Hit the Slopes!

Serious schnitzeling

The snow, for the first 3,000 verts, was midwinter soft, spurting off the nose of my board and brushing against the inside of my knees — the most ticklish spot on my body — and I reveled in the sensation, grinning like a fool. I stepped down hard on my back foot and cranked a few giant-slalom turns, spraying waterfall plumes 30 feet into the air. Then I leaned my body outward till my hand brushed against the surface, piling up the speed, my board torquing against the centrifugal force. When the snow got heavy, down below, I watched the skiers tumble, one by one, skis flying off like SCUDs, and I shot by them, sailing full-speed all the way back to the pickup point.

Then it was up again, and more powder, more untracked, each run a 4,000-vertical-foot terpsichorean descent — jitterbugging through tight stands of pines; wide-open waltzes on the glacial faces; grand jetis off half-buried rocks; and once, as a goof, line dancing with the other boarders in mock-skier exactitude. Hole in the Wall, Manhattan, Big White, Screwball — whatever the hell the runs' names were — we played all day, stopping to rest only when Otto told us to, and sometimes not even then.

Between runs, waiting for the helicopter, our group would stage a live version of Hee-Haw. The snowboarders would tease the skiers for wearing those goofy fat-boy skis — clearly a lame attempt to emulate the sensation of being on a board. They'd make fun of us for having to knuckle-hop our way up hills and struggle across the flats. Then the jokes would start. (My favorite:"What's the difference between a snowboard and a vacuum cleaner? It's all in the way the dirt bag's attached.") Finally, we'd descend into complete idiocy. Helen Keller, dead baby, lightbulb, lawyer, albino, ethnic — a different chapter of the Truly Tasteless Joke Book between every run.

Each evening, we'd return to the village, our stomachs moaning with hunger — and every dinner we'd stage a piranhalike feeding frenzy. The cuisine at Wiegele's is astonishing: smorgasbords of seafood, piles of salads, fruits of every ilk, fresh-baked breads, cheeses galore, barbecue, pasta, veggies, soup, cake, ice cream — no matter how hard you ride, you'll leave Wiegele's wearing a few extra pounds. Dessert leads directly to hot tubbing, and after a half-hour soak you emerge, bloated and sedated, and fall face-first into bed.

Move on to Fiefdom of Powder