My eyes pop open: It's 6:05 a.m., just five minutes before my alarm is set to go off. I quickly delete the alarm on my phone and slide out of bed in the dark, trying in vain to avoid waking my wife and our dog. Clicking on the small flashlight built into my watch, I navigate to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get dressed.
As quietly as possible, I leave the bedroom and head to the kitchen and main living area where I make a cup of coffee, turn on that day's YouTube ski video (sound on mute), and start stretching. The daily routine involves a variety of stretches and mobility exercises designed to keep my 54-year-old body firing on all cylinders.
About halfway through the routine, I make a second cup of coffee — larger this time — and put it in a travel mug. I go back to stretching and halfheartedly watching the ski film playing on the TV.
Stretching complete. I head downstairs, finish getting dressed, grab my helmet and goggles and boots, and walk into the garage to start packing the car. Because I patrol part-time — one or two days a week — my ski gear gets spread across my patrol pack and my backcountry pack. I take the time to sort the gear, repack my patrol pack — helmet in the carrier, goggles in the felt-lined pocket, extra stuff — work gloves, hat, sunscreen, skins, and so on in the main compartment.
I find myself standing at the back of the car, tailgate open, talking through a mental list to make sure I have everything. I start at my feet and physically touch each item to make sure it's in the car: boots, pants, patrol jacket, gloves, helmet, goggles, pack. Then, I grab my skis and poles off the wall, put them on the ski rack, open the garage door, and back out into the darkness of a winter morning.
As I pull out of the driveway, headed for town, I relax into the seat and turn on my patrol playlist, which is a collection of mellow tunes designed to ease me into the day. This may be my favorite part of a patrol day — winding down Roosevelt Ave., taking the right-hand turn at Dr. Charles's office, seeing the lights of Shore Lodge glimmer across the lake and, in the foreground, the city Christmas tree all ablaze in color.
Turning onto Main Street is always quiet. My tires squeak — in a normal year — on the snow and the lights of town — Hotel McCall, Chevron, Albertsons — mark my path to the mountains. As I pass Pueblo Lindo, darkness encroaches, my headlights carving a tunnel in the sky, guiding me past Little Ski Hill and up Goose Lake Road. Normally, I'm alone on the road. Just me, my music, and my wandering thoughts. It's a magical time.
Pulling into the ski patrol lot at 7:15 a.m., I officially start my day. I clock in on the app and walk around to my "locker room" cleverly disguised as my car. I open the tailgate, music still playing over the speakers, and get dressed, pulling on boots, jacket, and pack. When I'm ready, I grab my skis and poles off the top of the car and walk up to the first aid room.
Inside, the day's pace picks up. I say "hi" to fellow patrollers, sign up for a run to open, grab a radio and slide it into my pack, and head back outside to help the team set up fence outside our first aid room and run through the pre-check on both snowmobiles.
With everything complete, I head back inside with the rest of the team for our 8:00 a.m. meeting. That day's Hill Captain greets us and walks though the daily briefing — snow report, avalanche forecast, work missions, daily safety topic, daily events, and so on. It's a time of focus for the patrollers.
Meeting finished, the team leaves the building and goes about the business of opening the mountain. Today, my responsibility is opening 45th Parallel — a nice, steepish run that catches the morning sun up top before it dives into the shadows.
Two by two, patrollers board Bluebird and ride to the top. The radio crackles to life as the patroller responsible for opening Main Street announces, "Bluebird has been ridden."
The dispatcher responds, "Copy that. Bluebird ridden. 8:15."
I slide off the lift and ski over to the patrol headquarters, the building on top of the mountain. I follow my fellow patrollers inside and grab an orange, plastic hammer. I tuck it away in the front pocket of my vest and head back outside where I step into my skis and begin my opening run.
I glide down the cat track, up to the top of Centennial Lift and take in the view. The sun is streaking the sky with pinks and reds and oranges. It's beautiful. As I ski down to the top of 45th, I keep an eye on the rope line to my left. I'm looking for sags or missing flagging. Today, it looks great, so I keep on moving, stopping just above the exit to Lakeview lift to install a "caution" banner above the merge. I grab the banner for the side of the run, where it was stored for the night, walk it back uphill a bit and pound it into the snow/ice with the orange hammer.
Then, I ski the cut to the top of 45th and start working my way down. Today's a groomer day — and the corduroy is pristine. I make short-radius turns down the left-hand side of the run — working to save as much of the run for guests as possible. I keep a sharp lookout for hazards in the snow, something that maybe needs to be marked or smoothed out with my skis. Everything looks great.
Just above the cat track, I stop to install a "slow" banner. Same as before – grabbing it from the side of the run, walking it uphill, and pounding it in. Then, I ski the rest of the run and head to Centennial. It's my job to be first chair on this lift, the goal being to have it ridden before 9 a.m. so it can open to the public on time.
Sliding into the corrals, the lifty waves me forward and onto the lift. I yell, "Have a great day!" as I pass him. He yells back and smiles.
Once on the lift, I call dispatch: "Dispatch, Centennial first chair is loaded."
Dispatch responds, "Copy that, Centennial loaded. 8:40."
As I ride the lift, I keep an eye on each of the towers and the comm line, looking for anything weird or funky and listening for any unusual noises. Today, like most days, everything is great. So, I exit the chair up top and call it in.
Dispatch responds and Centennial is officially ready to open for the public at 9 a.m.
I ski the ridge, staying in the sunlight as long as possible and drinking in the view of our lake, town, and valley far below. Working my way back along South Lodge Lane, I keep an eye on the snow, looking for brown spots or rocks turned up by the groomer the night before or the unseasonably warm temperature. Everything looks good, and I slide into the Bluebird corrals, make small talk with the lifties, and ride to the top.
I walk back into the patrol headquarters, return my orange hammer to the appropriate peg, and ask our dispatcher if there are any work missions that need to be done.
She says, "No."
So, I head out to the best part of the day — patrolling the mountain. My strategy is simple: I start with "ation-nation" — Sensation, Celebration and Temptation — then, work through Lakeview Bowl, then work all the groomed runs from lookers right to left. My goal is to get eyes on all the open terrain over the course of the next couple of hours. A full day of patrolling can be tiring — sometimes covering as much as 35,000 feet of vertical — but that's the job.
Along the way, I stop to talk with guests, pick up fallen skiers, push down binding backs and help folks into their skis, take pictures (lots and lots of pictures), talk with the lifties, and fix ropes and signs wherever I find them in need.
Sometimes, I roll up on an accident and get to work providing care. Other times, the radio squeaks, and I find myself rushing to an accident that happens to be near where I am.
Every hour or so, I swing by the patrol headquarters to make sure we have enough coverage or to relieve someone who's been there for a while. There's no formal rotation, just common sense. Swing by, hang out if coverage is low or if you haven't yet taken a turn.
Our protocol is simple, like most patrols — we always have three people in the patrol headquarters at the top of the mountain ready and able to respond to an incident. The fastest way to respond is from the top — which is why those "lazy" patrollers are always hanging out on the deck or inside. It's simply the best place for us to be to help you if you have an emergency.
As the day winds down, work missions are completed, accidents are run, and patrol presence across the mountain is consistent. At 3:45 p.m., I head down Alpine to read the snow stake. I radio dispatch with the snow level and then slide down the run, down the cat track to Centennial where my job is now to be the last chair and close the lift for the day.
At 4 p.m. precisely — according to my iPhone — I slide onto the chair and report to dispatch that last chair is loaded. As I ride up one last time, I look for guests who are still on the mountain. If I see them, I note their location and their ability level. Are they likely to be gone by the time we sweep this area?
Today, it seems likely. I exit the lift, let dispatch know Centennial is clear of patrol, and listen as she confirms and then announces patrol is out on sweep for the night.
As I retrace my steps from the morning, pulling the caution banner from above the Lakeview merge, working down 45th calling out "Closing!" and looking for any guests who are still on the mountain, pulling the slow banner from above the cat track, I get to enjoy my second favorite part of the day.
All across the mountain, you hear "Closing. Closing." And off the west, the mountains are on fire — alpenglow in full effect, the soft sound of my skis on snow soothing my soul.
For whatever reason, this last run down the mountain always makes me think of my late father-in-law, a patroller himself. I smile, thinking to myself, Stan, it's a another beautiful night. I know you had a lot of runs like this. Hope you're doing well — and you're seeing this.
And then, I finish off my run, pulling into Bear Chair, where I meet the patrollers who swept Alpine and Engen. Together, we ride the last chair on Bear Chair, call it in, and head down our runs to the first aid room.
As we slide into the circle of patrollers forming in the snow outside the first aid room, we're tired, maybe cold, but happy. Satisfied. When all the patrollers are in, our Hill Captain radios dispatch to let the groomers know the hill is now theirs and talks through the day. We hear about what went right. What we need to work on. And any funny things that might have happened.
At the close of the meeting, we head into the building, place our radios on the chargers, change our clothes, and head home. The day that started around 7:15 a.m. has ended around 5:30 p.m.
