go pūkeko

I remember die Frau in traditional Dirndl dress drifting backwards and forwards with trays of schnapps. The lines of firewater being chugged whole, followed by intense grimaces, then empty glasses thumped upon the old wooden table.

Das Bayernhaus was perched high on the forested ski slopes of Garmisch in southern Germany. From this possie, there were sweeping views across to the jagged peaks of Austria. The two-storey chalet was well frequented by die Skilehrer, after a thirsty days’ work pounding the pistes with the punters.

Captain, I forget his actual name which was never spoken, in particular, was in a very jovial mood having stacked up quite the pile of empties. The rowdiness echoed around the ornately decorated walls. By the time the last call was upon us, most had slid away to recharge for the next day. We were the last to stumble out.

The four of us step off the porch into black space dotted with bright and milky constellations. The session had numbed the chill, but the air is hard to gulp being a fair deal below zero.  We fumble around for our gear and eventually all our skis are clacked on, and we’re ready to take on the long downhill run to the valley floor.

A surrealness glows over die Bayrishen Alpen. The night is silently still except for an occasional burst of birdsong that rings out from the tall timber outlines. Christine and Ally are first off along the narrow track which leads through the woods to the main slope. They are soon engulfed by the shadowy firs. I follow and Captain takes up the rear. Working off memory and from leg responses to the invisible contours is the key to staying upright. One mistake means a high-speed head on with a hefty trunk. Despite this I am feeling confident, no doubt amplified by the booze.

Next thing, I am suddenly propelled, hurtling skywards and at the same time caught in a suspended moment waiting for the inevitable impact and carnage. Whooompfa, a shuddersome thud, an out-of-control arms and legs windmill manoeuvre, then I come to a reverse thrust-like stop. I’m now wide-awake and breathing heavily. Aargh, I clean forgot about that gnarly bank drop off where the trail joins the valley run.

I check my vitals, some dull pains but otherwise surprisingly intact. I gather myself, and catch up with the girls waiting ahead. We drift off together, carving large radius turns on the wide sweeping slopes, gliding as the golden eagles do in the currents by day.

We stop for a breather on a plateau. There are only our three shadowed shapes under the moonlight. Where’s Captain? We holler up the Hausberg, yet only hear our voices returned back from the massifs that surround us.

Our euphoria freezes, then starts to plummet as time passes. We kick off our skis and start the slog upwards in our clunky boots. We climb at pace, our chests burning, but we have to stop often to suck in more frosty oxygen, and shout out, “Captain, Captain…”.

Eventually we hear a muffled sound descending the basin. We head onwards towards the far away noise, possibly that of a wounded animal but maybe not. An outline can soon be seen in the distance, something splotted into the snow – a fuzzy lump. It is unlikely to be a bear but is hard to tell with our beer goggles on.

We crunch our way nearer to the spot and are relieved when we can make out the figure of a person. En-route some skis and poles scattered like aircraft crash debris. Captain must have had serious air time, 20 metres or so of it. Our exhaustion is quenched by the adrenaline, every moment is vital. His cries are excruciating. The reassurances we give do nothing. We dare not move him beyond making his head comfortable and try to warm him with our jackets. Christine tries her cell. Yes! Coverage! It rings and soon Deutsche is heard on the other end. A desperate exchange of information follows. Die Bergwacht will come up immediately from town.

I help relay the news to Captain. The sight of his howling body lying on the frozen expanse is sobering. I’m hit with the gravity of the situation and my own near miss. The days of schussing when sloshed needs to finish. Especially for me; I can’t afford to partake in this lifestyle. I now have a dependent. He is only nine months old and over yonder awaiting my return.

I recall some months later when I was in das Skischule Buro, this tall wiry man hobbled in. He was framed like scaffolding around a building. It was the first time I’d seen Captain since the snowmobile carted his stretcher off. My memory was just flashing lights and a beam disappearing into the nothingness.

He was grateful that we hadn’t shifted him. Further damage to the four fractures in his back would have been inevitable, and could have even resulted in paralysis. As it happened, he faced a long recovery and it was uncertain whether he would ride again.