Snow

Sunday night I was at The Buccaneer. It was a dual occasion. It's my regular Sunday night bar, which is an occasion all its own. But it was also the Za Christmas party. Za is a pizza restaurant down the street from The Buc where a couple of my friends work. Za and The Buc are sort of sister businesses. The Za staff often comes to the bar to socialize, and it made sense for them to have their informal little Christmas party there.

My friend Jamie, who I know as a regular from the bar, works at Za and so was in attendance as expected. Jamie is an avid skier, and we have always talked about hitting the slopes together over the years, but somehow it had never actually happened.

Jamie announced that a snow storm was afoot and that he was heading up to to Kirkwood on Tuesday with one of his Za compatriots. He strongly suggested that I come along.

"Do we have anywhere to stay up there?" I asked.

"Mark might know someone. I'm not sure. We'll figure something out."

I'm at the point now, where I seriously consider any opportunity to follow good snow conditions up to the mountains. I have become a bit of a powder snob. That is, for me to make the several hour trip up to the Sierras, I would prefer that the snow conditions will be excellent. This doesn't always mesh exactly with the rest of my schedule. I'm back to a 9 to 5, Monday through Friday job, once again and, in my previous life, would consider myself relegated to weekend trips only. In addition, I don't have a car anymore. I used to have the luxury of hopping in my Jeep at a moments notice to make the trip, accompanied or not. No more.

So this one sounded nice. I have been eagerly awaiting the snow season to begin. I only had one snowboarding day last season because I was travelling during most of it. On Monday, I texted Jamie to double check his seriousness about it.

Somewhere around 2pm he called me while I was at work. He was somewhat hungover from a big night of Christmas partying, and sounded somewhat pessimistic about making the trip. He was planning on spending Christmas day at his mom's house up near the Sierra's, and didn't want to make the trip twice. It probably wouldn't work.

I sighed and said I understood. "We'll try again next time."

Less than five minutes later he called me back. He apologized for being negative about the trip. He really wanted to help me get up there and, if I really wanted to go, he would make it happen for me. "I want to be your oak tree," he said. I think he meant that he wants me to think of him as a reliable friend who I can count on to keep a promise and provide support. In the past, something has always seemed to fall apart with these proposed trips. He decided to hold strong to his commitment even though it was less than convenient for him.

Energized by his show of friendship and our shared enthusiasm about hitting the slopes, I cancelled my meeting for the next day, and announced at around 3pm that "sorry for the late notice," but that I wouldn't be at work the next couple of days. See ya.

We planned to head up early Tuesday morning. 5am. Jamie had to stop in Davis to pick up some equipment for his friend Mark to use so it would add almost an extra hour to the trip up. I went straight home after work and dug out all my snowboarding gear, packed a bag, and did my best to get to sleep as early as I could.

Sure enough, Jamie was ready for me just after 5, and the three of us headed east.

The trip was long. The mountains were drivable but somewhat snowy and slow. A highway patrolman stopped us at the chain control on Highway 88 to strongly remind us that the speed limit was 25 MPH and that they didn't have many resources to help us if we had problems on the road. Poor Jamie kept us going while Mark and I alternately nodded out, sleepy from a still-too-short night in bed.

At Kirkwood, I did my best to remain patient while Mark rented some boots and Jamie waited in a crazy long line for his season pass. It was after 11 by the time we got on our first chair lift, but I knew we probably weren't in good enough physical condition to last more than five hours anyway, especially on our first day up.

I was right. After our first warm up run down the hill, we all moaned and groaned about our legs. That said though, we all marvelled at the snow condition. One or two feet of new snow had fallen the previous day and night, and it was still only about 25 degrees out, cold enough to keep the snow light and dry. This was going to be a great day. Let's keep the moaning to a minimum.

Jamie is a big fan of Kirkwood and knows the mountain much better than I do. He told Mark and I to watch one of the chair lifts off in the distance. That side of the mountain was closed, but he suspected they might open it up. He said if that chair lift starts moving, we'd head over that direction.

The mountain was busy but not crowded and there was plenty of nice fluffy snow for everyone. After a gleeful several hours of great conditions, we took a break for some food and drink. We plopped at the bar and had some snacks along with coffee spiked with whiskey and Kahlua. The break didn't last long though. We were eager to finish the day strong.

Jamie ran into a friend from school at the bar and, since he was an intermediate rider, we all decided to head up the lift and take an easy run down to get warmed back up.

But while Mark and I were on the lift together, we noticed that the lift off yonder seemed to be moving. Jamie who was ahead of us would surely spot that and be excited.

At the top, Mark and I gestured wildly toward that direction. Jamie hadn't noticed and when we told him the lift was turning, he said a quick "Sorry but we'll see you later" to his school friend, turned to Mark and I, and said "Let's go!"

We rode down to the lift where the operator told us "Ya, sorry that side of the mountain isn't open, just this little hill." Ah, ok well it's not the backside, but it's still a lot of nice fresh snow that no one has hit yet. This could still be quite fun.

But then at the top, just as I was about to head back down to the bottom of the same lift, Jamie yelled to me. "No! This way. They just opened it!"

An hour or so earlier, I had actually made a bet with Jamie that they wouldn't open this side of the mountain so late in the afternoon. By this time it was 3 o'clock, only an hour left in the day before closing time. Why would the resort send employees out to run the lifts, set up the little rope fences and signs around the lifts, just for a single hour of operation?

But they did it.

They did it knowing very well what kind of Christmas gift they were giving us, the lucky few who made the trip over. The lucky few who cancelled their meetings. The lucky few who got up at 4:30 in the morning. The lucky few who kept their commitments to their friends. The lucky few who didn't have any guarantee of a place to sleep, but went anyway.

This was our reward.

The backside of the mountain hadn't been opened for the season yet. The two feet of fresh snow, and everything under it was completely virgin. As we rode the lift up to the peak, we didn't see any tracks at all. No skiers. No people. Nothing. Jamie and I just looked at each other in amazement and disbelief. We were shouting and laughing and high fiving like little kids.

It was about 2/3 of the way up the lift before we saw the first skiers and riders coming down the hill. They were the lucky first. But we were just as lucky. The entire mountain was fresh. In every direction, all anyone could do was to cut a beautiful powdery highlight-film-style line down the side of the pristine mountain.

This type of scenario is what skiers and snowboarders dream about. They get up super early to try and catch the first chair of the day. They pay thousands of dollars to take helicopters deep into the mountains to get at snow that has never been touched.

And we had it. For one hour. Enough for three runs down the hill. Each lift operator got an ear full of "Thank you! Thank you!". Some gave a little thumbs up and nod.

Then they sent us home. Packed up the little rope fences and signs. And that was it. One hour of heaven.

Back in the parking lot, the few folks that were left were grinning ear to ear and woo'ing and pumping their fists in the air. Everyone was high from excitement.

Mark got a hold of his friend in South Lake who invited us to stay the night. We were weary and completely exhausted, but managed to socialize for awhile, then headed back to the city in the morning.

Jamie dropped Mark and I off back in the city, then promptly turned around the same night to head up to his mother's house in Arnold. Until then, I hadn't realized just how brutal Jamie's day in the car would be, all in the name of giving Mark and I the opportunity that turned out so great.

Thanks Jamie. You're an oak tree. I owe you one. Oh and a shot of Van Gogh for being right about the lift.

The Buc

It's funny. I find myself telling this story a lot. When you're a regular at a small local pub in San Francisco, it's sort of assumed that you live in the neighborhood. When people are used to seeing your face around the place, and then you tell them you live fairly far away, they generally cock their head and squint their eyes, trying to think of a decent reason someone would travel any substantial distance to sit on a worn out stool and listen to the same jukebox tunes over and over again.

For some reason, Sunday nights at The Buccaneer Pub in Russian Hill pull at least a few of us regulars in from relatively far and wide. Each of us has our own story about why we do so. Here's mine:

Sometime around 2001, a friend of a friend named Mike Griffen, who fancied himself as an up and coming comedian, was putting on a low budget public access TV show. The concept behind public access television is that, in the interest of maintaining a voice for local interests, the airwaves should be open to anyone who wants to broadcast any content whatsoever. So local television and radio networks are required to provide airtime to virtually whoever asks for it. The Griff Show was your run of the mill funny-guy-at-the-desk with sidekick-on-the-couch show. Mike taped the show at his sidekick's apartment who lived down the hall from him in a building near Polk and Union streets. The apartment could only be described as swinger-cheesy. It had a red and white leather couch with a matching red and white leather mini cocktail bar. A bookshelf behind the couch held martini glasses and a picture of Frank Sinatra. As hard as it was to believe that anyone would choose this decor for his own apartment, it made a perfect setting for the show.

His tapings had become essentially theme parties that were fun for friends to attend. We would bring some beer, sit on the floor and watch the tapings, acting as the studio audience, oohing and awing, groaning and laughing at the appropriate moments. It was fun.

Griff, as he liked to be called, enjoyed hitting the local bars and chatting up attractive young women whenever possible. He was the funny self-effacing guy who seemed to enjoy being entertaining more so than actually realizing any success with the women he spoke to. But talking about the show was a great opening for him, and he would regularly invite pretty girls to be guests on the show. It was a good racket.

At some point Griff announced that he wanted a band for the show. Someone to play a theme song, and play music to introduce guests, and have witty banter with during the show. He asked for volunteers. I said I would be in the band if I could play the bass. I had never really played the bass before, but I always wanted to. It was a good excuse.

Some friends and I rehearsed a few songs at my house in Glen Park and also donned some grubby rock musician alter egos to go along with the new group. We named the band Ass Pocket, and taped a few shows, crammed into the corner of the apartment during the tapings.
The show was broadcast on San Francisco channel 29. Time slots for programs were determined by a lottery at random. The time slot given to the Griff Show was 10pm Sunday nights. Griff's favorite pub was The Buccaneer, a couple blocks from his apartment on Polk street, and he got the bar to agree to tune their TVs to Channel 29 every Sunday night so we could watch ourselves.

That was always super fun. It was kind of a train wreck of a show. Poorly produced, poorly edited, sometimes funny, sometimes not so funny, sometimes more or less unintelligible. But it was ours and we loved it.

The show didn't really air for that long, but while attending those regular Sunday nights, I got to know some of the staff and regulars at the bar. It became an especially comfortable place for me to just show up any time and feel welcome. I usually knew someone who was there. After awhile it just felt like home.

People come and go, but the regulars and staff are all very friendly and socialize with one another all the time.

One day while the show was still on the air, a young new bartender named Marty was on duty. When we rolled in to watch the show, we were concerned he wouldn't tune the TV to 29 for us. "No no! They told me about it! Don't worry!", he said.

Seven years later, Marty still works at the bar on Sunday nights, and I still make semi regular appearances.

It's a family.