Making the Break

(Re-printed from Volume 1 Number 1 — Winter ’72-’73 — of Powder magazine. Thanks to Dave Baldridge for the transcription services.)

In the white brick courtyard of the 16th century Catholic church in Managua, Nicaragua, a dark mob of angry Central Americans were screaming two familiar epithets: “Yankee go home!” and “Vaya Gringo!” Inside the church, yours truly, a very blue-eyed, blonde-headed gringo ski patrolman from Stowe, Vermont, was kneeling down in sanctuary in one of the ancient back pews. Save for “Donde esta el baño, por favor?” (“Where is the bathroom, please?”), I did not speak Spanish.

My Indian hitching partner, Sincere Smiling Wolf, from the Sun Valley ski patrol, was last seen on the outskirts of Mexico City, wildly swinging his gold Scott ski poles in mock anticipation of our arrival at Portillo, Chile, and the end of an 11,000-mile hitch-hike. The Indian, as he was called, had not made our proposed meeting in Guatemala City. He’d either been abducted by guerillas in Guatemala or had grabbed a boat in Veracruz, Mexico, and was waiting for me in Panama City — our alternate “if-things-fall-through” plan. I did not know where he was. I did know that Portillo was still 7,000 miles away and that things were falling through.

Now, however, outside, the people in the courtyard were becoming more vehement. I pressed my head against the pew in front of me to supplicate the Norse ski god. An elderly silver-tressed woman stopped in the aisle next to me, reached out and gingerly touched my shoulder.

“Are you a North American?” she asked in English.

“Yes,” I replied.

“A tourist?”

“Yes.”

“How wonderful,” she said. “I pray that more North Americans come to our country as tourists.”

I moaned and moved my head back onto the wooden pew again. Maybe the Indian had joined the Cubco/Gresvig demonstration team and split for Hawaii, I thought. Suddenly, out of the ceiling an ominous resonant voice boomed, “Can I help you, my son?” I turned and looked into the eyes of a red-frocked priest.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m going in the direction of Panama City and my ride let me out here somehow. Is there another way out?” I pointed sideways out the door toward the courtyard in an unnecessary explanation of my plight.

“This way,” he said, and led me through an enclosed compound to another exit, where he hailed a cab that took me to the outskirts of Managua and dropped me off on the Pan American Highway. At the highway, I stopped a bus full of chickens and chicken farmers (one chicken per farmer) and was again, I hoped, moving in the general direction of Portillo via Panama City and my scheduled meeting with The Indian. I was determined to ski in South America after two years of procrastination and,
despite the slow progress of the chickens and chicken farmers, I was zooming in on Chile by ox cart, train, bus, car and plane at the rate of 200 miles a day.

Sincere Smiling Wolf is a New Mexican Indian from Los Alamos who mysteriously jumped from the Thiokol Corporation onto the Sun Valley ski patrol one year because (he said) they needed a token minority group representative. He cannot ski. He takes pride in the fact that he cannot ski. He is, however, a very stable man with a toboggan. He can also speak fluent Spanish. His given name is David Baldridge, but he considers that name condescension to the neo-colonialism of the white man in “his country” and prefers his Cheyenne war designation. His name is fitting. He is not only the fastest Indian in Sun Valley with a pitcher of beer, but also can out-smile anyone there. He has a set of screaming white teeth that are the modus operandi of his persuasion. He is an Indian Diplomat out of place and time. He would have complimented Crazy Horse at the conference table. Too bad for the Indians; good for Sun Valley.

I met The Indian at Alta, Utah, where we both had journeyed for the National Gelande Contest. I had come from Stowe, where I had been a token Western Powder Hound the Mt. Mansfield ski patrol takes on for amusement each year. At Stowe, I had learned what ice REALLY was, and I was eager to recall the more prosaic ecstasy of powder and hitched out to Alta in hopes of finding some and maybe even making enough money to ski the summer in Portillo. That is, if I finished high enough in the Contest.

The Indian had come to Alta to laugh at the people who were jumping in the National Gelande Contest. One day, he helped me off the outrun after a practice crash that I had been perfecting. The other jumpers called it “burning out.” I was becoming very practiced at the art and The Indian had been watching my development.

“You’re insane,” he said as he waved the next jumper off.

“I know,” I replied, “but I like money.”

“What the hell for?”

“I want to ski Portillo this summer.”

“I’d rather walk,” he said.

“So would I,” I replied.

“One more of these and you won’t be able to crawl,” he pointed out.

“Yup,” I said.

“Have some wine,” he smiled.

I took the wine and one thing led to another as one step led to another and we were in Alta’s Shallow Shaft drinking beer and planning our summer escape to Portillo.

The round-trip airfare from Alta to Portillo is $1,268.41. That price includes the cost from Alta to the Salt Lake International Airport (about five dollars). At the Hotel Carrera in Santiago, the La Tour Travel Agency has a bus that goes to Portillo daily — weather permitting (about eight dollars). The Indian estimated that we could hitch to Portillo and back on about $200 each. It seemed feasible to me. We sent customary job applications to Portillo and soon received customary rejection slips and accompanying travel brochures. The brochures were effective. We decided to hitchhike.

The Pan American Highway is a long system of surface transportation extending from Canada to Buenos Aires, Argentina. It covers 12,000 miles; roughly halfway around the world. I had done extensive hitchhiking in the United States, Canada and Europe and did not feel that the trip was unapproachable. It was a highway and it stood to reason that any highway had cars and hitchhikers on it. The Indian and I spent a day in the library looking at the atlases to determine what we would be confronted with. The road went 30 miles past Panama City into the Darien Peninsula jungle, where it temporarily ended. In Panama City, it would be necessary to catch a boat or take a plane to Columbia and continue hitchhiking there. Barring unforeseen difficulties, we felt the trip could be accomplished.

May 15,, we shipped our skis to Santiago via air from Albuquerque, New Mexico, and then picked up our passports, immunization records, water purification pills and beaded rosettes (a symbol of good luck, The Indian said), which we sewed onto our packs, and began our journey.

The first instance of bad luck, which prompted me to throw away my rosette, was the five-hour wait for a ride on the highway out of Albuquerque. After the first two hours of waiting, we split up in hopes of getting a ride easier. Ten minutes later, I saw The Indian pass me in a silver sports car as I walked down the highway. Two days later, I met him in the student cafeteria at the University of Arizona. His first ride was from a young starlet in a Porsche 911 Targa who went 300 miles out of her way to take him to Tucson. My rides included two drunk drivers preparing for Le Mans; a grandmother who lectured me on the evils of hitchhiking, and a Mexican farm worker who could not speak English — a precursor of difficulties to come.

Mexico was a disaster. The Indian and I found it was possible to take a train or bus to Mexico City for $25. Why hitchhike? The Indian was right. On May 18, we sweat-boxed by Mexican National Railroad to Mazatlan, where we stopped to check out the fabled Mazatlan beach. It was infested with sand fleas. Despite our diligent search for a campsite, we were unsuccessful. The next morning, we were on a bus to Guadalajara.

To combat the “Revenge of Montezuma,” The Indian would drink nothing but Coca-Colas or mineral water. He was continually taking pills or reading a tour guide book that explained the local diseases. This was sound policy. However, his reasons were not to avoid being ill. I later discovered that he felt it was necessary to set a good example for me.

“I’m immune,” he said.

“How can you be immune?”

“Indians no longer fight each other; our enemy is the forked-tongue White Eyes. Los Coyotes Rubios, the blonde coyotes.”

In Mexico City, we split up to make faster time. We would meet in Guatemala City in a week, or if we got a through ride, send a note to the American Express there and meet in Panama City in two weeks. I felt I had picked up enough Spanish and local “machismo” to get along.

As I hitched to Veracruz, I realized I had made a mistake. A bus picked me up going toward what I thought was Puebla. It left me 20 miles from the road. In Veracruz, an eight-year-old Pancho Villa hustled a Swiss Army Knife out of my pack while teaching me the language. Later, I caught a bus in Veracruz that dropped me off in Villahermosa — 150 miles off my route.

At Villahermosa, I caught a bus that took me the circuitous route to the Mexican/Guatemalan border town of Tapachula. I arrived in Tapachula at midnight and managed to find an available room in a “pension.” The “pension” was a relief not only because of the Latin ambiance of the building’s open courtyard but also because Tapachula signaled the end of the Mexican segment of my journey.

At the Guatemalan border, I learned that, if anyone plans on hitchhiking to Portillo, he should first visit the embassies of each country he will pass through and obtain a visa. Many of the border stations do not issue visas on their own authority, and even though it is possible to get them in Mexico City, it is much easier to do so in the United States. Also, it is wise to have at least $500 in travelers’ checks as proof of self-sufficiency. In some of the countries, a ticket out is necessary before you can get in. Fortunately, I caught a ride with a fellow from Southern California who had immigrated to Costa Rica and told the border authorities I was his traveling companion.

Costa Rica has the worst roads on the Pan American Highway (which is called the Inter-American Highway in Central America). The rainy season extends from May to October and the roads are creamy with mud. However, equipped with the two indispensables of hitchhiking: a good rain poncho and much patience, I was able to make it past Costa Rica’s two large mountain ranges and reach the flatter country and better roads of Panama.

I found The Indian soundly entrenched in Panama City at a local yacht club. He was at the pool with a glass of lemonade. He told me he had swiftly traveled the distance from Mexico City to Veracruz and had there caught a ride with a university student who was going to Panama to visit his parents in the American-controlled Canal Zone. While he waited for me, he played tennis and had done some golfing and sailing at the invitation of his host. He thought it would be simple to get a job crewing on a yacht going to Argentina or Chile.

We looked for a boat going in the direction of South America for four days and then, because I was eager to be on my way before I spent all of my money on hotels, we split up again to meet in Lima or Santiago, depending on our luck.

We would write a letter c/o the American Express office to the other person in the event of catching a ride through to Santiago.

Panama City to Santiago is 5,500 miles. Most of the road is “all weather,” a broad euphemism for “travel if you’re lucky”— except for the Darien Peninsula between Columbia and Panama, where there is no road at all. In Columbia, the Pan American Highway is called the Simon Bolivar Highway. Regardless of what it is called, it is a thrilling experience, reminiscent
of being strapped into a roller coaster for the first time as a child. On a side excursion to Bogota, I was told by a friend in the Peace Corps that the greatest danger in Columbia is travel by bus on the country’s highway system.

From the Colombian border town of Ipiales, I hitched 750 miles along the mountainous route of the ancient Inca Empire to Quito. At places on the road, it was necessary to stop and back up when meeting another vehicle because the road was so narrow. In Guayaquil, I decided that my nerves could not distinguish between the old Inca road and the new “improved” Pan American Highway. I took a plane over the earthquake disaster area in northern Peru. I had gone well over my proposed $200 allotment by this time, thanks to the cost of visas and hotels and other unplanned expenses.

In Lima, I sold my climbing boots to a Peace Corpsman who needed them as desperately as I needed the money. I immediately purchased a ticket to Santiago via TEPSA. TEPSA is the Greyhound bus service of South America. Their buses carry more people than livestock. They have an accident rate that is so much lower than their competitors, I was actually able to sleep as the bus sped the 2,000 miles down the Pacific coast to Santiago, which I reached on July 10.

I expected The Indian to be waiting for me at the American Express in Santiago. I did not find him or a letter from him. I found a student “pension” that included three meals a day and light housekeeping for $40 a month. I made a pilgrimage to the American Express each day in hopes of greeting him.

One week passed and I had heard nothing. In the interim, I had gone to the airport and claimed our skis: one pair of which I immediately sold. I had to. Next, I took an excursion to the ski resort of Farellones, which sits high in the Andes Mountains overlooking Santiago. Just to yearn.

When I returned, I still did not have word from The Indian. I left a letter for him at the American Express in Santiago and sent another to his home in New Mexico. Then I packed my bags and purchased a ticket to Portillo.

I stayed in Los Andes, a small town 50 miles from Portillo, while the Chilean Army cleared the road of avalanches to a point where the tourists could get to the hotel by taking the lowest of Portillo’s seven lifts. That lift crosses over the lower switchbacks of the road and deposits the newly arrived guest steps away from the hotel’s registration desk.

I walked past the solitary yellow hotel 150 yards and pitched my bright blue climbing tent between two large boulders, which sheltered me from the wind, set up a cold storage for 47 cans of salmon that I had purchased in Santiago, unraveled my down sleeping bag and considered myself encamped.

For the next five weeks at Portillo, I rented my ski equipment, sold Chilean escudos on the black market and started a one-man underground ski school to make enough money to occasionally obtain a room in the hotel and leave my blue tent. When I did not have the money, I skulked around the hotel and ski slopes with Bryan Nelson, a racer from the University of Colorado, who was training for his winter jaunt on the Can-Am Circuit. We looked for ways to avoid the eventual boredom of a one-hotel ski area after two weeks.

On August 20, I finished fourth in Portillo’s South American Gelande Contest and won a bottle of Chilean wine. As Bryan and I were celebrating my moral victory (he had coached me out of my “burning out” predispositions), I received a letter from The Indian. He was not coming to Portillo and appeared to be safe in the warmth of the Caribbean.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it. Surf and suds as scuba diving instructor here at Bimini too much to pass up.” — El Indio

I decided that my Portillo Summer had come to a welcome end. I sold my skis, ski poles, boots and a pair of Levis (the Chileans purchase them whenever possible from tourists), returned to Santiago and boarded a plane for Miami, where I landed 12 hours later.

For next summer, The Indian has proposed a tour to Bariloche, a ski area in southern Argentina.

“Hitchhike?” I said. “No way. I’ll meet you there. I’m taking a plane.”

“El Coyote Rubio grows old like rusted metal ski,” he smiled.

Richard Barnum-Reece (RIP) is Mountain Gazette’s special correspondent to the hereafter. His last story for MG was “Skiing Naked,” which appeared in #175.

Ski Bumming and Other Lies

Editor’s note: In our March 2010 issue (MG #165), we ran an obituary, penned by Dave Baldridge (who has gained a certain amount of recent notoriety in our pages as the now-famous “List Guy,” whose words, and the consequent responses to his words, have been gracing our Letters page for several months now) of a man named Richard Barnum-Reece as part of a loosely aggregated feature package titled “Mentors.” Baldridge managed to dig up a piece that Barnum-Reece wrote for the Monday, April 5, 1976, issue of the Daily Utah Chronicle, which is justified, as Baldridge is a key character in the tale that follows. I liked it so much that I decided to re-print it herein.


We called it “playing the crease.” The Indian was an eternally naïve one-eighth Cherokee-Honkie mix and I, a professional sociopath, was his partner in the Ski Bum Trade.

The tale is ongoing. He is still in the racket and so am I. The crease has closed — or the crease is closing. Who knows? Maybe the crease was never there, perhaps it was an ephemeral dream as destructive as the green light that flashed, glinted and burned in Gatsby’s eye as he sought out the Great Blonde American Valkyrie.

This was at the time, mind you, when people came to college to address pressing existential questions. Those who thought of jobs and the “real world” were at the very least dullards. Ultimately, as the noose of self-investigation presented itself, we became queasy about college. What could we do and make a small living (nothing exorbitant to be sure) and still maintain our “integrity” (i.e. not working for the Los Alamos labs making A-bombs, in his case, and, in my case, not working for an evil father-in-law at the family car lot)?

The answer hit one day like a metaphorical bolt of lightning: become ski patrolmen! The problem was that we couldn’t ski. Still, we were jocks: college football players who had made the traveling squad but didn’t play in games. We thought we could pick up skiing easy.

“Let’s just get a season pass and ski our ass off for a year,” the Indian said. He supposed it would be enough to get us on a ski patrol somewhere. The idea was that we, as God’s own natural athletes, could mortgage our lives and then, miraculously, come up with a job as professional skiers.

So we became “Ski Bums.”

The term is invidious. It says nothing for the eternal optimism of youth. This is not to say that optimism isn’t justified for young, hungry, take-on-the-world crazies. It’s just, I suppose, that the battle had just begun.

But where was I? Yes. We were going to become ski patrolmen. Someone told us they made $500 a month. We figured $500 was a fortune. It would be enough to support our other, more vicious dream of becoming a consummate mixture of Ernest Hemingway and Albert Camus. At least we thought so.

The advertising con had a lot to do with it. There’s nothing like a stacked blonde in front of a crackling fireplace with a jar of hot buttered rum in her hand to convince you that skiing is your sport. Nothing.

Don’t misunderstand me. I happen to believe in skiing as a lifestyle. It’s just that I tire of the skiing-as-a-sex-substitute mentality. It may be true — in fact it is true: the ski resort is an ersatz singles bar.

But it’s also a nice place to take the family after you transcend the Great Stud of the North business. Later, I was to learn that skiing is a great place to get rid of a hangover that came from the evil brew you consumed each night to relieve your memory of the day you spent on the slopes teaching middle-aged women, who had trouble ascending a flight of stairs, how to “Ski like Stein.”

So we hustled our parents, sold our football jerseys. And went skiing. Each day, we hitched up to Big Cottonwood Canyon, and, each day, we hitched down. It was fun for awhile, and then it wasn’t fun, so we stopped doing it every day. We did it every other day.

That’s when we started selling our blood to buy Vino da Tavola. A gallon jug just cost $1.25. I’ll never forget that. It was okay after the first three or four glasses. The best way to drink it was over a tall glass of cracked ice. That way, you couldn’t taste the faint sawdust bouquet of the wine. After the fourth glass, nothing mattered. Then you could drink it warm. The problem (we later discovered) was the purple vomit. Dave (that’s the Indian’s name) started the whole thing.

Those who are connoisseurs of cheap wine know that, when it becomes potable, it’s time to stop drinking. It’s just when it starts trickling down your throat without any trouble like an innocent soft drink that the danger is extreme.

As the wine worked its magic, we cranked up the stereo and started the ritual of self and counter accusations. It was a healthy purging of the bourgeois roots, we thought. We talked, yelled at each other, cried like babies in our acute wine melancholia. It was important to go beyond the middle-class bullshit. We wanted to sit at the foot of the Buddha. Perhaps drink some wine with him. Talk as equals, smoke a number even. We had taken a much-needed break for New Mexico, where the Indian had an adobe house and many equally crazy friends, who also sold their blood and replaced it with cheap wine. The wine had done its work, and I was there in the kitchen trying to seduce a doe-eyed beauty, when the mood which I was working for was destroyed from outside. We heard an incredibly huge blowing sound. It was the Indian doing his cheap wine St. Vitus dance in the night.

“That’s it, Indian, you can do it!”

“Thanks, pal,” the Indian said.

Of course it was inane, but we didn’t care. Life was fine and there was more blood where that last pint came from. In fact, we discovered that with the proper lies to the questions put by the blood people that we could sell our blood every other week. We could convince others on the odd weeks. We had it made.

Or so we thought. We fancied ourselves hipsters in the manner of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy. At the same time, we were the American embodiment of Stein Eriksen, in our minds deftly unleashing the bra strap of every eligible young girl who came across our path.

That was right before the Indian’s assignation with the nun on the plane. It’s a story that will offend the entire university community. Out of a proper sense of decorum, I won’t go into it. Suffice it to say that it happened at night on a return flight from Albuquerque to Salt Lake and they took the arms out of the chairs to get enough room.

It says something about ski bums. Pagans. Pure and simple.

Soon we were back in Salt Lake and, to continue the tale, we finally got jobs. He’s a Sun Valley corporation cop now and I’m walking around in a trench coat as a ski instructor at Park West. Still trying, in my way, to catch hold of that ineffable light that glints steadily in Gatsby’s cataract-covered eyeball. Groucho Marx as a ski instructor searching diligently for the secret word.