I miss hanging out with my brother. We come from an athletic family, and before he used to eat, breathe, and crap out of a tube he loved skiing; something I was never particularly crazy about compared to soccer or boxing, which he also enjoyed. His friends had taken him to Colorado for spring break while he was a Sophomore in high school and he proved a natural. The Christmas that followed he was gifted with his very own pair of skis.
Now, they’re stashed in some dark and cluttered corner of the garage because it’s too unbearable to look at the dark reminders of his last ski trip.
The winter of my second year in college Tim cast the idea in my direction and I bit.
Tim asked, randomly, “You liked skiing in Wisconsin right?”
“Yea, I had a good time,” I replied, and I wasn’t lying. I had gone the year before. The feeling of being able to move, seamless across the ground, without having to move your legs is awesome in the true sense of the word.
Tim looked noticeably excited as he explained how he had, “talked to mom and she said that the tickets were pretty cheap and we can fly out to Colorado for a few days during spring break to ski on the Rockies. What do you think?”
Since college, my biggest regret was not spending more time with my brother.
“Hell yea, bro. Let’s do it,” I told him, matching his smile.
The plane was in the air all of two hours before we arrived.
In actuality, the state is much flatter than one would probably assume. I remember asking my brother where all the mountains were.
“Just wait, we got to get to Denver first,” Tim said.
“And then Burkenbridge?” I asked, doubtfully.
“Breckenridge, dummy,” Tim laughed shaking his head.
“Oh. Yea I know, I was just testing you.”
“For sure.”
The day we arrived, we made it to Breckenridge in time to ski for a few hours just me and Tim. Now, the mountains reached breathlessly far into the sky, blocking out the horizon in every direction. So grand they seemed fake, as if a giant had plastered green screens in the distance and was projecting images of mountains instead of the real thing.
By the time the lifts closed, I realized how woefully unprepared I was for the steep slopes Colorado had to offer, and Russ was waiting for us at the hotel.
Russ had taken Tim on his first ski trip, they’ve been friends since seventh grade. I think the reason he’s always been a gigantic asshole is the fact his parents are filthy rich.
That night Tim somehow convinced my mom to let us; Russ, Tim, and myself, go off on our own to the ski resort about an hour away.
We left early next morning.
Gas choked clouds rose in plumes behind the truck Russ’ family had brought. They paid someone else to tow or drive it down while they flew first class.
Packed inside was Russ, driving, Tim in the passenger, and me alone in the back, along with our gear stowed in the bed of the truck.
“What’s the resort called again? And how are we getting in?” I wondered aloud. We seemed to be traveling deep into the bowels of the Rockies.
Both Tim and I looked at Russ for an answer while he held his gaze to the road.
Russ said flatly, as if he had forgotten, “Oh, I was lying.”
Exchanging confused looks, Tim and I spoke over each other.
“Dude, I told my mom we were-“(‘I fucking knew it’)-
“Oh my God, you guys should get paid for sucking the fun out of stuff. You’re professionals,” Russ snapped. “Don’t you guys want to have fun?”
I shot, angrily at him, “How about you tell us before-hand douchebag.”
“Yea, how about you take off those pairs of panties you’re wearing, pussies,” Russ said.
I never usually act on anger but there’s something about snotty brats that flips a switch in me, especially if they’re younger. I was the oldest in the car but I didn’t feel in charge of the situation, so I leaned forward and smacked him on the side of the face, a light yet firm, solid strike, enough to damage his ego.
Russ jerked the wheel in response, nearly sending the truck off an embankment and smashing through the frozen lake below.
Tim gripped his seatbelt tightly, gasping, “Jesus!”
With smoldering eyes, Russ whipped his head around and burned me with his stare. I wasn’t fazed. We both knew he couldn’t do anything to me; Russ had seen me wrestle in high school. He would not have lasted five seconds.
I challenged Russ’ eyes with my own, while Tim played peacemaker.
“Chill. We’ve been driving for like half hour. We finally got Mom off our ass, right?” he gestured in my direction. “Russ, you should’ve told us, that’s not cool. Just tell us where we’re going.”
Russ turned around and Indian burned the steering wheel while he muttered.
“My dad knows some guy who used to work at a ski resort that got shut down. It was open real early into Colorado’s skiing era but shut down real quick too. Property never got taken by the government for some stupid reason and the land never sold neither. Eventually, ownership got passed down to this dude my dad knows.
“Anyway, my dad paid this guy to let us on and work the ski lifts ourselves. The resort covers three mountain peaks and stretches over 2,000 acres or something. Basically, we get to ski three mountains alone with no lift lines. It’ll be fun.”
He almost spat the last sentence out but I was distracted, my youthful spirit nearly getting the best of me, the excitement of the idea creeping along my spine. But the rational part of my brain soon lit up.
I sighed, “And if one of us gets hurt? Or lost? Or an avalanche god forbid, when was the last time someone was up in those mountains?”
By the time I had finished the barrage of questions, the car was in drive again and resuming its path on the road leading into the mountains.
“Then we use our phones… Crazy technology nowadays, huh?” Russ mocked.
Tim remained quiet the whole time, letting us argue. I failed to notice that he didn’t say a word for some time after Russ confessed the truth about our destination. I wonder if he had wanted to go back. I wish I could’ve stood up for him then.
Silence clung to the car for the rest of the drive until we reached the end of a side road Russ had taken off the paved main road. We pulled off next to three well kept, shiny snowmobiles.
I laughed and Tim finally voiced his annoyance.
“No way, man. Anything else you feel like not sharing?” he asked, while Russ pocketed the truck keys, grabbed his skiing gear and plodded to the snowmobile. “Is the Pope going to be waiting for us at the base?”
“Shut up and grab your stuff. Its not that far from here.” Russ said. He had stopped looking us in the eyes when he spoke. I can’t lie, I was still feeling the pleasure I got from cracking the side of his face.
Admittedly, the cure to our testy moods were the snowmobiles. After a short demonstration, we were off, racing each other, and taking dangerous detours off path. Without realizing, we had arrived at the base in no time.
A single ski lift came into view, a lone structure in a clearing surrounded by the forest we had just traversed with our snowmobiles.
“Alright,” Russ said. “Suit up, I’ll find how to turn this thing on.” He towards the small interior operating room of the lift.
We dismounted our vehicles and Tim and I went about shoving our feet into the clunky ski boots, fitting out helmets and goggles on, shoving our hand into gloves, and finally latching our boots into the skis.
While we fit our gear on, Tim tapped me on my shoulder.
“Are you sure you want to do this?,” he asked. “You could get into trouble up there.”
I replied, “I’ll be fine. I was about to ask you the same. We’ve got to be careful, no one’s around to help. And I don’t know if phones will –”
“Don’t stress, we’ll take it easy. Ain’t no way I’m going to let my brother outski me,” Tim joked but I could hear the nerves in his voice.
“That’s not what –”
The lift groaned to life in front of us. The seats wailed cries of metal as the conveyance system yanked them forward in an eerie parade, gliding up the hill.
Russ stood in the doorway, a confused look on his face.
“I didn’t turn that on,” he let us know.
Tim and I chuckled, either nervously or in sarcastic disbelief.
“You sure you didn’t bump into something in there, you clumsy bastard?” Tim asked. We clicked our boots into our skis and slid over to Russ and the loading zone on the lift.
“Nah man…” he said to himself. Russ looked back inside the small interior office of the ski lift, let a second pass, then quickly slapped all his gear on and joined us at the loading zone. We scooched forward after the next chair passed us and allowed the following chair to scoop us off our feet, settling into the worn, frayed cushioning. I looked at Tim sat in the middle between Russ and I and gave him a smile he couldn’t see.
As we steadily rose the mountains ahead loomed tall, getting closer by the second. The peak that this lift would bring us to was the second tallest of the three, but by no means was it small. It seemed to be a straight shot down, a singular path, wide and bordered by trees on both sides. It was all pristine white, no obstacles, no bumps or moguls, and best of all no people.
To the left of this peak, I was beginning to see the crest of smallest mountain. There seemed to be no trails on it however, the entire mountain sporting an afro of evergreens sprouting out of what seemed to be every square foot.
Finally, the behemoth. Easily, clearing the height of the first two, the last and largest mountain seemed to pierce the stratosphere and leak oxygen out into space. That’s what its like to be that high up, the air seems to spring out of your lungs and slip into the void. It was so steep I decided then that I would avoid that mountain at all costs if I valued my life.
“Did you get a map of the place?” Tim turned stiffly towards Russ.
“At the top of this lift there’s a sort of mini office-lodge-thing the ski patrol team that used to work here used. Should be in there,” Russ answered disinterestedly. He was on his phone now checking Snapchat. We were three quarters up the mountain now, the unload station now in view.
I asked him how old the resort was again.
“Think he said 1930s-ish. Think he said this was one of the first places ski-lifts were used after they were invented,” Russ said swiping on his phone as if that piece of information wasn’t genuinely interesting.
“Damn,” Russ said suddenly. Turning his phone off and shoving it into his pocket. “Service is getting wonky.”
“I thought you said we could call-“ I started angrily, but Tim spotted what would end up being the terrifying start of our trip into these cursed mountains.
“Hey, when did that guy get on?” Tim interrupted and pointed behind us. Russ and I twisted in the same way Tim was to get a good look.
In the seat directly behind us was a skier.
As a skier, the most important aspect of your trip is your clothing. Without the proper winter jacket, snow pants, gloves, boots, balaclava, hat, helmet, and goggles, your time on the mountain can shorten substantially due to the elements. If you wear all these things, not a single piece of your skin will show, completely covered by the baggy snow clothing, protecting you from the cold, unless you choose to remove your gloves, or lower your balaclava or goggles.
The skier that sat approximately 25 meters away from us was completely covered in his winter clothes. His garb was normal. Grey jacket with black helmet, balaclava, and gloves along with his fat boots strapped to blue skis. He didn’t move at all, only swayed with the seat as it jostled up the hill behind us.
“When did he get on? Did you guys see him at the bottom with us?” Tim asked nervously.
“I don’t know, he might’ve snuck up on us or been waiting,” Russ said trying to rationalize it, but I could sense he was unsettled. I was too. For this skier to have been able to load on the seat following us, he would’ve had to have been close enough behind us in line for us to notice.
“He’s trespassing, you know,” Russ added.
“Technically, aren’t we trespassing too?” I countered. I was put off, my gut warning me of this skier who had just seemed to appear out of thin air.
“HEY,” Russ called, not shouting, but with a raised voice. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
The irony in those words tickled me and I would’ve laughed, but as soon as Russ directed his voice towards the skier, the skier’s head jerked up. The movement caught us off guard and thoroughly disturbed us. I could visibly tell as Russ immediately shut his mouth and swallowed audibly. Tim now looked straight down at his skis, silent. The skiers movement was… almost normal. Something off about the speed and fluidity of his movements, I’ve never been able to place my finger on exactly what.
Suddenly the offload station was 10 feet away.
“Look out,” Tim noticed first. He scooched forward and pushed himself off the seat sliding out. Russ did the same without incident, but when I tried, a split second too late, the seat turned hitting me in an awkward spot behind the knee. It buckled and I felt an abnormal shift in my knee but no pain. I did however fall on my ass.
I was then aware of the skier approaching me from behind, the lift bringing him closer to the unloading station and I would soon be face to face with the featureless skier. For some reason, even though the skier had done nothing hostile except look in our direction, I just knew I couldn’t let him get close to me. Somewhere in my primate brain, my intuition told me that danger was present.
Russ was beelining for the ski patrol lodge he had talked about, a small shack almost, some 30 yards away. I’ll always love my brother for coming back for me then. He yanked me up, steadied me onto my skis and together we sped after Russ.
I heard the skier unload behind us as we approached the door to the lodge that Russ had already entered. I didn’t chance a look until I was inside, slamming the door behind Tim and I peeled the curtain back on the window next to the door.
Nothing.
No skier, not another soul in sight. We were on top of the mountain now and if not for the terrifying experience, I would’ve truly appreciated the view.
Silence blanketed the inside of the shack, broken eventually by nervous laughter. We dismissed the skier as a friend of the owner, desperately trying to ease the fear we all felt.
Russ told us to get looking for a map. The interior of the space wasn’t much. It was essentially a very large living room; a couch to the left when you walk in, set against the back wall, an ugly rug displayed on the floor, just noticeably off center, and a variety of desks and cabinets scattered around. The only other door beside the exit was one that lead to a bathroom in the far corner.
It didn’t take Tim long to find a map of the resort.
“Got it,” Tim announced. On the opposite end of the room Russ and Tim huddled around the pamphlet map while I studied the book I picked up off a lonely desk in the corner by the bathroom.
While the younger boys talked about the best routes to take, I was busy opening the large book and pulling the long scroll-like sheet free that had been folded up and tucked firmly between its pages. Under normal circumstances, if someone had shown me what was written on it I would’ve laughed. But the moment we had arrived, there was this nagging whisper from the back of my head telling me to leave.
So, instead, I studied the words scrawled in messy handwriting, while a flower of dread bloomed in the pit of my stomach.
Rules for the Mountains
Mountain #1:
1. *This cabin is your only haven in the resort. Always know the quickest route back here from wherever you go in the resort.
2. Ignore the skiers. They are mostly harmless unless directly interacted with. Avoid contact at ANY cost.
3. Never remove or adjust any clothing while in direct line of sight of any skiers. They will know you are not one of them.
4. Be mindful and remember the outfits your party is wearing. It is easy to lose track of friends and mistake a skier as one of them. This could be a grave error.
5. This mountain is the safest and quickest way back down to the base. It is a straight shot down but once you start, the skiers will come. Do not let them catch you.
Mountain #2:
1. NEVER go down any trail on this mountain alone.
2. If you notice you’ve been on a trail for longer than 5 minutes, immediately stop and cut through the forest until you reach another trail. Continue skiing from there.
3. If the forest begins to make noises, make your way to the mountain’s lift as quickly as possible, and leave immediately.
4. Do not stay on the mountain for longer than 20 minutes. You will not find your way back.
Mountain #3:
1. Beware of the one who hibernates. *This cabin will not protect you
2. Total and utter silence is required.
3. Ski at the risk of annihilation.
“Sweet so we can start down there and jump to the top and work our way down again,” Tim was tracing the map Russ now held in his hands.
“Guys…” I called out hesitantly. “You need to see this.”
I knew they wouldn’t believe. Who would, it’s a stupid prank, or workplace gag on newbies or the punchline of a crappy joke. But that same gnawing feeling in my gut was there as I read and reread the list. The same feeling I had staring at the skier on the lift behind us. When I fell in the unloading station and sensed the unstoppable march of death behind me, opening its frigid grasp to close its fingers around me.
I should’ve listened to myself, made them listen too. Now I can only hear the echoes of our screams that day…