awake. He stared into the dull mirror as he had done before
in moments of quiet reflection such as these. He felt nervous
and unsure. A bad combo. Something deeper told him to stay calm
and trust his instincts. He grabbed some paper towels and stuffed
them into his underpants to protect himself from the scalding
coffee. The moment was at hand.
When he entered the store again, he noticed a thin man with
a ten gallon hat and sunglasses reading magazines from the top
row. He approached the clerk at the counter, trying to look
casual.
“Could I have a coffee please. Black,” he said extra
loudly.
The clerk flinched a little as he spoke. The man reading porn
first thing in the morning coughed. He grabbed his coffee and
prepared himself for contact. He paused before the door. This
was a moment, after which his life would never be the same.
He was conscious of this fact and felt a pull to get on with
it. He opened the door to go outside and the blinding sunlight
hit him full force. Before he could see anything, he felt a
shoulder hit his right arm. Pain surged. He felt hot coffee
burn his hand.
“What the fuck!” he shouted forgetting his instructions
completely.
“Omigod! I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” It was
a female voice. He turned to look at her. She was a vision.
Auburn hair down to her ass. Sharp nose and small, round green
eyes of concern. Suddenly, he remembered the instructions. He
poured the coffee onto his lap spastically. The girl looked
at him in astonishment. Her concern turned into utter confusion.
“OH HOLY MOTHER OF TRINITY MY FREAKIN’ LOINS ARE BURNING,”
he screamed into her face. The paper towel had done little to
stop the flow of burning coffee to his unit. He looked down
and saw a huge wet spot . It looked like he had peed on himself.
The girl turned quickly and went inside the store looking back
through the door. She watched him run to a snow bank, grab snow
and rub it on his crotch. He looked at her from across the pumps.
Her face crinkled with bewilderment. He wanted to call out to
her and explain. If only they had met under different circumstances.
The pain was beginning to subside when a van pulled in front
of him, blocking his view. The door opened. It was dark inside
but looked comfortable. A bearded man jumped out and grabbed
him. Another man forced a cloth bag over his head. They spun
him around, counted to ten and threw him into the van.
He could feel his hot coffee breath filling the bag as the van
began to move. It seemed to do a series of evasive maneuvers.
He was dizzy from all the spinning. The erratic driving caused
him to roll about the floor of the van. It was obvious that
they were trying to disorient him. “What’s
going on?” he demanded. “Is this the way you treat
your VIPs?”
“Shut yer mouth fancy-boy. The Man will tell you everything
when you git there.” The voice had a serious tone. He should
not question them.
“What about my stuff? My equipment? My film? My Rolaids?”
he said, ignoring better judgment. He felt a swift kick in the
back just above his kidneys.
“I could do that all day,” another voice said. “You
shut yer mouth. Got it?”
He did not respond.
“Good,” said the voice. He squirmed to get comfortable.
He felt vulnerable to say the least. It had all happened so
fast. He tried to sit up but found it better to stay on his
back. He could see nothing. All he could hear were the sounds
of the van travelling at high speed. His eyes got heavy and
he was soon asleep.
He awoke with a start. The van was bouncing around and rattling
horribly. Several unforgiving objects hit his body. A rush of
heat went over his whole body. He had no idea how long he had
been asleep. They were definitely on some sort of access road,
probably an old logging road. But where? He sat up. The bumpy
road was making him queasy.
“Lookie here boys. If it ain’t Sleepin’ Beauty,”
said one of the voices.
“You got a perty mouth,” another said as they all
chuckled.
He was getting worried. He was hungry and he had to pee.
“Not much further now boy,” someone said, seeming
to read his thoughts.
He tried to relax and prepare himself for the unknown. Who was
this “Man” they kept referring to? What sort of leader
was he dealing with? A Canadian Kadafi? The unknown leader of
an unknown army in an unknown place for an unknown reason. That
much he knew.
The van stopped abruptly. The doors opened and he was pulled
out. He felt snow up to his knees. The sun warmed his back.
“Close yer eyes,” one of them told him.
“I have a bag on my head,” he responded with irritation.
“Suit yerself smart guy,” and the sac was pulled violently
from his head. He squealed as the intense light hit his eyes.
Someone pushed him from behind. He stumbled, falling into the
snow. A chorus of laughter surrounded him.
“If you wanna survive here, you best do whatchyer told.”
He looked up to see the outline of a thin mid-twenties man with
little hair. His eyes blinked uncontrollably and teared heavily.
He looked around. The others seemed to be preparing for something.
“This is where you start. Can you ride?” the young
man said pointing to his left. He saw several dark snowmobiles
lined up.
“Yeah,” he answered. He stood up.
“Here,” the young man said handing him a pair of goggles,
a helmet, and gloves. “Let’s ride.”
He dawned the goggles and saw his surroundings for the first
time. Large alpine bowls as far as he could see. Peaks and valleys.
No clouds today. His brain screamed for his camera.
“My camera?” he asked.
“Waiting for you.” The answer was almost drowned out
from the first sled starting. Soon they were all fired up. Gasoline
and two-stroke oil mixed in the air. He was awake now. Ahead
lay a wide cat track. Behind him, the van sat parked at the
edge of a rough, snowy road. The first two sleds took off. Another
motioned for him to go. He hit the throttle and almost fell
off from the power. This certainly had more horsepower than
his 700 at home. The track had a fresh layer of 25 centimeters.
The cold air on his face felt good. He was alive. He felt no
fear. He was in their hands now.
They rode for half an hour or so before stopping at the bottom
of a steep climb.
“Do you feel confident?” the young man shouted at
him.
“About what?” he shouted back.
“Can you make it up that hill?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t think. Do,” the young man pointed. “Go.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Up there, to see the Man.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“You will,” said the young man with a smile. “You
will. Ride to the top of the ridge and stop. Drop into the bowl
below and aim for the lonely tree at the bottom.”
“Then what?” he asked.
“You’ll see.” He
hesitated for a moment and looked around at the other riders.
All eyes hidden were behind identical mirrored goggles, with
identical white helmets. Like a James Bond movie. No one spoke.
All engines were silent except his. He scooped his line up the
face. It was definitely on the limit of his ability. He tightened
his grip and hit the gas. The snow got deep quickly, but the
powerful machine ate it up as if it were hardpack. His track
started to angle right. It did not matter, because the ridge
was close. At the crest of the hill, he punched the gas an extra
bit launching him into a wheelie and over the top. It was a
triumphant moment for him. The sled slowed to a stop in the
deep snow as the ridge flattened. He looked back and saw the
others below. He thought they looked unimpressed, but it was
hard to tell with the helmets on. Ahead was a wide bowl with
an elevated island and a tree in the middle. The slopes were
at a low angle, about as close to flat as you can get. It felt
as if the tree were pulling him in. He drove toward it. It looked
out of place in the high alpine. As he got closer he saw that
it dropped quite quickly just past the tree. He looked around
and saw a nice line to the right of the tree. It was steep but
short. It flattened out quickly. When he hit the flat he was
immediately overwhelmed by the sight of a man. He stood in front
of a nice cabin almost completely buried in snow. It was the
Man. He could just tell.
The Man walked toward him as he took off his helmet.
“I hope my boys treated you well,” the Man said with
a chuckle.
“Ummm...yeah.” He wasn’t sure what to think.
“We’re all real glad you got the balls enough to come,”
said the Man. “It ain’t easy trustin’ strangers
with yer life and all. Please, come inside.” He motioned
toward the cabin. The Man led the way. He was a large man in
his late thirties. His shaved head gave him a psychopath look.
They entered the cabin which was lit by the sun through the
windows.
“Please, park it.” The Man motioned to a wooden chair
in the corner.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Here,” he continued handing
him a warm glass with a clear liquid.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I guess you could call it Moonshine. We prefer the term
Homebrew.” The Man answered, “Go on. Don’t be
shy.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he responded, taking a
swift drink. It was smooth, not the usual backwoods hootch you
might expect. The aftertaste burned his nose hairs like too
much wasabi on sushi.
“We have a little operation down the mountain a ways,”
the Man started. “Sell it to the locals for some scratch,
you know. Trade it, too. I got a dirt bike for a case once.”
The Man looked out the window as he spoke. Being in the cabin
was like being in a bunker. One way in one way out. Protected
on all sides.
“My name is....”
“I know about you Darryll. Four years of journalism school,
graduated in the top five, declined offers from magazines and
newspapers all over the world to become a free lancer,”
The Man’s tone was steady and calculated.
“How’d you know that?” Darryll asked.
“The internet my friend. You’re the writer you should
know how easy it is to access information.”
“But how? Where?...”
“There’s a communications tower just nearby. We got
one of our boys who’s a expert in that field. Trained by
the army. He’s got us all hooked up all over the place.
Beams up to a satellite, totally wireless, completely untraceable,”
the Man said proudly. It was obvious no one had ever been told
these details.
“Why are you telling me this? Why did you chose me?”
Darryll asked cautiously.
“Well,...it’s a catch 22 son, like a great thief who
can’t say nothin’ about his perfect crime. We got
a winter sport oasis here boy. All these acres to ourselves
and nobody knows it. We like it that way cause some of us got
a reason
to hide.
But we’re just sick of all this half-pipe hype and booter
boastin’, y’know. We do shit everyday that most of
these big-time professional snowboarders only dream about. You
think Alaska is burly? Well let me tell ya...” His voice
trailed off. He was still looking out the window. “You’re
here cause we like your work and we think you’ll do us
proud. If you don’t, you’ll be dead before you can
say ‘the editor twisted it all around.” Understood?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s pretty clear. So what, you want
some photos and an article or something. What kind of angle
do you want? I’ve been thinking we could do this “outlaw
snowboarder” kind of thing...”
“Just tell the truth boy. That’s all real simple,
no surprises.” The Man turned to look at Darryll. “I’ve
instructed my officers. They know what to do. Good day, son.
And remember, it’s better to be Red than dead.” he
said with a motion to the door. Darryll stood up and walked
slowly to the door. He paused briefly before exiting and wondered
if he should say anything more. The Man paid no attention. That
was it? A few quick words and the kiss-off. He felt cheated.
The sound of approaching snowmobiles distracted him. He exited
and was joined by two others on snowmobiles.
“Follow our tracks!” one of them yelled. He jumped
on his machine in pursuit. His confusion turned to exhilaration
as he followed the plumes of snow from the others. They met
up on the ridge and cut their engines.
“I am General Burns. I am in charge of this operation,”
said the stockier of the two as he tossed Darryll’s camera
pack to him. “This is Private Grant. Do as we say and you’ll
be fine. We’ve been instructed to show you around some.
You best load up that camera of yours. We’re about to begin
our daytime maneuvers,” he continued as Darryll scrambled
for his film. He popped a cartridge in his camera and readied
his zoom as the two men started their sleds. He looked around
to see a three-sided bowl with corniced chutes, pillows and
cliffs. The General blasted a horn on his sled in two short
bursts. Suddenly, on the opposite ridge, four more men appeared.
One began to hike further up with a snowboard attached to his
back. One inched his sled to the edge of an open slope, dropping
and disappearing in the deep powder. Two others on snowboards
launched over cornices, floating perfectly timed. They made
360’s, landing in unison and riding to the bottom.
“Very impressive, General!” Darryll shouted.
“See that guy,” the General yelled, pointing at the
lone hiker across the ridge. “That’s Sergeant Newsome.
One of our best. Wait for him to go and meet us at the bottom.”
They
descended into the bowl. General burns on his sled, only his
head visible. Private Grant was on a snowboard, blasting a large
indy off a pillow. Darryll clicked away. The sound of his motordrive
was like music to him. He looked across to see the Sergeant
strapping in above a narrow dog leg chute that looked to be
about 2,000 vertical feet by his estimation. The Sarge snaked
in to the side of the cornice and gained speed quickly. He carved
a huge heelside turn, straight lining the final 1,500 feet to
the bottom where the others cheered. Darryll was amazed. In
a mere 5 minutes these backwoods, redneck soldiers of fortune
had shattered every epic moment he had catalogued over the past
five years. He loaded another roll of film and met with the
group at the bottom.
“Holy freakin’ moly guys! That was amazing. That was
the best damn show I’ve seen since Brittany Spears in Hawaii.”
he exclaimed.
“Listen up son, we got a lot more to do today. So quit
yer brown nosing and do what yer told.” the General said
bluntly. A voice on his radio called him. He turned to listen
to it. He said a few quick words in a low voice, then turned
to address the group.
“There’s a situation!” the General screamed.
“We gotta get to some cover.”
They raced off toward a wooded area, weaving around the trees.
Darryll was at the back eating fumes and snow. The trees got
thicker quickly and soon they came to a stop. The canopies hung
between the trees, hiding the large tents which housed some
sort of command post. The General ran to one of the tents and
grabbed a phone from another younger man.
“This is our central base,” the Sergeant said. “We
can communicate with all our other posts as well as the outside
world from here. The canopies are lined with thermal reducers
to protect against the heat- sensing equipment in the military
helicopters. All meteorological information comes in and out
of here, as well as our avalanche control records. We do our
own blasting. One hundred percent self-reliant...” He was
distracted by the General waving him over. They conversed as
Darryll looked around in amazement. People were running around
all over the place. Two German shepherds lay silently next to
a tree. The Sergeant returned quickly.
“Seems we got a problem boy,” he said aggressively
grabbing Darryll in a bear hug. Another soldier scanned him
with some sort of metal detector.
“He’s clean,” the soldier said.
“Can’t be too careful. Something’s tipped ‘em
off. There’s a patrol headed our way. Could just be routine
but you never know. The General’s ordered me to evacuate
you at once. Follow me.”
They ran through the trees to a clearing a few hundred yards
away. A circular opening with an all black helicopter sitting
in the middle. A pilot was preparing for take-off.
“You’re done son. We’ll contact you again if
we need you. We can’t risk you getting caught. They’ll
torture you until they get what they want. The heat has been
increasing lately, that’s why the Man wanted you here,
before it was too late. Remember what he told you. It’s
for you and you only. Now go,” the Sergeant yelled as the
blades of the helicopter started. Darryll just looked at him
in total bewilderment. The Sergeant saluted him. Darryll returned
the salute, and walked toward the helicopter. He felt a sharp
pain as the Sarge clubbed him in the back of the head. He fell
to his knees and onto the snow unconscious. The Sergeant picked
him up and loaded him into the helicopter.
Darryll awoke in the cab of his pick up. It was morning. The
sun was shining through the window. His mouth was dry. He was
sweating and he had a brutal headache. He sat up to see the
gas station exactly as he had left it. Was it a dream? It seemed
unreal. He reached for his camera bag, frantically searching
for his film. One roll had been shot. He was in shock. His mind
was reeling and his thoughts were racing. He grabbed his laptop,
flipping open the screen. He paused for a minute and looked
up at the mountains. Then he typed frantically:
‘These are the days of hype and money. These are the days
of rock stars and world tours. These are the days of jumps and
railings. Where pros live in downtown condos and Mt. Seymour
is considered back country. Just as every action has an equal
and opposite reaction, every trend has diametrical forces plotting
against it. Glitzy snowboarding is the unwitting enemy in this
case. All the quarter-pipe contests and televised boarder crosses
in the world cannot measure up to the festering darkness spawning
in the rural areas across North America. An army is gaining
strength, training daily in their back country battlegrounds.
Hiking to pow, growing stronger. All the while, their resort-minded
counterparts fatten on the high-speed chair lifts. The time
for change is coming. The time for bloody battle is at hand.
When the forces will unite and conquer? There will be no announcement,
so be forewarned. THE REDS ARE COMING.
Rumors
had been circulating around his town over the last few years.
A band of rogues, outlaws and ex-pro’s had staked a claim
on a huge chunk of real estate in the British Columbia interior
near the Alberta border. He had heard various second and third-hand
reports. “It’s sort of an anti-government, Jonestown
type thing,” someone said.
The
fall had come late this year and did not last very long. The
rains were not as heavy. The rapid change from summer to winter
had caught a lot of people off-guard, but he had seen it coming.
He was ready. All he had to do now was wait. When the temperatures
dropped, the snows had flown frequently and heavily. Some days
he didn’t leave the cabin. He remained inside, smoking
and cooking venison stew. The hunt would begin soon enough and
he could wait as long as necessary. 
“What’s
going on?” he demanded. “Is this the way you treat
your VIPs?”
He
hesitated for a moment and looked around at the other riders.
All eyes hidden were behind identical mirrored goggles, with
identical white helmets. Like a James Bond movie. No one spoke.
All engines were silent except his. He scooped his line up the
face. It was definitely on the limit of his ability. He tightened
his grip and hit the gas. The snow got deep quickly, but the
powerful machine ate it up as if it were hardpack. His track
started to angle right. It did not matter, because the ridge
was close. At the crest of the hill, he punched the gas an extra
bit launching him into a wheelie and over the top. It was a
triumphant moment for him. The sled slowed to a stop in the
deep snow as the ridge flattened. He looked back and saw the
others below. He thought they looked unimpressed, but it was
hard to tell with the helmets on. Ahead was a wide bowl with
an elevated island and a tree in the middle. The slopes were
at a low angle, about as close to flat as you can get. It felt
as if the tree were pulling him in. He drove toward it. It looked
out of place in the high alpine. As he got closer he saw that
it dropped quite quickly just past the tree. He looked around
and saw a nice line to the right of the tree. It was steep but
short. It flattened out quickly. When he hit the flat he was
immediately overwhelmed by the sight of a man. He stood in front
of a nice cabin almost completely buried in snow. It was the
Man. He could just tell. 
They
descended into the bowl. General burns on his sled, only his
head visible. Private Grant was on a snowboard, blasting a large
indy off a pillow. Darryll clicked away. The sound of his motordrive
was like music to him. He looked across to see the Sergeant
strapping in above a narrow dog leg chute that looked to be
about 2,000 vertical feet by his estimation. The Sarge snaked
in to the side of the cornice and gained speed quickly. He carved
a huge heelside turn, straight lining the final 1,500 feet to
the bottom where the others cheered. Darryll was amazed. In
a mere 5 minutes these backwoods, redneck soldiers of fortune
had shattered every epic moment he had catalogued over the past
five years. He loaded another roll of film and met with the
group at the bottom.