SUMMER SOLSTICE: Washington Style

40 miles from the nearest grocery store, 15 miles from the nearest bar. Ah, the life of a Northwest ski hill employee. When I left Utah and moved into my shoebox sized A-frame atop Stevens Pass, I knew I was in for a culture shift. No more late nights at the Alamo, no more ski town scene—just me and the mountain.

Two years, three ribs, one girlfriend, five pairs of skis, innumerable cases of PBR, one snowmobile, and one “trespassing with malicious intent” citation later, I have just begun to learn what it truly means to be a skier in the Evergreen state.

Strange as it may seem, my own metamorphosis from ski-town clown to socially awkward mountain hermit has been pleasantly cathartic. So I find it fitting that I find myself riding up an abandoned fire road on a 1983 Suzuki aptly named Maaka in search of those last post-work turns. It’s the first day of summer in Washington, the longest day of the year, and we’re still skiing.

I hop on Maaka, coerce her little 4-stroke heart to life, and make my way around the fire gate and “No Trespassing” signs, up the steep winding gravel road to the remnants of the snowline. Boots on, skis on the pack (no use for skins here), I wind my way between the dirt patches.

It’s by no means “good” skiing at this point in the year, a series of linked turns between warm spots, around creek holes, and through the pine-needle encrusted sludge of the lower elevations. But at the end of the day, these are the turns that count the most. Each turn becomes a new experience, exhilaration built link by link on the vestiges of a season that supposedly ended months ago.

Hit a rock here, clip a hidden log there…should I be wearing a helmet for this? My north facing fold in the mountainside holds the only snow I can see. From the bottom it’s a quick bushwhack through slide alder back to Maaka.

She welcomes me back by starting on the first kick. I let her idle for a minute as I strap my skis back on the rack and throw my rando boots in my pack—shifting is tricky enough, even in walk mode.

As Maaka and I wind our way down the mountain though the evening sunlight, it strikes me this is characteristically and undeniably, a Washington experience. My 23-year-old motorized companion and I have found our place, where it’s par for the course to be a little dented and rusty. It’s a scene without a scene, where the endless winter can be a true reality for anyone who chooses.

My skis begin to hum on the rack as I shift into 3rd, watching the sun set over Stevens Pass. So this is what Tom Bie was talking about: “I see, a skier, an escape from an overly cluttered world…”(October ‘04).

It’s taken a couple years, but I’m beginning to figure out what those who came before me have learned about this unique, sometimes frustrating, and overwhelmingly beautiful state. We may not have the lightest snow, the most vertical, or even a true ski town, but most importantly, it’s pure, it’s authentic, and it’s all Washington.