Mirror of Ice by Gary Wright
Anonymous
I had only read two stories by Gary Wright prior to this one,
and each of them has spoken to me in the words of Antoine
de Saint-Exupery, when he was on the Toulouse-Dakar line:
Old bureaucrat, my comrade, it is not you who are to
blame. No one ever helped you to escape. You, like a
termite, built your peace by blocking up with cement
every chink and cranny through which the light might
pierce. You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel
security, in routine, in the stifling conventions of provin-
cial life, raising a modest rampart against the winds and
the tides and the stars. You have chosen not to be
perturbed by great problems, having trouble enough to
forget your own fate as man. You are not the dweller
upon an errant planet and do not ask yourself questions
to which there are no answers. You are a petty bourgeois
of Toulouse. Nobody grasped you by the shoulder while
there was still time. Now the clay of which you were
shaped has dried and hardened, and naught in you will
ever awaken the sleeping musician, the poet, the as-
tronomer that possibly inhabited you in the beginning.*
Here is a story of freedom, violence, Angst. I will not insult
the author by comparing him to someone elselike, say,.
Hemingway. No. He is himself. And he has written a man
against the elements story, which I feel belongs right here.
After Bollard's magical shadow-play in the sky and Harlan's
jazz-discord finale, here is something as cold and clean as a
bottle of akvavit frozen into a block of ice, or the winds that
lash the highest mountains.
MIRROR OF ICE
Gary Wright
They called it The Stuka. It was a tortuous, twenty-kilometer
path of bright ice, and in that distance12.42 milesit
dropped 7,366 feet, carving a course down the alpine moun-
tainside like the track of a great snake. It was thirty feet wide
on the straights with corners curling as high as forty feet. It
was made for sleds. . ..
He waited in the narrow cockpit and listened to the wind.
It moaned along the frozen shoulder of the towering white
peak and across the steep starting ramp, pushing along stream-
ers of snow out against the hard blue sky, and he could hear
it cry inside him with the same cold and lonely sound.
He was scared. And what was worsehe knew it.
Forward, under the sleek nose of his sled, the mountaia
fell away abruptlystraight down, it seemedand the valley
was far below. So very far.
. . . too far this time, buddyboy, too far forever . . .
The countdown light on the dash flickered a sudden blood
red, then deliberately winked twice. At the same time two
red rockets arced out over the valley and exploded into twin
crimson fireballs.
Two minutes.
On both sides of the starting ramp, cantilevered gracefully
from the mountainside, brightly bannered platforms were
crowded with people. He glanced at the hundreds of blankly
staring sunglasses, always the same, always turned to the ramp
as if trying to see inside the helmets of these men, as if trying
to pry into the reasons of their being there waiting to die. He
looked back to the deep valley; today he wondered too.
. . . just one last time, wasn't that what you told yourself?
One last race and that's the end of it and good-by to the
sleds and thank God! Wasn't that your personal promise?
Then what in hell are you doing here? That "last race" was
last month's race. Why are you in this one?
No answer.
All he could find inside were cold questions and a hollow
echo of the wind. He gripped the steering wheel, hard, until
cramps began in his hands; he would think about his sled. . . .
It was his eleventh sled, and like the others it was a brilliant
red, not red for its particular flash, but because of a possible
crash far from the course in deep snow. He wanted to be
found and found fast. Some of the Kin had never been found
in time.
. . . they didn't find Bob Lander until that summer
He forced himself back.
Empty, the sled weighed 185 pounds and looked very
much like the body-shell of a particularly sleek racer but with
a full bubble canopy and with runners instead of wheels. It
was a mean-looking missile, low and lean, hardly wider than
his shoulders, clearing the ice by barely two inches. He sat
nearly reclining, the half wheel in his lap, feet braced on the
two edging pedalsand this was the feature that made these
sleds the awesome things they were. They could tilt their
runnersfour hollowground, chrome-steel "skis"edging
them against the ice like wide skate blades. This was what bad
changed bobsiedding into . . . this: this special thing with its
special brotherhood, this clan apart, this peculiar breed of men
set aside for the wonder of other men. The Kin, they called
themselves.
. . . someone once, laughing, had said, "Without peer, we
are the world's fastest suicides."
He snapped himself back again and checked his brakes.
By pulling back on the wheel, two electrically operated
flapsactually halves of the sled's tail sectionswung out on
either side. Silly to see, perhaps. But quite effective when this
twelve and a half square feet hit the airstream at eighty mph.
A button under his right thumb operated another braking
system: with each push it fired forward a solid rocket charge
in the nose of the sled. There were seven charges, quite often
not enough. But when everything failed, including the man,
there was the lever by his left hip. The Final Folly, it was
called; a firm pull and, depending on a hundred unknown
"if's" and "maybe's," he might be lucky enough to find him-
self hanging from a parachute some 300 feet up. Or it might
be the last voluntary act of his life.
He had used it twice. Once steaking into the tall wall of
the Wingover, he had lost a runner . . . and was almost fired
into the opposite grandstand, missing the top tier of seats by
less than four feet. Another time six sleds suddenly tangled
directly in front of him, and he had blasted himself through
the over-hanging limbs of a large fir tree.
But others had not been so lucky.
Hans Kroger: they finally dug his body out of eighteen feet
of snow; he'd gone -all the way to the dirt. His sled had been
airborne -when he blewand upside-down!
Jarl Yorgensen: his sled tumbling and he ejected directly
under the following sleds. No one was certain that all of him
was ever found)
Max Conrad: a perfect blowout! At least 350 feet up and
slightly downhill . . . His chute never opened.
Wayne Barley:
He jarred himself hard in the cockpit and felt the sudden
seizure of his G-suit. He wanted to hit something. But he
could feel the watching eyes and the TV cameras, and there
wasn't room in the cockpit to get a decent swing anyway.
His countdown light flickered for attention and biinked
once, and a single red rocket flashed into the sky.
One minuteGod, had time stopped?
But that was part of it all: the waiting, the God-awful
waiting, staring down at the valley over a mile below. And
how many men had irrevocably slammed back their canopy
in this lifetime of two minutes and stayed behind? A few, yes.
And he could too. Simply open his canopy, that was the sig-
nal, and when the start came the other sleds would dive down
and away and he would be sitting here alone. But, God, so
alone! And he would be alone for the rest of his life. He
might see some of the Kin again, sometime, somewhere. But
they would not see him. It was a kind of death to stay behind.
. . . and a real death to go. Death, the silent rider with
every man in every race . . .
He frowned at the other sleds, sixteen in staggered rows
of eight. Sixteen bright and beautiful, trim fast projectiles
hanging from their starting clamps. He knew them, every
one; they were his brothers. They were the Kinbut not
here. Not now.
Years ago when he was a novice he had asked old Franz
Cashner, "Did you see the way I took Basher Bend right
beside you?"
And Franz told him, "Up there I see nobody! Only sleds!
Down here you are you, up there you are nothing but another
sled. That's all! And don't forget that! That's all! And don't
forget that!"
. . . and it had to be that way. On the course sleds crashed
and were no more. . . . Only later, in the valley, were there
men missing.
Of these sixteen, chances were that nine would finish. With
luck, maybe ten. And chances also said that only fourteen of
these men would be alive tonight. Those were the odds, as
hard and cold as the ice, the fascinating frosting for this sport.
Violent death! Assured, spectacular, magnetic death in a sport
such as the world Jiad never known. Incredible men with in-
credible skills doing an incredible thing.
Back in the Sixties they claimed an empty sled with its
steering locked would make a course all by itself. An empty
sled here would not last two corners. The Stuka was a cold
killer, not a thrill ride. And it was not particular. It killed
veterans and novices alike. But there was $20,000 for the man
who got to the end of it first, and a whole month before he
had to do it again. Money and fame and all the girls in the
world. Everything and anything for the men who rode the
Stuka.
Was that why they did it?
. . . yes, always that question: "Why do you do it?" And
before he had died on the Plummet, Sir Robert Brooke had
told them, "Well, why not?"
And it was an answer as good as any.
But was it good enough this time?
No answer.
He only knew there was but one way off this mountain for
him now and that was straight ahead, and for the first time
since his novice runs, his legs were trembling. Twelve and a
half miles, call it, and the record was 9 minutes, 1.14 seconds!
An average speed of 82.67 mph, and that was his record.
They would at least remember him by that!
His countdown light flashed, a green rocket rose and burst,
and there was a frozen moment . . . the quiet click of the
release hook, the lazy, slow-motion start, the sleds sliding for-
ward in formation over the edge . . . then he was looking once
again into the terrible top of the Stukathat 45-degree,
quarter-mile straight drop. In six seconds he was doing over
60 mph, and the mouth of the first corner was reaching up.
. . . Carl's Corner, for Carl Rasch, who -went over the top
of it nine years ago; and they found him a half-mile down the
glacier . . . what was left of him . . .
He glanced to his right. It was clear. He eased his flap
brakes, dropped back slightly and pulled right. The leading
sleds were jockeying in front now, lining for this long left.
Brakes flapped like quick wings, and they started around,
sleds riding up the vertical ice wall and holding there, ice
chips spraying back like contrails from those on the lower
part of the wall as they edged their runners against the turn.
He came in far right and fast, riding high on the wall and
diving off with good acceleration.
The ice was a brilliant blur underneath now, and he could
feel the trembling rumble of his sled. They rattled into the
Chute, a steep traverse, still gaining speed, still bunched and
jostling for position. He was in the rear but this was good; he
didn't like this early crowding for the comers.
The sheer wall of Basher Bend loomed, a 120-degree right
that dropped hard coming out. He was following close in the
slipstream of the sled in front of him, overtaking because of
the lessened wind resistance. The corner came, and they were
on the wall again. With his slightly greater speed he was able
to go higher on the wall, nearly to the top and above the
other sled. His G-suit tightened. They swarmed out of the
corner and into the Stra-fing Run, a long, steep dive with a
hard pull-out.
A roar rose from the mountain now as the sleds reached
speed, a dull rumble like that of avalanche . . . and that is
actually what they were nowan avalanche of sleds, and
just as deadly.
He pulled ahead of the other sled in the dive and hit the
savage pull-out right on the tail of another, and the next turn
curved up before them: Hell's Left, a double corner, an
abrupt left falling into a short straight with another sharp left
at the bottom. He was still overtaking, and they went up the
wall side by side, he on the inside, under the other. He eased
his left pedal, using edges for the first time, holding himself
away from the other by a safe six inches. The course dropped
away, straight down the mountain to the second half of the
corner, and he felt the sickening sudden smoothness of leaving
the ice-he had tried it too fast, and the course was falling
away under him. . ..
. .. old Rolf De Kepler, "The Flying Dutchman," laughing
over his beer and saying, "Always I am spending more time
off the ice than on, hah? So this is more easy to my stomach.
Already I have four G-suits to give up on me."
. . . and he had made his last flight three years ago off the
top at the bottom of Hell's Left . . . 400 yards, they claimed.
He held firm and straight on the wheel and pulled care-
fully, barely opening his brakes. The sled touched at a slight
angle, lurched, but he caught it by edging quickly. The other
sled had pulled ahead. He tucked in behind it. The second left
was rushing up at them, narrow and filled with sleds. They
dove into it less than a foot apart, loe chips streamed back
from edging runners, rattling against his sled like a storm of
bullets. There was an abrupt lurching, the quick left-right
slam of air turbulence. A sled was braking hard somewhere
ahead. Perhaps two or three. Where? He couldn't see. He
reacted automatically . . . full air brakes, hard onto his left
edges and steer for the inside; the safest area if a wreck was
trying to happen. His sled shivered with the strain of coming
off the wall, holding against the force of the corner now only
with the knifelike edges of its runners. But the force was too
great. He began to skid, edges chattering. He eased them off a
little, letting the sled drift slightly sideways. Two others had
sliced down to the inside too, edges spraying ice. For a mo-
ment he was blinded again, but the corner twisted out flat,
and he was through and still on the course, and he knew he
was too tight, too hard with 'his control; he was fighting his
sled instead of working with it. . . .
. . . a tourist once asked Erik Sigismund how he controlled
his sled, and he answered, "Barely." And even that had failed
when he flipped it a year ago and four others ran over him.
An old, lurking thought pounced into him again . . . he
couldn't stop this sled now if he wanted to. There was no
such thing as stopping, outside of a crash. He had to ride
until it ended, and he was suddenly certain that was not going
to be at the bottom. Not this time. He had crashed before,
too many times, but he had never had this feeling of fear be-
fore. Not this fear. It was different, and he couldn't say why,
and he was letting it affect him. And that was the greatest
wrong.
They were thundering into the Jackhanuner now, 300 yards
of violent dips. Every sled had its brakes out, and there were
fast flashes as some fired braking rockets. But where the walls
of .the course sloped upward the ice was comparatively
smooth. He eased left, to the uphill side, and leaned on his
left pedal, holding the sled on the slope with its edges. Then
he folded his air brakes and started gaining again. It was
necessary; one did not hold back from fear. If that was one's
style of life, he would never be a sledder in the first place.
Suddenly from the middle of the leading blurs a sled be-
came airborne from the crest of one of the bumps. It hit once
and twisted into the air like something alive. Sleds behind it
fired rockets and tried to edge away. One skidded broadside,
then rolled. A shattered body panel spun away; the two sleds
were demolishing themselves. Someone blew-out, streaking in-
to the sky, canopy sparkling high in the sunand that meant
another sled out of control. He pulled full air brakes and
fired a rocket, the force slamming Wm hard against his chest
straps. His left arm was ready to fire the charge under the
seat. But if he waited too long. . . .
. . . Kurt Schnabel was proud to be the only man who had
never ejected . . . but the one time he had tried he had -waited
the barest fraction of a moment too long, and his chute came
down with his shattered corpse.
The three wild sleds whirled away, spinning out of sight
over the low retaining walls. He folded his brakes. There was
a trembling in his arms and legs like the slight but solid shud-
dering of a flywheel out of balance, involuntary and with a
threat of getting worse. He cursed himself. He could have
'blown-out too. No one would have blamed him with that
tangle developing in front. But he hadn't . . . and it was too
late now.
. . . only one man had ever blown-out without an apparent
reason and gotten away with it: Shorty Case in his first race.
And when he was asked about it afterwards, asked in that
over casual, quiet tone, he had answered, "You bet your sweet,
I blew! 'Cause if I hadn't, man, I was gonna pee my pantsl"
But he didn't blow-out that day on the Fallaways, the day
his sled somersaulted and sowed its wreckage down the course
for a half mile . . . and him too . . .
No, there were no quitters here; only the doers or the dead.
And which was he going to be tonight?
. . . drive, don't think . . .
The Jackhammer smoothed out and plunged downward,
and they were hurtling now into the Wingover at over 90
mph. Here were the second biggest grandstands on the course,
the second greatest concentration-of cameras.
Here two ambulance helicopters stood by, and a priest too.
The Wingover. . . .
Imagine an airplane peeling off into a dive . . . imagine a
sled doing the same on a towering wall of ice, a wall rising
like a great, breaking wave, frozen at the moment of its over-
hanging curl. . . . The Wingover was a monstrous, curving
scoop to the right, nearly fifty feet high, rolling the sleds up,
over, and hurling them down into a 65-degree pitch when
twisted into a 6-G pull-out to the left.
. . . "Impossible!" When Wilfrid von Gerlach laid out the
Stuka that is what they told him about the Wingover. "It
cannot be done!"
But von Gerlach had been a Gran Prix racer and a stunt
pilot, and when the Stuka was finished he took the first sled
through. At the finish he sat quietly for a moment, staring
back at the mountain. "At the Wingover I was how fast?" he
asked throughtfully. They replied that he'd been radared there
at 110 mph. He nodded, then made the statement the sledders
had carried with them ever since.
"It's possible."
He watched the leading sleds line up for that shining, sheer
curve and felt the fear freeze through him again. A man was
little more than a captive in his sled here. If he was on the
right line going in, then it was beautiful; if not, well. . . .
. . . the brotherly beers and the late talk . . .
"Remember when Otto Domagk left Cripple's Corner in
that snow storm?"
"Ya, und ven him was digged outVas? Two hours?he
vas so sleeping."
"And not a mark on him, remember?"
. . Remember, remember . . .
He followed in line barely four feet from the sled in front
of him and felt the savage, sickening blow as the wall raised
and rolled him. A flicker of shadow, a glimpse of the valley
nearly upsidedown, then the fall and the increasing shriek of
wind and runners, and he was pointing perfectly into the
pull-out, still lined exactly with the sled aheadbut there was
one sled badly out of line . ..
And someone pulled their air brakes full open.
Sleds began weaving in the violent turbulence of those
brakes. Rockets flashed. A sled went sideways, rolling lazily
above the others, and exploded against the wall of the pull-
out. He pulled the ejection lever . . . nothing happened!
He was dead, he knew that. He saw two sleds tumbling
into the sky, another shattered to pieces and sliding along the
course. All that was necessary was to hit one of those pieces
. . . but the corner was suddenly gone behind. The course un-
wound into a long left traverse. He remembered to breathe.
There were tooth chips in his mouth and 'the taste of blood.
He swerved past a piece of wreckage, then .another.
. . . how many were dead now? Himself and how many
others? But it wasn't fear of deathwhat was it? What was
it that he'd walled off insidethat something secret always
skirted as carefully as a ship veers from a hidden reef, know-
ing it is therewhat? And now the wall was down, and he
was facing. . . .
His sled shuddered. He was driving badly, too harsh with
his edge control. He narrowly made it through the Boot and
Cripple's Corner, spraying ice behind him, but it was not the
sled that was out of control. It was him. And he was diving
now straight for the gates of hell at over 110 mph.
It was called the Plummet. It began with an innocent, wide
left, steeply banked, then the world fell away. It dove over a
half mile headlong down a 50-degree slope straight into a
ravine and up the other side, .then into a full ISO-degree up-
hill hairpin to the right, a steep straight to the bottom of the
ravine again, and finally into a sharp left and a long, rolling
straight. It had killed more men than any other part of the
course.
Here were the biggest .grandstands and the most hungry
eyes of the cameras. Here there were three clergy, and emer-
gency operating rooms. Here . . .
, . . here he would complete the formality of dying.
He came into the left too low, too fast for the edges to
hold. The sled skidded. He reacted automatically, holding
slight left edges and steering into the skid. The sled drifted
up the wall, arcing toward the top where nothing showed but
the cold blue of the sky. He waited, a part of him almost calm
now, waiting to see if the corner would straighten before he
went over the top. It did, but he was still skidding, close to
the retaining wall, plunging into the half-mile drop nearly
sideways. He increased his edges. The tail of the sled brushed
the wall and it was suddenly swinging the opposite way. He
reversed his wheel and edges, anticipating another skid, but
he was not quick enough. The sled bucked, careening up on
its left runners. It grazed the wall again, completely out of
control nowbut he kept trying . . .
. . . and that was it; you kept trying. Over and over. No
matter how many times you faced yourself it had to be done
again. And again. The Self was never satisfied with single vic-
toriesyou had to keep trying . .
And he was empty no more.
The hospital. How many times had he awakened here?
And it was always wonderfully the same: gentle warmth and
his body finally relaxed and he would test it piece by piece to
see what was bent and broken this time; and always the
newsmen and the writers and the other assorted ghouls, and
always the question and answer period. Punchlining, they
called it. . . .
"How did it happen?"
"I dozed off."
"Why didn't you eject?"
"Parachuting is dangerous."
"When did you realize you were out of control?"
"At the starting line."
"What will you do now?"
"Heal."
"Will you race again?"
. . . "It's possible."
Outside, the wind was blowing.
damian...@gmail.com
https://www.facebook.com/groups/469451653798043/
https://www.facebook.com/groups/469451653798043/
D B Davis
thrilling. Hogadon Basin Ski Area [1] is on the South face of mountain
whose North face is traversed by me on my bicycle. Hogadon has a few
black diamond runs that sport names such as "Boneyard" and "Chainsaw."
True daredevils probably ought to seek out the thrills offered by
the double and triple black diamond runs found further North in the
Tetons. Young people die there. [2][3] Harrison Ford, the actor, used
own a spread near the Tetons and he'd help rescue people with his
helicopter back in the day.
Note.
1. http://hogadon.net/
2. https://search.yahoo.com/search?p=teton+couloir+fatality
3. https://video.search.yahoo.com/search/video?p=teton+couloir+fatality
☮
Thank you,
--
Don
D B Davis
familiar:
just one last time, wasn't that what you told yourself? One
last race and that's the end of it and good-by to the sleds
and thank God! Wasn't that your personal promise? Then what
in hell are you doing here? That "last race" was last month's
race. Why are you in this one?
https://video.search.yahoo.com/search/video?p=teton+couloir+bike
Hmmm. It's too late to try it this season, but there's always next
season...
☮
Thank you,
--
Don
Gary R. Schmidt
wheelsuit) down a cleared Bob-sled track:
<http://www.betononfire.de/?lang=en>.
Cheers,
Gary B-)
--
When men talk to their friends, they insult each other.
They don't really mean it.
When women talk to their friends, they compliment each other.
They don't mean it either.
D B Davis
> On 04/05/2019 13:47, D B Davis wrote:
>> Something about this excerpt from "Mirror of Ice" (Wright) feels
>> familiar:
>>
>> just one last time, wasn't that what you told yourself? One
>> last race and that's the end of it and good-by to the sleds
>> and thank God! Wasn't that your personal promise? Then what
>> in hell are you doing here? That "last race" was last month's
>> race. Why are you in this one?
>>
>> It looks like the newest thrill is riding a bike down Corbet's Couloir:
>> https://video.search.yahoo.com/search/video?p=teton+couloir+bike
>> Hmmm. It's too late to try it this season, but there's always next
>> season...
>>
> Try "Beton on Fire' if you want a thrill, skate or skateboard (or
> wheelsuit) down a cleared Bob-sled track:
> <http://www.betononfire.de/?lang=en>.
blades, long boards, skate boards, skis, and the like, fall well outside
of my skill set. There's bike paths that go through the heart of Denver
and meet at a scenic place called Confluence Park, not far from
downtown. During the summer you see a lot of Beton style athletes
rolling around.
One summer an attempt was made by me to summit Snow King Mountain in
Jackson Hole on my bike. It started hard enough at the grassy bottom and
became ever steeper and harder on the way up.
After a few moments, you find yourself walking your bike up because
riding it is simply out of the question. By the time you hit the craggy
granite outcrops at the /bottom/ of the double and triple black diamond
runs, you're just out of steam altogether. That's all she wrote; no
summit for you.
☮
Thank you,
--
Don