The snowbanks are relaxed by last nights thaw, dividing street from sidewalk like frozen hedgerows.
A Sunday in January, the streets are empty.
Winter stretches out before the scene in four long months.
We pull into the parking lot across the street from the Olympic plaza.
The mornings haze is lifting, and the pale blue sky presses through.
The process is automated: we grab skis and shovels from the trunk and sling them over our shoulders.
First above, and then below, they shape the feature into something skiable.
Dom eyes the setup, a ledge over a 20-odd foot drop.
He scrapes absently at the ice-covered concrete and confers with Marty for a minute.
C-bo pulls the rip cord and the winch purrs to life.
Yo Marty, he calls, get my photo riding the whip.
Its a well-oiled sequence: Dom checks speed once, sliding the ledge and coming off the near side.
He walks back to the in-run.
Alright, he shouts Lets go.
It takes him five tries total to get the trick.
The day before it took him maybe two more to spin out of a gapped closeout.
The next spot is a quad-kink concrete ledge.
Dom spat,Ca mfait chier les fucking kick-out.
A days work interrupted by a guy in a high-vis vest and a Ford Escape.
On this day the set-up is all aesthetic.
Martys skis scrape again and again at the concrete.
He switches up and falls off early, doesnt set right and slides off his tails.
Hey, ca va Bullet.
Doms encouragement is gruff but brotherly.
Man, well you gotta understand like theres no better coach for Marty than me.
Marty gets the switch up clean, and greases the rest of the feature.
The guys squeeze in a last couple hits and then were done.
Gravel crunches under boots as we make the slow, swinging walk back to the cars.
Its agreed that the day is done.
Tomorrow theyll go check out another spot at a school up by the 40.
Winter stretches out before them in four long months.
