Tuesday, May 9

Last Exit

Were going to Washington, James Lozeau declares like someone, who has just seen the red and blues in his rearview, and I dont see any point in arguing. No arguing, says Johnny Taggart. No point, agrees Scott Murray.

These three Crested Butte ski bums have been wooed into this overloaded Subaru by the two primary forces in their lives: snow and cash. They thought it was their impeccable ski bum records, their mad freeskiing skills; but in reality, it was the sick humor of the editors at FREEZE who thought it might be amusing to watch a bunch of dirtbag ski bums scurry around the country chasing snow. The compensation for their reckless pursuit, $100 each time they found 12 inches of fresh snowfall. FREEZE coughed up 300 bucks to get some gas in the Subarus tank, but it was up to the dirtbags to find the snow to keep them going.

Had the Subaru been able to voice its disinterest in the challenge, it might have asked, Why me? Then again, if the car had a sarcastic side, it could have riffed on the irony of three dirtbags eagerly leaving Gunnison, Colorado, to chase storms under crystal blue, 60-degree skies. And in the entirely unlikely case that the car had seen a recent weather report and had a sarcastic side, it would have laughed aloud at the thought of these jerks finding snow anywhere in the continental U.S. Still, the tiny blue splotch over the North Cascade Mountains on the Weather Channels precipitation map was enough to convince the dirtbags that their fortunes lay in the Northwest. Probably raining all over the damn mountains, the car might well have thought to itself.

Of course, cars dont talk, and even if they did, our dirtbags would probably not have had the good sense to listen. But as they climb out of the Black Canyon and head north, Johnny voices the first sign of concern. Do you think its worth driving 1,500 miles for six inches? he asks. According to the rules, thats only worth...50 bucks, Scott concludes.

Its worth considering. Theres a lot riding on this trip for the intrepid dirtbags. Scott is thinking about becoming a professional skier. For James, this story is publicity that could help him make the leap from dirtbag photographer to legitimate freelancer. And Johnny, recently fired from his job chopping ice in the Crested Butte parking lot, is hoping a surplus of snow might lead to enough cash to pay his rent.

I know how these storms work, says James. It looks small now, but its going to hit land and grow. Well follow the sucker all the way home, getting freshies the whole way.

$140, and 36 hours later, the dirtbags are looking incredulously at Stevens Pass local Scott Wicklunds bone-dry front yard. Look, I realize that it hasnt snowed down here in weeks, but this is Washington, Wicklund assures them. My front-yard has nothing to do with what it looks like 20 miles up the pass.

It turns out, Scott isnt lying. As the Subaru lumbers up Stevens Pass, the weather gets increasingly nastier. By the time it pulls into the resorts parking lot, its downright wintry. The six inches of heavy, wet snowfall feels well over a foot deep on Stevens hike-to terrain, which doesnt appear to see the skis of others very often.

But with no new snow that evening, the dirtbags have a mere $50 to show for their efforts. Feeling that they should repay the hospitality of Wicklund, who is a skilled guide as well as the provider of shelter, they have spent $60 feeding both him and themselves for the past two days. The fact that theyre down to $130 puts a bit of a damper on the soaking wet dirtbags, who havent skied fresh snow in weeks. And James, being a photographer, is even less satisfied than Scott and Johnny. What good is great terrain with new snow, when low hanging clouds make it impossible to shoot any of it? Not to mention the fact that the Subaru has an empty tank, meaning that they are only a pit stop away from nearing the $100 mark.

James spends the afternoon of the second day on the phone in search of where the storm might have gone next, he discovers that it dumped 12 inches on the Montana Snowblow the previous night. They might be a day late, but the Snowblow is closed on Tuesdays, meaning that they will indeed catch 12 fresh inches. For a hundred bucks, its worth a try.

Were going to Montana, James declares. I dont see any point in arguing. No arguing, says Johnny. No point, agrees Scott. What a bunch of morons, thinks the car.

This is the diving board, Snowblow local Tim says with a grin as his buddy Drew blasts into the horizon, slowly rotating backwards like a basketball from the free-throw line. The crater he leaves on impact is more than enough to clear any semblance of a landing from the slope, but the info is relayed too slowly to keep Johnny from bouncing off the now hardpack and skidding to a stop.

FREEZE has been sympathetic to the cause, awarding the dirtbags the hundred dollars for the 12 inches. But its the marketing director at the pathetic little bump of a mountain called the Montana Snowblow who screws the dirtbags over. Uninterested in their mission and unimpressed with their credentials, the woman cons the group into buying tickets for the day with an unrequited promise that they will be refunded once she receives confirmation that they are indeed who they said they are. $104 dollars later, the group is dealing with 12 inches atop a brutal suncrust.

Buck, the last of the Snowblow locals trying their best to show the dirtbags the goods on a goodsless mountain, explodes on impact in the backround. We get $100 bucks for the snow, and spend $104 for tickets at this godforsaken dump? Johnny wonders aloud. Were actually losing money on this deal? He shakes his head as Buck searches for his ski.

At the end of the day, things go from bad to worse: Through the magic of the Internet, the dirtbags watch a 24-hour loop of a satellite picture that rings the death knell for the trip. Within 12 hours, precipitation ceases throughout the country. With less than $100 in the coffers, and over a thousand miles to cover simply to return home, the Subaru limps its way back to Crested Butte, their sum profit of $22.28 spent on a case of Pabst somewhere near Rock Springs, Wyoming. They left nearly a week before and are returning empty handed. No epic photos for James, no blossoming career for Scott, no rent money for Johnny. The El Niqo sun grins an evil smile upon the Subaru as it drops behind the Wyoming Mountains.

Were going to Utah, James declares with a confidence unusual for a dirtbag photographer sorely lacking funds. I dont see any point in arguing. No arguing, says Scott. The continued lack of snow in Crested Butte has done nothing for his prospective career. No point, agrees Johnny, whose rent is now a week late and nowhere to be found.

Its snowing in Utah. In fact, its snowing so hard that FREEZE has offered the dirtbags a second chance, and theyre even willing to front $100 to the dirtbags, which is a good thing considering that the three are worth a combined total of $16.43. Why? The reports of ludicrous travel and absurd disasters that FREEZE received during the groups last jaunt were more than entertaining enough to rationalize doing it again.

And so the three pile into the Isuzu Rodeo that they have commandeered for the next four days. Unlike the Subaru which guided them through their last journey together (and is currently lying idle with a mechanic, all of its engine seals blown), the Rodeo has nothing to say about the renewed mission. It doesnt even groan under the weight of the dirtbags who have chosen it as their primary means of transport to Utah. This is a new steed, a new mission, a brand new group of dirtbags from the ill-fated three who had piled into the Subaru several weeks before. This time, its snowing.

The dirtbags awake the following morning to a 30-inch storm total at Snowbird, where the tram has been closed for almost two days. With a posse of locals to show them around, they swallow face shots all day, intermittent sun allowing James to make them famous. As if to confirm their glowing success, the dirtbags are approached at the end of the day by the undisputed Queen of Snowbird, Ms. Kristen Ulmer. I heard you guys are doing a story for FREEZE, she says with a wink. Mind if I come along tomorrow?

Back at FREEZE headquarters, the brass is mystified. The only calls the dirtbags have placed since they left for the second leg of their journey, have been to cash in on the money theyve earned from the monster storm thats sitting over Utah. In three days, theyve sucked the magazine for $350. This isnt the way its supposed to work out. John Klaczkiewicz, the intern responsible for making the deposits into the dirtbags account, is fired.

But alas, nothing more can be done. With cash to back them, the dirtbags go on a tear deserving of three powder-starved maniacs in search of redemption. With Ulmer leading the charge, the group descends upon a trackless Brighton backcountry and proceeds to rape and pillage like Mongols in China. Nary a cliff is left unlaunched, a kicker un-pun, or a face unshot. The chaos is routed only by the dipping sun and the fact that the University of Utahs basketball team is playing for the national championship that evening. The entire state seems to want to celebrate with the dirtbags.

And so it ends the following morning. The dirtbags drag themselves off the couches theyve been poaching like Cinderella the morning after the ball. Gray skies cant cover the hopelessly tracked faces of Utahs legendary ski areas. The pile of pizza boxes which remain from last nights victory dinner, seem less glorious without pizza in them. Utah has lost the national championship. And yet, there is a spring in the dirtbags step as they pack the Rodeo and point it home.

They may be dirtbags. They may have blown most of their winnings on beer and cheap women. They may be heading back to a snowless Colorado. But it is with heads held high that they will return. James has a feature to publish, Scott a career to pursue. Johnny has...not spent any of his own money. It is with faces stained by wind, sun, and deep, deep snow that these dirtbags will return. They are dirtbags triumphant.