{"id":15671,"date":"2019-01-02T14:11:43","date_gmt":"2019-01-02T19:11:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/?p=15671"},"modified":"2019-01-02T14:11:43","modified_gmt":"2019-01-02T19:11:43","slug":"eastern-bluebird","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/eastern-bluebird\/","title":{"rendered":"Eastern Bluebird"},"content":{"rendered":"

Winterguide 2019 | view this story as a .pdf<\/a><\/p>\n

By Bruce Pratt<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

\"WG19-Fiction\"W<\/span>hen I heard Tommy Hibbert\u2019s raspy, rhythmic taunt, \u201cLook who\u2026waits for Eastern Blue\u2026to join the crew\u2026it\u2019s Lazy Pru,\u201d I dropped my skis and ducked for the snowball. I dodged the first, but the second grazed my helmet. \u201cPrudhomme, you slacker,\u201d Hibs shouted as he skated toward me. \u201cTime you got off the couch, pinhead.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGo back to bed,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hibs slid to a stop. \u201cWorking the race or poaching fresh corduroy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m TD,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFigured you\u2019d given up officiating. Got too soft to play outside, you goat roper.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I tugged off my right glove. \u201cHand surgery. Couldn\u2019t ski until late January. This is the first race I knew I could make.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe had ten events in February,\u201d Hibbert said. He stuffed a chew into his jaw.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey let you do that?\u201d I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThink they\u2019ll fire me the week before Nationals?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Hibs is the last of the ski bums from the winter of \u201992-\u201993 who still works at the mountain. His crew\u2019s average age can\u2019t be twenty-two. He\u2019s fifty-three, same age as me. Five-ten, 165, wind-creased, and greying, Hibs can accomplish more than any two of his charges and will work all day in subzero temps to ensure a race is run by the book\u2014for three bucks over minimum wage.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t know, Hibs,\u201d I said. \u201cThey should can you so the guests can\u2019t see your ugly mug.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He arched his eyebrows. \u201cSandy Miller doesn\u2019t think it\u2019s ugly,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m living at her place in Little Creek.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou swore you\u2019d never live off mountain.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLove works in mysterious ways, Pru, and it\u2019s rent-free.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSounds more like mooching than love.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Hibs slipped on his aviators. \u201cDon\u2019t fret, there\u2019s plenty of loving. Making it legal this spring. Don\u2019t be a pain in my ass today, and you might get invited.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t know whether to congratulate you or offer Sally my condolences,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour call, Pru, but listen up. Betsy Rounds is setting first run. She takes forever. Make her send them straight as you can so we get done before Reggae Weekend.\u201d Hibs tapped his chest pack. \u201cJury channel\u2019s three. Don\u2019t wear it out.\u201d He skated toward the lift.<\/span><\/p>\n

For March events, you ride the chair in the light instead of cramming into a box-cat at O-Dark-Thirty, and even with a rash of falls and gate repairs, the race is done before the light gets sketchy. And though wearied from a long winter, the crew is re-energized by the Eastern Bluebird days\u2014full sun, highs in 30s\u2014soft-but-stable snow and more time to free ski. With National\u2019s looming, Hibs would give his guys time off and rely more on volunteers to work the kid\u2019s races. The youth coaches would be winding down or \u201chalfway to the beach,\u201d as Hibs liked to say, and most of the lower-seeded kids would be looking forward to sleeping in on weekends.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I worked at the mountain, I hated the end of the season Last Rites Party and was one of the few who didn\u2019t head to The Cape or MDI in the summer, preferring to guide rafts on the Penobscot.<\/span><\/p>\n

I slid off the lift and skied down to where Betsy was setting gate five. Hibs\u2019s crew was setting fence while he set up the timing and start wand. For a higher-level race, he\u2019d delegate that chore so he could keep an eye on the course setter, but Hibs trusts me. Trust had cemented our friendship, and, for a while, sundered it.<\/span><\/p>\n

W<\/span>inter \u201993-\u201994 was bitter. January never saw a high of ten above at the base or zero at the summit. Three-speed events were canceled when brutal winds shut down the lifts. When two guys quit, Hibs and I were put on salary. We were assigned to assembling, organizing, and distributing gates and fencing for major events, which were hauled up the mountain at night on a snow sled\u2014a lowboy on skids\u2014behind a groomer and dropped off at intervals along the course. In theory, we got a raise because we still got paid when events were canceled, but with the extra hours, we didn\u2019t gain any ground.<\/span><\/p>\n

One night, Hibs and I were perched on bundles of fencing when the cat slid backward on Headwall, and the sled jack-knifed. We both reached for the sled\u2019s high side railing, as it tilted thirty degrees and rammed into the hillside with a shudder. Gates flew off and a roll of event fence snagged on Hib\u2019s boot buckle, taking his feet out from under him. I let go of the rail, dove on top of him as we slid overboard. We rolled to a stop 100 feet down the hill.<\/span><\/p>\n

We got untangled, gained our footing, and surveyed the wreckage. While our skis and most of the fencing and gates were still on the sled, the rest were strewn about the bottom of the headwall. \u201cPick up tonight?\u201d Hibs said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf not, the groomers will grind it up,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEver boot-skied the Headwall?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf that didn\u2019t kill us, what will?\u201d I said<\/span><\/p>\n

Hibs howled like a drunk in an old Western.<\/span><\/p>\n

When we reached the spilled supplies, Eddie, the driver, revved up the cat and the sled straightened behind him. He backed down to us, and as we grabbed our skis, he bounced down from the cab and said, \u201cJesus, I about pissed myself.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou, too?\u201d Hibs said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Took half an hour to pick up. The stars were strewn across the sky like the broken bundles of bamboo and so bright we skied down without our headlamps.<\/span><\/p>\n

At the Competition Center, Hibs said, \u201cPru, we just cheated the devil. We could get loaded, drive to Kingfield doing a hundred, and be fine.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

We\u2019ve each told that story, alone or in concert, hundreds of times. Among old-timers, it\u2019s a legend. The story we don\u2019t tell is about Sharon Cleaves. She and Hibs had been together for two years. Then one weekend in June of \u201995 she shows up by herself on my raft. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDumped me,\u201d she said when I asked about Hibs. \u201cWe\u2019re living in the same place, so it\u2019s really hard.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I found Sharon a gig at our base camp as a replacement for a girl who blew out her knee.\u00a0 <\/span>At a fourth of July party, we started making out. In August, we rented a place at the mountain. The first problem was, Sharon left Hibs. He came home from a late shift at the restaurant and found a note. The second problem was, he believed I was obligated to find out what happened from him. At orientation that November, Hibs wouldn\u2019t speak to me.\u00a0 <\/span>When I asked why, he said, \u201cAsk Sharon.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

When I did, she paid the rest of the season\u2019s rent and bolted the mountain for good.<\/span><\/p>\n

Two nights later at the bar at The Bag, Hibs sidled up and said, \u201cShe say goodbye or just leave a note?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStormed out, said what happened between you two wasn\u2019t my business.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019d you say?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t like being lied to.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Hibs smiled. \u201cLet\u2019s have half a dozen to celebrate.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m two and a half in,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll catch up.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I nursed half a beer while Hibs killed two and ordered a third.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBeen thinking about the night the sled slid,\u201d he said. \u201cWe could have died, man.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEddie hadn\u2019t gained traction we might well have.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEven so, you probably saved my life by jumping on me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019d have done the same.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d Hibs said. \u201cYou\u2019re right about that, anyway.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Winterguide 2019 | view this story as a .pdf By Bruce Pratt When I heard Tommy Hibbert\u2019s raspy, rhythmic taunt, \u201cLook who\u2026waits for Eastern Blue\u2026to join the crew\u2026it\u2019s Lazy Pru,\u201d I dropped my skis and ducked for the snowball. I dodged the first, but the second grazed my helmet. \u201cPrudhomme, you slacker,\u201d Hibs shouted as […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":15672,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[112],"tags":[233],"class_list":["post-15671","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-winterguide-2019"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15671","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15671"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15671\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15675,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15671\/revisions\/15675"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15672"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15671"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15671"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15671"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}