129 Ski Bums Eric Weinberger If you had nothing else to do in Kitzbühel, you could always start a rumor. “Did you hear? The price of beer at the Londoner is going down. Back to thirty schillings on March first.” “Snow’s coming. A big dump expected Friday, to last all weekend.” The price of beer and the next snowfall: rumors along these lines could set a resort alight. It was all anyone cared about, the snow especially , in that meager winter. In December, when there was lots of snow, it was the price of the Londoner’s beer. On a Tuesday it was said the prices would go up Thursday; on the Thursday, it was said the day was now Sunday; and so on, almost two weeks of this, before the prices did go up. Then, towards the end of winter, we wondered when they would go down. Once the tourists left, once the snow was gone, mid-March, early April: the prices remained the same. Meanwhile, it didn’t snow. After all that snow in December, there was snow two days in January after the Hahnenkamm races, and then nothing until February, when it came twice: once in the second week, then a four-day blizzard two days later that caused ten thousand holiday skiers to wipe out. And that was it. But still the rumors: snow today, snow tomorrow, a light flurry, then a blizzard at the end of the week. The worst rumor-mongers were the Austrians. Obviously, they had the most at stake: if it didn’t snow, they lost business. At the rentals shop the tourists would come in each day, anxiously, and ask if snow was forecast for the weekend. “There will be snow soon,” my supervisor Lenz would pronounce in his most oracular voice. “Tuesday night, Wednesday morning at the latest.” He didn’t know, of course, not any more than what he had read in the paper or seen on the evening news. But to the tourists, Lenz and Toni and all the others—the men who ran the ski school and worked the lifts—were mountain men, and mountain men could feel it in their skin and bones, smell it in the air, sniff it out, 130 Ecotone: reimagining place when snow was coming. Lenz was an impressive liar: I would believe him too. He had a serious look on his face, and bright earnest pop-eyes; with his callused hands and blue working overalls he had the look of a man who has spent his entire life working on skis and skiing. He never said the snow wasn’t coming, and might never come, and that really they were wasting their time. He said: “Snow Tuesday night. Perhaps for three days.” Further embellishing his forecast, he suggested precedents and patterns. “It always snows the last week in January. There was snow yesterday in the Vorarlberg and the Italian Dolomites. Thirty centimeters in East Tyrol alone. The snow is coming very soon.” But alone with me, Lenz was different. “Good skiing, Lenz. New snow.” When it did snow, I was delighted, and took my delight to work. Lenz would hold his fingers an inch apart. “Bah, new snow. About two centimeters.” Or when I came in, having studied the Panoramablick, the television pictures beamed back from the top of the mountain: “It’s snowing up top, Lenz. It’s been snowing all morning.” Again the two fingers bent crooked, held apart. “Ja, new snow. Maybe one centimeter. Tomorrow when it rains, it will be all gone.” It was discouraging talking to Lenz about the weather. As it turned out, it didn’t matter. I skied every day and in all conditions, in the worst cold, in rain, and during whiteouts. I skied little powder that winter but plenty of ice and crud and certainly bare patches. A ski could go over things one wouldn’t expect it to, I discovered, like mud, rocks, or grass (so long as it was wet), wooden planks, and fallen tree branches. Once in early March, I skied the bottom half of the streif with Chip Bennett (him using the skis he would later...