NOVEMBER 04: The Prophet and the Sage
Sage Cattabriga-Alosa
The run-in for Pyramid Gap is a quarter mile long and hand-smoothed so slick that by the time a skier reaches the eight-foot-tall kicker he's going about 50 miles per hour. From the lip of the jump there is nothing but air for almost 100 feet, then a snow-covered pile of rock and dirt. At 50 mph, a skier should be able to reach the transition. Any slower and he'll likely splat into the face. Just looking down it turns your stomach. Take it from the two high-profile contest skiers brought in for this film shoot. One glance and they si-vous-plait their way right out of the line up.
Pounding rotor blades reverberate through Grizzly Gulch. The sound is a constant reminder of the film crew hovering overhead—and dollars being spent. It's the early months of 2001, and the Utah gaps have become legendary. They mark the pinnacle in a natural progression of terrain park tricks out of the park, and the beginning of the '90s freestyle ascension to bigger, more unpredictable terrain. Finding, building, shooting, then destroying the next big or creative feature has become a spirited competition among the filmers and photographers of Little Cottonwood Canyon. But this is the first time a big-budget film company from out of town has come in full bore.
The only skiers left at Pyramid today are the locals who built this ridiculous hit. They are midnight maintenance men, ski techs, and night auditors from the lodges across the street at Alta. Chris and Matt Collins are in their second and third year in Utah, respectively, transplants from an unglamorous mountain in Eastern Oregon. Chris Minneci, also in his third year, is a castaway from the Colorado mogul scene. The darkest horse of all is the next in line—a 21-year-old dishwasher whose only experience hitting anything this size is a few previous jumps on this same kicker over the last two days. On another day he would hardly be considered worth shooting. But today there's little choice. The cameraman clips into his harness and leans out the open door. The countdown starts.
Sage Cattabriga-Alosa adjusts his goggles. He's a wiry kid with a nasally voice that matches his Bob Dylan 'fro and whispy beard. This is the chance of a lifetime—an opportunity to perform for one of the largest ski film companies in the world. Only 12 hours ago he was in the dish pit, apron soaked, wrinkling hands gripping a plate and sprayer, this scene—the jump, the cameras, the helicopter—playing through his head. He tells himself he's already done this, convinces himself it's no different than daydreams he entertained over sauce-stained dishes.
Without a word, he drops in and speeds down the ramp, his nylon jacket snapping in the wind. He crouches. The chopper lowers.
"Without Ostness, these guys don't even get the opportunity. You have to recognize what he did." —Steve Rosendaal, founder of Volume Video Magazine
Kris Ostness is the kingpin of the Utah gap scene. As Sage drops, Ostness is standing at the base of Pyramid filming for his third movie, The Flying Circus. Marketed under the name Wind-Up Films, the Ostness trilogy kicked off with Clay Pigeons in the fall of 1999, followed by Tee Time in 2000, and gained cult status for its eclectic soundtrack and an artsy feel anchored by these surreal backcountry features. Circus is the last in a series that stands as the only significant blip in the static ski movie formula in decades. Through his films, and with the help of photographer Brent Benson, Ostness created most of Alta's gap jumps—massive hits in the Utah backcountry built around piles of tailings from old mines with names like Emma, Grizzly, and Flagstaff. He's protective of his creations, sometimes spending late nights and early mornings lurking by the trailhead to make sure rivals don't bomb out the landings before he's able to shoot the jump. There is a sense of protocol and ethics here—if you build it, you get first dibs shooting it—but not everyone abides, so Ostness stands watch.
Teton Gravity Research, however, has come in with something Ostness can't guard against—budget. So he has joined in, shooting footage for TGR as well as his own movie. It's only fitting; not only is Pyramid his creation, these no-names stealing the show are his skiers.
Away from the cameras and this kicker, Minneci and the Collins brothers are indiscernible from the rest of a subculture scattered throughout lodges such as the Gold Miner's Daughter, Peruvian, Alta, and Rustler. Loosely referred to as the University of Alta, the lodge dorms are the best foot-in-the-door to ski bumming in third-millennium America. Food and lodging are provided; squalor is guaranteed. The reward is a ski pass and ample time to abuse it.