Las Vegas:
Words and Pictures:
Carnageasada

The Age of Aquarius

Future Uplink Concerning Lee Canyon Helicopters buzzed the early morning sky as Dave Rogers, J.P. Martin and myself looked with curiosity out the epic windows of the prized Bellagio Resort Casino; our exclusive journalistic outpost. Everyone thought the new fountain show synched with lights and music was amazing, but we were on the heels of something much more insane. We are here to break the news to planet earth and every goddamn extreme athlete on her: Las Vegas is fucking going off and if you didn’t know, LV is about to be epitomized as the newest snowboarding capitol akin to Squaw Valley and Snow Summit.

An A-Star limousine chopper lifted off the heights of casino-resort New York, New York’s heli-pad with the likes of Jeff Brushie, Keith Wallace, Jason Ford, and even Mike Estes climbed on board. Old School? Don’t think so. These first riders and icons of our sport were to be dropped on the high-angle powder-laden slopes of Mt. Charleston. These desert mountains lie less than an hour north of the city of sin. This place is now the new “the shit.”

Property values in the canyon have risen. Brooke Shields and Christy Brinkley (Barrett Christy can’t get in) are now neighbors, all moved in. The double bucket chairs installed in 1982 are gone, replaced by detachable laser driven six-pack leather couches with new Snow & Watter Repellent technology. As I write we’re claiming lines that before were only visually thought possible by crazy locals and retro ski patrolmen. The locals ripping the crude jumps on their 3-year-old boards (and outdated graphics) under the chairs, showing off to the casino working desert-dwellers, are now replaced by the likes of the new Vegas team Forum-ica riders (that workout and layout every day), a shitload of 3 story kickers, lengthy snake style metal handrails, and a permanent crew of media and satellite cams built into the lift poles for every dot com company this side of the galaxy.
That is today. Here is the story of those who were there before things got out of control. Don’t even think about heli-ing in yet. The waiting list is long and you’re gonna be standing behind Wayne Newton. Foolio.
-Chris Carnel, as inspired by the brain child J.P. Martin and his novel “Vegas; Winter 2016.”

When myself, Dave Rogers and J.P. Martin decided to make the trek a little less than an hour north to Lee Canyon it had just rained like mad the night before and the temperature was way colder than the norm for Vegas. The ski report the next morning sounded like an 8-track cassette player and claimed 18 inches of new overnight as I hung up the phone, almost shitting myself. After some Bellagio buffet breakfast and borrowing myself a board from Danny Sullivan’s brother Jerry (thanks so much, I never thought I would get to ride Vegas) we hit the road. The drive was bizarre enough in the fact that it kept us constantly wondering where the resort’s road was going. A permanent cloud wig hung over the north face of the only snow laden peak in the distance. After the fun, windy road led us to this peak, we searched out a marketing guy by the name of which I forgot. He was at the bar chilling and more than happy to accommodate us as guests on such short notice (being there was no Marketing department or Corporate Infrastructure, this was an easy task). Basically we had woken up, called the report, asked nicely for media tickets and were on the hill riding in less than a few hours. And the greatest thing of all; this was not the largest North American snow sports tradeshow, SIA, which was running simultaneously. SIA is where the gnarliest of the gnarly in the snowboard and ski industries meet to see who’s who and what’s what. It’s a week of madness all set in the surreal setting of Las Vegas. However, this was the low key family-owned Las Vegas Ski Resort, a real contrast.

According to the only ski patrolman, a lot of the upper mountain was closed as an avalanche the day prior had taken out their blasting apparatus. First sluffs, tangents and deposition zones were discussed in depth between him and J.P. (Martin loves that shit, he’s from Jackson Hole). He then agreed to pose with the boys as if we were shooting the cover of the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper’s album. Maybe the whole resort was out of that album cover... it was so trippy.From our first chair ride up we were looking down on the vast desert mountain landscape when right below us some kid rode by with a ghetto blaster attached to his ear. We ended up riding about one third of the mountain’s annual snowfall on this one lucky day. The snow was in the form of what could have been mistaken for powdered laundry detergent. It was super fun.

During the ‘60s and the heyday of the booming Vegas casino era, the Las Vegas Ski and Snowboard resort (as it has been called since 1995) was born. For the record, it opened in 1965 with a T-Bar (that’s now replaced) and an A-Frame chalet that still stands today. Even in the ‘30s people were dicking around on horse drawn sleds at Lee Canyon feeling the future here. Frank Sinatra probably rode the exact bucket chair we sat on this day, but back in ‘64 and could have even left early (like J.P. Martin did) to go get sloshed back at the Chalet with Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., and the rest of the Rat Pack. So with J.P. at the bar singing, “Start spreadin’ the news...,” it was only Rogers and I left. We explored more of the mountain and hiked trippy desert rocks covered with shallow snow and rode rad tree runs till the end of the day.

The lights weren’t running on this day, but we were already satisfied in the fact that we even got any good snow at all; being this wasn’t exactly the winter snow belt. On the way back we all stopped in the road and photographed cool Joshua trees with icicles on them. Then we saw crazy desert buildings and subliminal signs of corruption (I mean the future).
We then arrived back in Vegas around dark babbling stories of snow bliss at the Hard Rock while we ate with Sonny “Rockin’ Hard” Mayugba, Santa Cruz Snowboards honcho Brett “Rib-fest” Sigur and Isac “So-Cal” Walter. All tradeshowed and sunburned by the sodium vapors of the convention center microwave lighting, they were still stoked to hear our stories. But J.P. was so stoked in telling them he was praising Las Vegas Ski Resort out loud with, “We fuggin rode one third of their annual snowfall in one day in the form of pow(d)er!” And food began flying everywhere. A long saucy noodle then landed on TransWorld Media property and one of their quiet Canadian people; but he was understandably sober, burnt and kinda freaked (I think he was all tradeshowed out from vapor lights, stress and promise). Sorry, but we were all mountain natured, secure and stupid. J.P. (or Dean?) Martin was in a stupor of alcohol and desert bliss. Words were said, eyes met, vibes were cast, but no muscles were ever flexed. We got lucky. Canadians would kick our asses.

Even though we missed SIA day 3 which covered The Future Of Marketing Strategies Via Internet Cellulite And Web Sausage Links, I was hungry and tired, only knowing that it was one of the funnest powder days I rode in the year 2000. But now that was yesteryear.