Tucker Peak (11 page)

“Ain’t that too much?” Fred asked, pounding me on the back. “That marketing bunch must be smokin’ something harsh.”

· · ·

The marketing bunch, of course, were fit to be tied, which is exactly what the Tucker Protection League protesters had intended when they’d drilled holes through the ice of the existing snowmakers’ source pond the night before and injected untold gallons of nontoxic yellow dye. Not only did the end-result supply its own highly suggestive message but also, if the mountain managers wished to continue making snow (since the pipeline to the second pond hadn’t yet been laid), they’d have to live with its being yellow until the water’s spring-fed source diluted it back to normal.

Not that alternatives weren’t quasi-hysterically considered. As I walked around the base lodge—and the glassed-in, futuristic scale-model fantasy of itself that sat smack in the middle of the lobby like a wedding cake—I overheard heated discussions ranging from adding another color to the yellow to make it more attractive, to importing snow from other places until the crisis passed, and finally—the winner—to making the best of a bad situation by using the camera crews the protesters had already summoned to launch a reverse-spin publicity spiel about being the most colorful resort in Vermont. A contest was even suggested in which people would be issued additional dye of all colors with which to paint the mountain psychedelically from top to bottom.

The fevered pitch of the debate was such that not only was I totally ignored as I moved along the executive hallway with my bag of tools but also I finally got to see Conan Gorenstein, the reclusive CFO, step out of his enclave to join in some of the chatter. A pale, bald, retiring-looking man, he didn’t last long and disappeared after offering a few totally ignored suggestions.

Through it all, the TPL protesters, whom Phil McNally was still reluctant to forcibly evict, chanted with renewed enthusiasm, their ranks temporarily swollen, and marched around with banners and picket signs, otherwise adding to the carnival atmosphere. Privately, I had to hand it to McNally. Any other CEO would’ve called for the National Guard. Instead, he stood before the cameras, merely asked that the TPL be respectful of everyone’s rights, and closed by offering his critics free food and ski passes, much to their obvious disgust and frustration. Shortly thereafter, in an additional display of oneupmanship, he dressed a few of his employees like protesters on the sly, complete with signs, and had them photographed riding the primary, western chairlift and enjoying his proffered amenities.

It all made me think back to the mountain’s overall beleaguered state, and of McNally’s reputed canniness in dealing with it. If this resort had any chance at survival, it seemed to me this man would be responsible for it.

I got a bird’s-eye view of the evening’s dye job later on, when I was told to go to the summit building to put in some trim work. Traditionally, that meant hitching a ride on one of the snow vehicles that regularly traveled the mountain carrying workers, supplies, or occasionally wounded skiers. But the option was ours, more or less, so I took the opening ride on the eastern lift to soak up the morning sun and enjoy the scenery. One odd aspect of undercover work is that a good deal of the time, in order to maintain cover, you simply have to play the role you’ve assumed, asking no questions and practicing no subversion.

And at moments like that one, such sacrifices are easily borne. The air was clear and sharp, the breeze nonexistent, and the sky a cobalt blue hard enough to hurt the eye. As the chair slowly slid up the multihued slope below, the lower mountains of the bowl, through which the access road had been cut, dropped away and allowed for an ever expanding panorama of the landscape outside this enclosed and introverted community. The Green Mountains spread out to the horizon, snow-capped, bristling with conifers and naked hardwoods, and shaded in subtle grades of heather, gray, light brown, and purple. Ahead of me, still high overhead, was the row of surreal windmills twirling in the apparent calm, looking like whirligigs, their long, slender blades flashing in the sun.

I had just twisted around in my chair to admire the fake-Swiss-village look of the base lodge, when I heard a woman shout in alarm down the line. An empty chair, just beyond the one below me, was gathering speed as it began slipping backward toward a woman and her child, helplessly trapped, their eyes wide with panic. Their legs weighted down with skis, only a flimsy bar separating them from several hundred pounds of metal, the woman and her daughter began to scream.

Until the chairs collided. Following a solid smash and a small, thin wail, there was total silence. The remaining chair between us carried a frightened teenage boy with a snowboard dangling from one foot.

“Oh, man. Oh, Jesus. Holy shit… ”

“Can you see how they’re doing?” I shouted down to him.

“It’s bad. Shit. She’s like bleeding, man.”

“What’s your name?”

He stared at me, open-mouthed. “What?”

“Your name.”

“Spike. People call me Spike. It’s not my real name, but… ”

“Spike’s fine,” I interrupted. “I need you to get real focused here, Spike. You need to help me help those two people, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

“Tell me how they’re doing.”

He glanced back over his shoulder before reporting, “The little girl looks okay—mostly scared. But the mom’s bleeding bad. It’s dripping off her boot and she’s like unconscious or something.”

“Is she staying put in her chair or does it look like she might fall out?”

He didn’t have to double-check this time. “She’s real wobbly, man, slumped over and kind of sliding maybe.”

The lift had stopped moving, the accident having triggered an automatic shut-off, and the chairs were swinging peacefully, silently.

I tucked my legs up, swung around in my chair, and stood up. I could just reach the steel tow cable overhead.

“What’re you doin’, man?” Spike shouted.

“I’m going on your recommendation, kiddo. If it looks like that woman’s about to fall, it could kill her at this height, especially since we’re over rocks here. I’ve got to try to reach her.” I stared at him purposefully. “So you better tell me if you really think she’s slipping.”

The disappointment and fear in his voice lent him credibility. “She’s going. I’m sorry. It’s slow, but she’s going.”

I sighed. I knew the ski patrol would be here soon, once maintenance told them the cause of the shut-down. I also knew that while efficient, such a system took time to get moving, and the first snowmobile hadn’t even showed up yet.

I had several things going for me. I’d done rope training similar to this just recently to pass the VBI physical, I was wearing construction boots and coveralls instead of bulky ski clothes, and my work gloves were made of heavy leather. Convincing myself these were weighty advantages, and not thinking too much of my own chances of surviving a forty-foot drop to the boulder field below, I grasped the cable in both hands, swung my feet up so they crossed over the top at the ankles, and began working my way downline.

I was about halfway to Spike’s chair, aware of the aching in my arms but still feeling okay, when I heard the first snowmobile growling in the distance. A few minutes later a voice rose from the rider who’d had to walk the last distance because of the rough terrain.

He sounded distinctly alarmed. “
Sir. Sir.
You can’t do that. It’s too dangerous. Professional help is on the way.”

I didn’t have the energy to deal with that. “Spike,” I called out.

Spike was getting into the mood of the thing. “Yo.”

“Explain the realities to this guy.”

The young man launched into a convoluted diatribe, overriding the voice below that constantly told me to stop, as if that were an option. When I reached Spike’s chair, however, I knew not only that my actions had been justified but also that I was possibly too late. The woman, still a hundred feet away, was looking worse than I’d imagined, half out of her seat, her head lolling, one ski free of the footrest, the other one jammed but threatening to join the first and deprive her of any anchor at all.

“I think she’s cooked,” Spike said softly.

“Not till she hits the ground,” I told him, no longer sure that was true.

I looked around for something to help speed my progress and finally focused on the man below.

“I’m a mountain employee, too. A carpenter. You have any tools on your sled? I left mine behind.” I pointed to the distant toolbox next to where I’d been sitting.

He glanced at his machine, parked on the snow some fifteen feet off to the side. “What’re you after?”

“A hammer, maybe. Something with a hook. Fast.”

He was already moving, no doubt resigned I’d do what I would in any case. “A crowbar.”

“Even better. Fast as you can.”

He returned in under a minute holding a short crowbar.

“Throw it up. And aim right. I don’t want to do this twice.”

Unquestioning now, he followed instructions, climbing the tallest rock he could find to reduce the distance between us and then lofting the heavy tool underhanded with all his strength, so it shot straight up at us and then poised in midair. Both Spike and I grabbed it simultaneously.

“What’re you going to do?” the teenager asked, letting go.

I hooked the crowbar over the cable above me. “Probably kill myself. Watch your head.”

He leaned away as I grabbed the bottom end of the crowbar. The little girl was watching me, her small, pale face tiny in the distance. I considered trying to talk to her but realized the distance made that a waste of more time. I tightened my grip and pushed off.

My intention had been to control my descent by swinging my feet up as I had earlier and using them as a brake, but the angle was so steep and the cable so slick that I shot off as from a catapult, dangling like a streamer on a kite, all notions of swinging my feet anywhere defeated.

Instead, I watched with growing panic as the tangled two chairs and the woman squeezing her way between them loomed up with ferocious speed.

The foregone conclusion spoke for itself. Not only would I smack into my target hard enough to be killed or maimed but also the impact would probably jar the woman free, and maybe knock the child off as well.

So much for professional help.

Feeling the strength all but gone in both my arms, I nevertheless gave one convulsive heave on the crowbar, pulled myself up for an instant, and grabbed hold of the whistling cable with one hand, now only some fifteen feet from the chair ahead.

The effect was frightening, extremely painful, and instantaneous. My body, suddenly slowed, swung forward, pulling my arm half out of its socket. The crowbar jumped off the cable, smacked me in the chest, and went sailing into the void. And my right hand, now the only thing keeping me from total free flight, instantly began to burn from the friction.

But it worked. Like some preplanned if graceless circus act, I slid to a stop just to where I could place my feet gently on the intertwined chairs, and I wrapped my free arm around the first hanger arm, subconsciously praying my weight wouldn’t bring everything down.

It didn’t, and since my face was now inches away from the loose chair’s cable grip, I could see that while it had obviously slipped, it was still securely attached. Only then did I look down at the approximately six-year-old face staring up at my feet, her eyes the size of silver dollars.

“Hi, sweetie. What’s your name?” I asked, surprised I could even speak.

She didn’t answer as I gingerly climbed through the accidental jungle gym toward her, my entire body tingling from exertion and adrenaline.

“Mine’s Max. I’m here to help your mommy. She’s your mom, right?”

The head nodded. I saw people collecting rapidly far below us, talking on radios, sorting out equipment. I knew they were shouting at me, but I continued to ignore them.

I ended up kneeling on the first chair, which was pressed tightly against the second, squeezing the mother’s chest. I stretched out to grab her under the arms when with a slight groan, she slipped again and almost fell free. I snatched the front of her parka and arrested her fall. She groaned with pain and her eyes opened.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I got you.” I tried unsuccessfully to pull her back up.

“My skis are stuck,” she murmured.

I looked down. She was right. Both skis were now below the footrest, preventing her from being hauled onto the chair.

I glanced at the young girl. “Sweetie?”

“Mary.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Wonderful. Mary it is. Mary, I’m going to ask you to hang on to your mom as tight as you can, okay? I’ll help, too, but I’ve got to use my other hand to undo her skis. Put one arm through the slats in back of the chair, and the other one around her chest, and squeeze as tight as you can. Can you do that?”

Without a word, she followed directions, compressing her lips with serious intent.

Slowly, tentatively, I eased my hold on her mother with one hand and began reaching for her skis, hanging almost upside down in the process. Luckily, the skis were new, the bindings not set too tightly, and the first of them fell away on my first try.

But the second was harder to reach, and as my outstretched fingers got hold of the binding release, something shifted between the chairs. Mary let out a small cry, and her mother’s body began sliding by my head. Fearing I’d lose them both, and my own balance in the bargain, I caught hold of the woman’s fanny-pack belt and reared back with all my strength. We shot up, the last ski smacking against the footrest and springing free on its own, and we all ended up staring at each other in a pile on the chair, Mary crying and her mother screaming with pain.

But at least safe from falling.

Which is when I finally took more careful notice of the blood—on me, on the mother, even on Mary. Dark, arterial blood, which accounted for the reduced consciousness.

“Mary,” I said. “Get your mom to talk to you. I need her to wake up.”

Mary stopped crying and took her mother’s face in her small hands, as suddenly calm as any doctor. “Mommy. Mommy. Talk to me.”