Maple: Groundhog Day — Rise and Shine a Southern Grind

When you arrive 2.5 hours before your flight with two sets of ski boots on your back in the middle of August, you’re bound to raise some eyebrows — but shuffling 2 duffle bags and 10 pairs of skis into the airport will shake heads. If you’re in Denver, they’ll question your sanity. In Aspen, if you’re lucky, they’ll greet you like an old friend: “Off to the Southern Hemisphere again?”

I’m 34 years old, which means I have been making this yearly pilgrimage to the South lands for approximately 19 years. Which also happens to be the average age of the ski club kids I’ll be skiing alongside this camp. I’ve been doing this for as long as they have been alive, and hilariously, they are my competition — or rather, if they are lucky, stupid, and tough, then someday they will be.

On the outside, not a lot seems to have changed in those 19 years. Arriving in Santiago, we still have to fight through the swarm of Chilean taxi drivers outside the gate — and then we wait. I’m still able to convince a few to play frisbee or soccer with me on a small strip of concrete rather than stand around and debate the conditions. Finally, the old rickety bus arrives reliably late and appears to be the same as it ever was. Chile hasn’t changed — I have. 

The bus driver assumes I’m a coach, and in some ways, I am — a shining example of what not to do. And what can be survived. In contrast to my 19-year-old self and the kids around me, I’m often well-bearded and some flecks of gray have started to emerge from the fray. And I know something these kids do not: what it’s cost to be here. I’ve experienced pain and misery, which create an alchemy close to catastrophe. My body is covered in scars — I have had to re-learn to walk 6 times. I’ve had to learn how to use my fingers and thumbs again 10 times. And I’ve had to wear slip-on shoes with a cane on too many occasions while I waited for my back to feel less abused — and once, I had to get it fused. But, I have never had to relearn to ski. One does not forget how to fly, until they die. 

Earlier this year before we pushed out of the scariest downhill in the world, a former teammate said, “It’s worth it.” He’d just spent the last 3 years relearning to walk after he spiral fractured both legs in a Downhill. And on this day, he was once again destroyed by what we call “play.” Carted off to perhaps fight another day.

Is it worth it? Woof, hard to say. The real question is: Could you live with yourself if you did not get up again? Sometimes life begs the question, without some kind of war, without something worth striving for: Would we just grow poor and fade away, no longer able to enjoy the play? It’s been almost 9 months since that day, and I greet my old friend who’s once again fought his way back to begin again.

Is it worth it? In some ways, skiing always is.

For the next 3 weeks: Two 30+ year olds and a bunch of 19 year olds get up in the dark before the sun has come. We walk through the frozen mud and pile into an open-air, rusty bus with 3-5 pairs of skis per person and zig zag up the switchbacks before hauling that ridiculous amount of skis up 3 unreliable pomas to the top of a downhill course. In the pale light of dawn, we warm up, rip through some core exercises and glute activation before inspecting the course. The night before, we or our technicians tuned and polished each ski to a shining gleam, with edges so sharp they’d cut through the hard chewy mystery meat we have for dinner most nights. Over the next 3 hours, we’ll take approximately 4-6 runs on almost the exact same course as yesterday and the day before that. And each of those runs will require the focus of a fighter pilot entering a dogfight. And the explosive exertion of an Olympic sprinter running an 800 at the pace of the 200. We have 3-5 skis because each run we will exceed speeds of 80 mph — fast enough to melt and boil the base of a ski.

At the heart of each day is an enigma, a question — how to shave off a sliver of a second. Each run, we are attempting to go slightly faster than the run before. Most often we fail. We analyze line, tactics, arrow dynamics, force, and function — every second, every turn, every moment trying to find the answer — trying to understand magic scientifically. And of course, trying not to die. The striving is similar to beating your head against a brick wall, with the biggest difference being, eventually that wall will break. There is no such guarantee with me and a ski. Even still, you show up — every day, every hour just hoping for that moment. That sliver of time — where the grind — breaches a hole in time. And you find the answer, some movement, some inclination. Some hint, perhaps just a glint. But it saves you time, and that’s where the magic is, some mechanism between action and reaction.  

In the evening, we attempt to recover — spin and stretch. Perhaps throw in a maintenance lift or destroy some 19-year-olds in spike ball. Examine video. Rinse, wash, repeat. Rinse, wash, repeat. Begin again. Groundhog Day. Is it addiction or conviction? I’m 34. My bank account still hits empty once a year. I’m likely the only World Cup and Olympic skier riding solo and jumping at an opportunity to link with a team of 19-year-olds. A David forced to compete against multiple Goliaths. I’ve broken almost too many times to count.

But something has changed along the way. Somehow, against all odds a strange anomaly, I’ve gotten faster, stronger, quicker, and smarter. I feel better in my 30s than I did in my 20s. I’ve learned something many have not: that what has broken can mend. That what is old can still bend. All we have to do is begin again. To find joy in the play and just make it through another day. 

“If pain and suffering make you wiser, then I should like to be less wise.” Can’t find exact quote at the moment.

World Cup and Olympic skier Wiley Maple was raised in Aspen.