Loon MountainHis name was Bob. He was a friend from work. Charismatic and fun, people gravitated to him. He told me he had been on the ski patrol at a couple of places. I knew he had a tendency to embellish things, but I more or less took it for granted that he would be a good skier.
We took a Wednesday off from work and headed to Loon Mountain in Northern New Hampshire. The place was empty, and we flew down the trails with no interference from other skiers. I was on Head 360s in those days. They were about 200cc long and built up a lot of speed as I went down the trail. I was comfortable at high speeds and was enjoying the cold wind, smell of pine, and sense of falling through gravity.
At one point I came around a corner and saw a hat. Further down, poles, and finally a crumpled skier. Bob was OK, but this was the first of numerous falls. His skiing wasn't bad, but he couldn't handle the turns at high speeds. I hoped he would slow down, but he was a stubborn guy, who kept pushing himself. We never stopped for lunch.
It had been a great ski day for me. Later Vicki, Bob, and I skied Tuckerman's Ravine on Mt. Washington. Those were good days of stout-hearted fellowship, fast skis, and alpine adventure.
