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The Narrow Gauge The Narrow Gauge (Editor’s note: this story is taken from the Vol. 4, #12, Late Feb. 1972 issue of the Sugarloaf Irregular and is reprinted here in its entirety. ©The Original Irregular)
By P. Hall
The Narrow Gauge –not what it used to be –Thank God
I sat in the parking lot the other day at Sugarloaf, looking up at the mountain. The mountain face now has 15 or so distinct ribbons of white trailing in streamer fashion from the white dome and I thought back to the days when there were only four of these ribbons –-from left to right looking up, Winter’s Way (the original), the Sluice, Narrow Gauge and Tote Road. It was on one of these expert trails, the Narrow Gauge, that the following excerpt occurs.
1960 had been a bad year –-all around. I had flunked out of the hallowed halls of Ivy –-the Dean had said, “You didn’t even score; what’s wrong with you –-you’re not applying yourself in the least.” That’s where you’re wrong, Dean-o. I’ve been applying myself to the BEST of my abilities –-every weekend as soon as I can get out of here –-in fact, sometimes I’m gone by Wednesday. I apply the best wax I can find to the best “boards” I can beg, borrow and break from my buddies at the “Loaf.” Once I tried giving Harv at the ski shop the old line about trying out a pair to see if I like ‘em, but Harv was a little too sharp for that little act of the “Artful Dodge.” He knew a true bum when he saw one. “They’re not much good to me once I set screws into ‘em,” he said, “but I’ll mount ‘em up for you if you think you can see ‘em paid for this summer.” Artful Dodger Harv!
From the day it was cut, the trail had been destined for great things. It was a demanding trail for the best skiers. I’ve seen some great skiers go down over that trail, and I don’t mean last year’s World Cup contestants –-I mean great skiers in years when ski technology was way behind the enthusiasm of Sugarloaf skiers. The Narrow Gauge and Sluice have probably seen more great skiers than Gustavo Thoeni will ever hope to see in a lifetime. Take for instance Austrian Olympian Ernst Oberaigner who stayed for two weeks at the “Loaf” after the 1960 Olympics at Squaw Valley (maybe it was the waitress at Tague’s who helped, too); Norm Twitchell who I’ve seen fly off over the lower headwall at about 60 mph and do a “frog” (spread eagle) before he landed, or “Crazy Chris” Quimby, the Bingham Flash, or “Dirty Al” Turner who could hit 75 on a pair of 225’s any day of the week. These are a few –-there were scores more-– “Flying Frankie” Fitz and Brett Russell at 50 m.p.h. in a full plaster body cast –-Charlie Gaunce, with silk panties on his ski pole –-the Mee twins (another pair, screaming at 90 mph on any given night at Tague’s), and a host of others.
This particular year –-1960-– had been a good one for skiers –-all you had to do was look at the 10-foot moguls on the Narrow Gauge to tell. There was no such thing as snow-grooming as such, except when you bounced off a mogul with your fanny and slid some snow down into the trough below. Otherwise, it was hold onto your hat and point ‘em down. I arrived on Friday night and immediately found the group in Tague’s (the only spot that year where the “action” was) talking over –-lying through their teeth, actually-– the great runs that day down Sluice. “Hey –- any you guys got any extra skis?” No answer. Jukebox was just blasting away with the big song “Greenfields,” sung by the Limelighters. Some new “ginch” floating around –-never seen those two before. “Hey, Brett –-who’re those two?” “N.A.B.’s from Smith.” Russell could size ‘em up in two seconds –-No Action Broads.
“Hey –-any you guys got any extra skis tomorrow?” A little louder –-still no takers. Dirty Al spoke up. “Hey, I got a pair I want you to try –-they’re beautiful –-skied on ‘em today –-you’ll love ‘em.” Silence all around him –-Charlie Gaunce coughed and turned his back to Al.
“No kiddin’?” I ventured –-too good to be true.
“Yeah –a new pair of Kniessl Knones –220’s– with bear-traps and thongs.”
Yow! Ecstasy –- Seventh Heaven and all things cool wrapped into one set of beautiful boards!
“O.K. –-what’s wrong with ‘em?”
“Nothing –- I gotta ‘nother pair of comb is and you can have the Knones –- don’t bust ‘em!” I thought I heard a snicker behind Al – maybe it was Gaunce coughing again.
“Beautiful!”
The next morning was one of those days you can reach out and touch Avery Peak on Bigelow from where you stand on the top of Three –-looking down the Gauge. Which was where I was at 9, along with Al, Gaunce, Russell –-the whole gang.
They took off like rockets in a high tuck, down around the corner out of sight. That’s funny, I thought –-what the hell have they got up their sleeve.
The instant I pushed off with the poles I knew what it was. There wasn’t a prayer in hell I was ever gonna turn those Kniessls under me. 220 centimeters of screaming steel edge on a pair of boards with Death written all over ‘em. By the first corner off the top I was hitting 35 at least and knew there was no way I’d ever survive the Headwall if I didn’t get myself slowed down. Frantic, I pondered grabbing a birch but gave up that thought, remembering the kid that splattered himself on one last year. And there I was, down around the S and I could see the drop-off on the Headwall in front. The parking lots two miles below seemed to look like I was gonna land in one of ‘em when I took off over the Headwall.
I saw one figure standing on the top of the Wall as I shot past who screamed as I hit the first of three 10-foot moguls. The first mogul put me into a lift-off position for the second mogul which I hit at between 65 and 75 mph. There was no way I could ever miss the woods at the turn below in the trail. Flying through the air off this second bump, visions and images of my past life sprang up before me, and I knew this was it. I was approximately 12 to 15 feet off the snow –-sideways-- with skis stiffened below me ready for the shock. I hit a spruce tree like it was a matchstick, and I plummeted to terra firma with the top of this softwood pulp stick on top of me. It was the thing that saved me as the spruce was probably the only dead tree in that whole stand of conifers on the corner below the Wall. After landing with a thud and the spruce top crashing down on me, I heard a wail from the figure on top of the Headwall, who turned out to be Jean Tague. “You O.K.?” she screamed.
I could hear her, so I was still alive, I reckoned. “I dunno.” I tried moving an arm, and it moved. No Pain. Then a leg; then the other leg –-no pain. I pushed the tree-top off me and untied the six-foot long thongs on each boot and stood up. “Whew –-lucky on that one,” I tried laughing but sounded like a wavering whisper.
“I thought you were dead,” she said.
No thanks to those guys, I should have been. To this day I can’t remember if I put those Knones back on my feet again or if I just walked down, but I knew I’d been down over the Gauge faster than I ever wanted to go down that trail ever again. But those were the days when you shook it off and were probably doing crazier things the next. The Narrow Gauge? Not what it used to be –Thank God.
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