On, Hart Ski! and Olin!
To the top of the lift,
34 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
to the top of it all!
Now, Ski away!
Ski away!
Ski away, all!"
To soon there, I found myself
reaching the bottom,
Where I met with the lift man,
whose job is to load 'em:
As I took off my pole straps
and was turning around,
I got a nod from the lift man
as he made not a sound;
I too spoke not a word,
with my head gave a quirk,
And was then on his chair
as I sat with a jerk--
But I heard him exclaim
as I rose out of sight:
"Happy Skiing, To All! . . .
. . . And, To All, . . .
A Good Chair Ride!"
#
A Chair Ride Before Christmas -- 35
36 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
The Turn Not Taken -- 37
Many a ski-boy or ski-girl gets bucked off when they don't have enough weight on their outside ski: complacency or fear causes us to get too much weight on the inside ski, which generally results in tip-crossing or doing-the-splits, which either way results in a big karmic face-plant--"The Turn Not Taken" is about this lack of commitment. Heins wrote it in 1985, the year he got asked to go to the Snow Queen Ball by two different girls. Robert Frost might have loved this poem. . . .
The Turn
Not Taken
My two skis diverged on a powdery slope; And, sorry I could not ski on both,
And, be one mortal, long I stood
And looked down at one as soon as I could To where it dove to the undergrowth;
38 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
Then I looked at my other ski, just as fair, And having indeed the better claim
Because it had surfaced and maybe would steer
--Though as for that my panic here
Had rendered it really about as lame.
Both skis that turn unequally lay
In snow no ski had recently packed
--Oh, I kept the first for another way; Yet, knowing how lateness makes skis splay, I doubted I could ever get it back.
I shall be telling you with a sigh,
Somewhere ages and edges hence:
My two skis diverged, and I--
I chose the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the diffidence.
#
The Turn Not Taken -- 39
40 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
The Cremation of Pamela McGee -- 41
Whereas the craven just won't ski, Pamela McGee is perhaps something of a wanna-be ski-girl.
McGee is already a pretty good skier--she's had lots of lessons,--but fear of falling holds her back; so, as her teacher and not her baby-sitter, Heins gets frus-trated and just wants to get rid of her by cremating her on one of Jackson Hole's expert slopes notorious for difficult half-baked crud snow and its point-of-no-return logistics, Lower Sublette Ridge. Written in 1987, before easy access to the area, this Robert Service parody was long Heins's own favorite, since it touches on the sometimes neurotic teacher-student relationship. . . .
The Cremation
of Pamela McGee
There are strange things done
for some mountain fun
by some ski-boys who are so bold;
The mountain trails have their secret tales
42 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
that would make your blood run cold; The ski-lift heights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever would see . . .
Is the morn on the ledge 'bove Sublette Ridge
. . . I would cremate Pam McGee.
Now Pamela McGee was from Grand Targhee where the powder blooms and blows--
Why she left her home intermedium to roam down steep bowls, God only knows;
She was kind of slow, but the land of snow seemed to hold her like a spell;
Though she'd always ski in her homely way, and she'd sooner die than fall.
Itwas Christmas Day,
we were schussing our way
down the Rendezvous Bowl.
Talk of your crud!--it was like fast mud and waiting to take its toll;
If your skis you'd close,
then your ankles froze
till one turn you couldn't ski--
It was fairly fun, and the only one
to whimper . . . was Pam McGee.
At this very sight, as your skis would light with your boots unbuckling below,
As the snow was weird, and each skier feared
The Cremation of Pamela McGee -- 43
a pre-release from heel or toe,
She turned to me, and "Gar'," says she,
"a ski-girl could die, I guess. . . .
And, if I do, I'm asking that you
. . . won't refuse my last request."
Well, she skied so low that I couldn't say no; then she said with a sort of moan:
"It's this cursed crud--it feels like mud, and I'm banking clean through the whole turn; Yet 'sides being dead, it's planting my head in the icy snow that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
Well, a student's need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail.
And we started to roll down Laramie Bowl, but, God! she looked ghastly pale:
She banked on her ski, and she raved all day of her home in Grand Targhee;
Yet, before she would fall,
a corpse would be all
that was left of Pamela McGee.
There was no easy flake
in my rhythmical wake
as I anticipated horror-driven--
With a student half-dead
44 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
whom I couldn't get rid
because of a promise given;
Out of balance she'd sway,
and she seemed to say
"You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true,
and it would be up to you
. . . to cremate my last remains."
Now a debt unpaid is a promise made, and Jackson Hole has its own stern code.
In the turns to come,
though my lips were dumb,
in my heart how I cursed that load;
In her frightful flight in the morning light, she approached the end of her rope;
She wouldn't ski well!
she was headed for Hell!
--oh, God! it was hard to cope.
Now, every inch of the way, the crud that lay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though my student half-spent, and our patience was getting low;
The snow was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I tried to sing without hateful sting, but we could-n't . . . force . . . a grin.
The Cremation of Pamela McGee -- 45
Till I came to the ledge . . .
'bove Sublette Ridge,
and a blanket of wet cement there lay; You may call it not nice,
. . . but I saw in a trice . . .
I wanted to take her this way. . . .
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my chosen schi-bum. . . .
Then, "Here!" said I, with a sudden cry,
"is my cre-ma-tor-eum! "
--Some hot turns I tore!
toward the valley floor!
and I lit the snow on fire!
Some boulder-rocks I found!
that were waiting around!
and I launched myself much higher!
My skis just soared! and I must have roared!
--such a blaze you seldom see. . . .
Then I stopped down below, . . .
with my eyes all aglow, . . .
and I waved . . . for Pam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I might not like
. . . to see her auger so;
And the Heavens scowled!
and some skiers howled!
and the wind began to blow!--
It was windy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
46 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
down my cheeks, and I don't know why; Then! . . . the cold crud smoke!
in my dirty joke!
b'gan billowing! toward the sky!!!
I do not know . . . how long in the snow . . .
I wrestled with grisly cheer--
McGee finally! went down
and was churning around!
in a violent storm! I'm sure!
I was sick with dread, . . . but I bravely said . . .
"I'll just take a peep upside--
I guess she's cooked, . . .
and it's time I looked: . . ."
Then my eyes . . . I opened wide:
And there popped Pam!
looking cool and calm!
on the heart of a turning ski!
And she wore a smile you could see a mile!
and she cheered "Hey, Gar'! Look at me!
It's fine snow here, but the bottom's near, and I just have . . . shed some noose; Since I left Targhee, easy Gran' Targhee, it's the first time I've been loose."
There are strange things done
for some mountain fun
by some ski-boys who are so bold;
The Cremation of Pamela McGee -- 47
The mountain trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold; The ski-lift heights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see . . .
Was the morn on the ledge
'bove Sublette Ridge . . .
I tried to cremate . . . Pam McGee.
#
48 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
How Do I Ski Thee? -- 49
The following parody of an Elizabeth Barrett Browning sonnet is not just about Heins's caring for his skis; it details the versatility of a good skier.
The good technical ski-boy considers all the variables: steep or flat? deep or icy? heavy crud or light? bumps or groomed? concave or convex?
cloudy or sunny? He sees the positive way of each condition, finding steering easier on a bump, edg-ing and unweighting easier on the steep, and he knows that visibility during a storm is better amongst the trees. The true expert is one with his skis because he skis from his heart rather than his guts, thus finding harmony with the mountain rather than attacking it. . . .
How Do I Ski Thee?
How do I ski thee? Let me count the ways:
50 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
I ski thee in deep on steep with height; My sole can press you in crud . . . or stay light; Or take the bumps of Bridger with Ideal Grace.
I ski thee on the level . . . of every day's Most quiet need, . . . by sun . . . or goggle-light.
I catch air freely, as skis strive for flight; I ski thee purely, as Pepi Stiegler through gates.
I ski thee with the passion, as seduced On my first steeps, and with my ski-boy faith; I ski thee with the love I learned to use In my first deeps,-- I ski thee with my Breath, Smiles, and Turns of all my Life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but ski the better . . . After Death.
#
How Do I Ski Thee? -- 51
52 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
A Turn Beneath a Turn -- 53
Teaching skiing means manipulating three pri-mary variables in the skier's experience, namely the slope difficulty, the snow-n-weather conditions, and the type of turn or turns to opt for; so there are times when a student should opt for one good turn and make it right, and there are times when a student can expect a hundred good turns rhythmically linked--one good turn deserves another. The prob-lem with many people's ski-learning schedule is that they desire a hundred good turns before they can even do one--it's just like their high-interest credit-card debt. Said Heins, after thirteen years of ski-teaching and writing this poem in 1992, "Like all good things in life, whether it's linking turns, riding broncs, or building a readership, you can't just yearn it, you have to earn it." This may be the most important poem for Heins's students so far.
A Turn
Beneath a Turn
Take your skis now with the How,
And, in parting from you now,
54 -- Heinsian SKI-BOY POETRY
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who yearn
That one day you'll make a turn;
Yet, if all hope has flown away
And to your skis you cannot convey
A hundred turns, much less one,
Is it therefore the less fun? (Probably.) For all we ever earn or yearn
. . . Is but a turn . . . beneath a turn.
I take the lift from off the Floor
And make it not a Great Big Chore,
And I hold within my mind
S-turns of the cold-smoke kind!
--How few! we get upon the steep!
In the powder snow so deep,
While I weep, while I weep--
O, God! can I not ask
One of them can feel the task?
O, God! can I not save
One student with excess crave?!
For all we ever earn or just yearn
. . . Is but a turn . . . beneath a turn nrut a htaeneb
beneath a turn. . . .
#
A Turn Beneath a Turn -- 55
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