I checked in my pockets and found two hundred-dollar bills. Another reason to pat myself on the back. I separated the bills from the Fritos and thought about taking a bite of one, and then thought better of it. Who knew where the day would take me, and I didn’t want to end up like that guy who had to eat his own arm.
I bought the lift pass, thanked the two women profusely and then returned to the chairlift that had rejected me earlier.
“Hello again,” I said to the chair operator from earlier, exposing my day pass. “Guess who’s got a lift ticket?”
“You just have a one-lift pass,” he told me, eyeing my newly applied sticker.
“That’s because I’m going back to Yellowstone Club. That’s where I thought I was actually.” I didn’t know why this guy was being such a dick, since people at ski resorts are usually quite the opposite, but I somehow manage to always bring out the worst in people.
Once on the lift—alone—I called my half-black lover on his phone to ask for instructions on what my next move should be.
“I’m in Montana,” I told him.
“Right. What’s the problem?”
“Sorry. I mean, I’m in Blue Sky, Montana—ski resort. I’m not in Yellowstone Club.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I did what you told me to do and skied right out of the house and down the mountain.”
“You were supposed to cross over the mountain and go all the way to your right.”
“Well, I don’t think I did that.”
“Okay, well, can you find a run called Goldfinger?”
“They told me to take Rocky Mountain Fever. I’m just going to follow their directions.”
“Why don’t I just have someone come and get you?”
“No, no, no, it’s not a big deal. I’ll just ski over to you,” I told him. “They gave me directions. If I get lost, I’ll call you.”
It was important for me to do this on my own. My reliance on other people was driving me to drink… more… and I desperately craved being self-sufficient. Plus, there was no reason Benjamin needed to know what kind of basket case he was really dealing with. After what happened on the plane, I had the upper hand and I wanted to keep it that way.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do this run a few more times until I hear from you.”
“Cheers,” I said, and hung up.
I followed the woman’s instructions precisely and stayed left, but somehow when I skied down the mountain, I ended up at the exact same chairlift I had just come from.
I went back to reboard the same chair lift, only to be told by the same asshole that I had purchased a one-way lift ticket and not a day pass. Once again, I found myself clumsily side-stepping past the people behind me in order for me to traverse back to the original lodge and buy a fucking day pass.
Then I called Benjamin, who I was now reduced to calling Ben, to inform him that things were becoming more complicated than I had expected. I told him it would be easier for me to just ski at Big Sky for the day, as I had now purchased a day pass. He told me that was ridiculous and that he was coming to get me.
This new lover of mine was being very helpful. I found it sweet, but I was also happy that I was having such a good time all by myself and not panicking at the idea that I was definitely lost and had no idea where I was going. I tried to recall if I had taken an ecstasy tablet by mistake.
“No, it’s fine,” I told him. “I’ll figure it out.”
“This isn’t a caper movie, Chelsea.”
I ignored this comment because it made no sense at all. “Let me just meet you,” I insisted.
I felt we had already spoken too many times that day for two people who barely knew each other, and I hung up the phone.
I got a map when I purchased my second lift ticket of the day. The chairlift operator was more sympathetic this time around. He told me there was a wooden fence that ran the length of the property separating the two resorts and that if I followed the fence, there would eventually be an opening. “Or you can hop over it, but I didn’t tell you that,” he said. “If you see a parking lot, you’re going in the right direction.”
Two runs and thirty-five minutes later, I was at the bottom of a run facing a parking lot.
I saw something peeking out of the snow across the parking lot and it looked like the top of one of those wooden livestock fences. I looked at the empty parking lot, which had been snowplowed and barely had any snow on it, and thought, Fuck it. This is going to have to lead somewhere.
I just had to get to the other side of the parking lot. At this point I didn’t give a shit about ruining the bottom of my skis. I had never skied on cement, and I have to say if snow didn’t exist, people would have ended up skiing on pavement. It was a lot of fun.
The terrain gradually turned from pavement into four feet of snow. Luckily, I wasn’t going fast enough to do anything more than shock myself when I plowed into the fence. In conjunction with this discovery, I looked up to discover that a couple of feet to my right was a DO NOT ENTER sign. This is usually the indicator for me that I’m headed in the right direction.
I leaned on the fence and tried to figure out how I was going to get over it and on to the other side, where I could see a road and a house. I tried to lift one leg up with the ski on, but I would have to have been able to do a back flip and have a leg attached to one of my ears.
I decided that I was going to get over that fucking fence. I unclicked both of my skis and did what every ski guide tells you not to do in deep snow: I stepped out of the skis, took one step, and dropped to my waist in snow. This is exactly the kind of shit that always happens to me, I thought. There was no one in sight, and I was submerged in snow. This had basically turned into the female version of Into the Wild. “Help!” I screamed.
It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, but by grabbing the fence, I was able to pull myself up until I was spread-eagled facedown on the bottom wooden beam of the fence.
From that position, I grabbed both skis and poles and tossed them as close to the road as I could. Then I managed to maneuver myself so I was sitting on top of the fence. I took stock of my situation. There was about six feet between me and the snowplowed road. I had to get myself from the fence to the road without drowning in the snow. I lunged as far forward into the snow as I could. I landed face-first but close to my poles, which I used to get myself up. I then trudged onto the road.
I looked around for somewhere to sit but there wasn’t a chair in sight, so I just fell over on my side in the middle of the road and lay there like a melting snowwoman. I tried to think of a worse experience I had had in life, and all I could come up with was a James Franco art exhibit.
I collected myself and stood up. I wiped all the snow from my body and my ski bindings and made sure my boots were secure, and then I got my shit together.
Through the trees on the other side of the house I could see people skiing, and it was clear what needed to happen. I pushed off with my poles in order to get into the deeper snow, and once I hit it, I took off through the backyard of this person’s house, going past all their back windows rather fast. The house was huge, so I just kept my eyes straight ahead and prayed to god if anyone was home they didn’t watch Chelsea Lately.
The terrain changed slightly, and the surface underneath suddenly felt quite unfamiliar. I realized after looking behind me that I was skiing over a tarp-covered pool. The woods were straight ahead, and I kept my speed up in order to get the hell out of this person’s backyard. I ducked when I hit the trees and got through to the other side. I saw signs lining the run that read YELLOWSTONE CLUB.
“I made it!” I yelled to the sky. “I made it!” I got down to the bottom of the run, where the chairlift attendee confirmed I was in fact in Yellowstone Club. The main lodge was just one lift away. I could smell a margarita. I took out the two Fritos and noticed they had a pungent aroma. I put my hand back in my pocket and pulled out a bud of weed. I hadn’t skied since the season before, so the pot must have been in my ski jacket for many months. I liked this prospect. A lot.