I first saw him sitting under a shade tree in Mooin' Meadows Trailer Park, about July 2008. It was 99 degrees out, and there were rumors he had relegated himself as the Shade-tree Schi Lehrer, willing to teach anybody skiing at any time, even over the cellaphone, preferably from the comfort of his lawn chair or at your dinner table, but certainly not up at some mountain working for a big-time red-tape Green-Acres Status-Quo Ski-School. I was at a storage rental place across the road from his fifth-wheel trailer-home, what he calls "the HeinsQuarters of the Swingin' G," upon this first sighting, and I pretended to be moving into a storage unit; . . . but what I was really after was his life story and his fine ski-teaching-- Having written about the great western gun-fighters, Earp, Holiday, Hickock, the James Brothers, Billy the Kid, and many more, I knew I had to go slow, as I had heard he has a hair trigger, Gary Heins; even worse, whereas those other men were able to release their pent-up rage in the Old West, as far as I knew, Mr Heins's rage was still building inside him in this constrained modern world.
Several factors unique to Gary Heins make him perhaps the greatest ski instructor of all time, therefore why this would be his book, not mine. The simplest factor has to do with the Physical world, let's say his body: in 1976, at age 18, he got one of the latest starts in skiing for someone who would become a ski instructor, a true full-time career ski instructor; and then he achieved one of the earliest masteries of skiing, becoming an expert and teacher among his peers after only three seasons with very little formal instruction for himself. I know what you're saying: you've heard of people starting skiing later than Heins did nowadays, and these people commonly join the ranks of ski instructors, but what you're forgetting is this: when Gary Heins became a ski instructor in 19&79, in those days, you had to know how to ski somewhat before anyone bestowed you the title of Ski Instructor; nowadays they give a jacket to anyone who can stand up, anyone willing to take on a group of beginners--it's sickening, as many of these unprepared instructors make a bee-line for the parking lot by Presidents' Day . . . like a panicked Miss Quested screaming down from the Marabar Caves in A Passage To India. . . . Perhaps the second-but-best factor molding Gary as a fine ski instructor . . . has to do with his Heart: traditional team sports having let him down, when Gary discovered skiing late his senior year in high school, he felt it literally saving his life . . . from dull exercise and little purpose and bad eating habits--skiing suddenly gave him something to live for, an appetite, . . . and it helped him decide where to go to college, where he could skip class to go skiing. The third factor for his teaching, that may be the icing on the cake, has to do with Gary's fine writing, his Mind: because he writes so deeply and passionately about skiing, he thinks of the nooks and crannies of topics far deeper than any other instructors I know of--ignorant half-truths that others have set in stone . . . Gary gladly spills the beans about . . . and always for the benefit of the student, as well as relating skiing to everyday life . . . so it's not just skiing. Other instructors have been jealous of Gary rising to the top, even half way up the ladder, so they've tried to keep him down, and they've had the Status Quo on their side--it's not his fault these other instructors got too early of a start to know what the students are going through, it's not his fault they don't have the spirit or passion he has, and it's not his fault they don't know how to write (or, in some cases, even think).
One more big factor of the physical world shaped Gary's career as it developed--the fact that he has worked for probably more ski schools in more states than any other instructor, seven ski schools in three states. And he's been a guest instructor at two more ski areas, . . . and he said 'No' to working at two more rinky-dink outfits in two more states. Having been at so many mountains and under so many managements, he knows what works and what doesn't--and he's seen the inbreeding that goes on. He knows that too much 'small-town mentality' at ski areas . . . can mean death to a whole country before anyone knows what happened. Someone quoted Gary as saying, "My God, most of these instructors have never been outside the Pleasantville City Limits." A big reason Gary has seen so many ski schools is, besides the economic difficulties, he doesn't like to force himself on anyone, and he'd rather walk away than fight--I've simply got to get his side of the untold story.
He wrote The Greatest Ski Instructor more than ten years previous to now, which tells some of his background, but this work as yet is still largely unpublished and unread--which is sad, because it may be the greatest spiritual work ever written on downhill ski instruction. He wrote One Good Turn Deserves Another well before that, the golden rule on Heinsian DOWNHILL SKIING instruction, a thorough nuts-n-bolt program that will guide you from beginner to expert, even today and well into the future, . . . and his Skiing with Heins-sight columns before that, the morning-coffee-table view of what he knows--no wonder he was a disgruntled ski instructor.
. . . He was trying to forget the whole damn ski business, I'm sure, moving here to Saint Johns, Arizona, where it's sunny most of the year and snows a measly twenty-two inches. He took a job here as a school-bus driver--that's what he often fell back on up north, only now he could do it without the exorbitant heating bills and high cost of living in a ski-town. . . . Only: I noticed . . . there was still skiing to be had about an hour south on good roads, and he had just acquired one-acre of land surrounded by endless open high plains, but with a nice view of Sunrise Ski Area thirty miles southwest as a crow flies--I believe a fan of his bought it for him, a student or a reader. But he's a natural-born ski-man, even if he did get a late start, and I'm sure he's a ski instructor all the time, all year long, no matter where he's at or what he's doing.
As I watched him from my storage unit, I noticed that Mooin' Meadows RV Park across the lazy rural black-top was less than half-full. I was traveling in a trailer myself, and it gave me encouragement, and I decided to continue on with my plan:
I got in my pick-up and towed my trailer out from between the storage units; I took my time before crossing the road, as I scoped out Mooin' Meadows, and I idled across the road into the quieter parts of the RV park. I wanted to see the space numbers close to Mr Heins's space, so that I could discreetly move in next door to him—too many spaces away, and it might not be natural to get to talk to him and get his story.
Finally, I arrived at the trailer park office and met the little old lady in charge of the park, Lois Geist, a widow. She gave me space number 126, right next to Mr Heins in 125, "as long as you're quiet," she said, "I don't want any male testosterone bothering Gary—a guy like Gary needs his space. He can be the nicest guy you'll ever meet, but sometimes I can tell there's something really bothering him." I nodded and set out to settle in next door to the greatest ski instructor in the west.
As I backed into Space 126, I detected there was no one home in 125, and I thought, "No rush, we will meet in a natural way, when the time comes." Once parked and unhitched, I needed to go get stocked up on groceries . . . and probably beer, plenty of beer.
Before I knew it, suddenly seeing him in Wilbur's IGA Grocery, I couldn't help myself, and I blurted out: "Hey, Mister, are you really Gary Heins?"
"Hell, no!" he retorted, "I'm Wyatt Earp. It all ends now." He then approached me with a mean look on his face. ". . . What took you so long?" he asked. Then, without my expecting it, the venerable Mr Heins reached out to shake my hand, "Ned Buntline, isn't it? Ya finally meet me, in the Eggs Aisle, of all places. Did ya get settled in there in Mooin' Meadows? Space 126 should be available."
"How did you know?" I inquired. "Yeah, the Eggs Aisle, how funny. Historically, usually guys like us meet in the steam bath . . . or the barber shop anyway."
"Oh, you ain't the first fan I've noticed following me around, or other dime-novel writers trying to get rich off my story. To tell you the truth, I kind of enjoy it; it gives me someone to talk to once in a while so I don't go nuts. It's not like I'm Brad Pitt fighting off the paparazzi--yet anyway."
"Yes, I did get the Space 126, right north of you. I want to get your life story . . . and write a dime novel that'll sell for at least $15 nowadays--I can make us both rich."
"Mr Buntline, you realize I'm a pretty good writer in my own right," Mr Heins pointed out. "But, I suppose," he said, "it'll take both of us to convince even one person my story is true."
"Yes, Mr Heins, the ski industry is not what it used to be, even with all its new technology; and it seems to be suffering the same ills facing the whole country: the perpetual Over-Growth of Government, Unbridled Technology that the people don't need and can't afford because of Planned Obsolescence, . . . and Rampant Status-Quo, and smoke-n-mirrors MissInformation. . . . The Ski Industry needs the best ski writer in the History of Skiing . . . to turn it around, before it goes to hell in a hand-basket; the whole country needs it--I do believe you're the only ski writer who can pull it off, Mr Heins."
"I know," he smiled. "It's not just about teaching skiing anymore, nor the bottom line at the ski areas; it's about saving our country, even our planet. Enough is Enough! . . . With your name . . . and what I know, . . . we can do it--we have to do it. --But it's going to take a lot of balls too. A lot of balls."
"Yes, yes, I know, which is why I bought a year's supply of Viagra from one of those medicine shows recently--not for sexual purposes, mind you, but so I could be more on your wave-length while you tell me your story." I smiled and vigorously shook his hand, and this great man truly made me feel . . . comfortable like an old friend.
"You know, Mr Buntline, you almost missed out on this opportunity."
"How's that, Mr Heins?"
"A guy with the peculiar name 'Ben Nightline' stopped by a couple of weeks ago, . . . wanting me to do a series of TV interviews. But he told me I couldn't have any beer on the set."
"Oh, that Ben Nightline!--he's trying to confuse people like you into thinking he's me, by having his name legally changed to sound like mine. I wish he would stop horning in on my business."
"Then one Mr Beauchamp showed up here a week ago trying to get it before you--he's the dime-novel guy from Clint Eastwood's movie Unforgiven."
"Oh, yes, the one who started off in awe of Richard Harris, then in awe of Gene Hackman, . . . and finally in awe of William Money, played by Clint Eastwood."
"Yeah, that's what I mean: he's a character, but he seemed too fickle for my tastes. Besides," he smiled, ". . . you're the best, Mr Buntline."
"Well, you're the best also, Mr Heins."
"That's why we deserve each other, Mr Buntline. Oh, Stuart Lake also stopped by."
"The biographer who wrote about Wyatt Earp's life story in the 1920s?"
"Yeah, but I turned him down too, for now: I figured I might give him the big biographical assignment in my later years, well after this book now of ours addresses the more urgent problem of straightening out downhill skiing."
"Well, that's wise probably. . . . Uh, Mr Heins, since I still have more shopping to do, what kind of beer do you prefer?"
"Natural Light, Mr Buntline, Natural Light."
"Yes, oh, yes, of course. Nothing but the best for the Swinging G."
"Oh, Mr Buntline, you can call me Gary, . . . if you'd like. All my ski students have always called me Gary. And I don't know if it's been a self-esteem thing or what, but all my school-bus riders have always called me Gary--the littlest ones call me 'Mr Gary.'"
"All right, Mr Heins: Gary, . . . if I choose. Likewise, you can call me Ned, . . . if you'd like."
I could tell he was glad . . . that we got the name thing sorted out. But I knew what was going to happen when we met again soon--we had too much admiration and respect for one another, like two great gun-fighters who liked each other too much to ever face-off against one another.