The Drop
The Drop
Jeff Ross
orca sports
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2011 Jeff Ross
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Ross, Jeff, 1973-
The drop [electronic resource] / Jeff Ross.
 (Orca sports)
Electronic monograph in PDF format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-393-1
I. Title. II. Series: Orca sports (Online)
| PS8635.O6928D76 2011A | JC813'.6 | C2010-908001-7 |
First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number:
2010942089
Summary:
When Alex and three other snowboarders find themselves in trouble in the remote mountains of British Columbia, Alex must confront his fears and lead them to safety.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed
this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Typesetting by Christine Toller
Cover photography by Getty Images
Author photo by Simon Bell
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Printed and bound in Canada.
14 13 12 11 ⢠4 3 2 1
To Megan, for her patience. To my parents, who always let me have
“just one more run,” and to my kids.
Contents
Titles in the Series orca sports
The helicopter pitched forward, almost tossing me out the open door. I grabbed the safety handle and pushed my goggles down over my eyes. There was a tap on my back. I turned around to see Dave waving at me to get out. In the front of the chopper, the copilot was making little circular motions with his hand. I knew what that meant: jump. The wind tossed the helicopter around and threw pellets of snow that felt like gravel on my face.
I shifted my snowboard away from where I had it wedged against the door. The helicopter jerked backward again, and I held on to the safety handle with all my strength.
“Take a deep breath,” our instructor, Sam, said into my ear. I turned to look at him, and he smiled his big white smile. “Now exhale.” I nodded. “And then you just float out.” His hand drifted before him like a feather falling to earth. I nodded again. Inhaled, like he had told me.
Exhaled.
“Go, Alex,” Dave shouted. Dave had been heli-boarding half a dozen times. This was the first time I had ever even
been
in a helicopter.
Never mind jumping out of one.
I inched my board forward and let it dangle over the edge. The ground was thick and white, like a giant duvet. The rotor blades of the helicopter forced the snow up and out. It seemed like I was about to fall into a cloud. I wanted to jump, but you know what they sayâthe first step is the hardest.
I inhaled again.
Exhaled.
Then I jumped.
It felt like I was falling forever. When my board finally touched down, I bent my knees to soften the impact. It still made my spine shake and sent a shiver through my entire body. But at least I was on the ground. The helicopter was floating above one of the highest peaks in British Columbia, far from the lift lines and groomed trails of Whistler Mountain. The powder was so deep here that there wasn't even a chance that the helicopter could land. So you had to jump.
I hopped a couple of times to get going. Then I leaned into the downhill and pushed hard to break free from the tornado-like conditions.
When I came out the other side of the whirlwind of snow, the world was bright blue and glaring white. I could see forever. In the distance, other peaks poked into the clouds. I had never been up this high on a mountain before. I did two quick turns, dug in hard on my toe edge and settled in beside Bryce and Hope, two of the other Backcountry Patrol hopefuls.
“What took you so long?” Hope asked.
“My board got caught on the door.”
The little bit of Hope's face that wasn't covered by pink tuque, goggles or neck warmer screwed up in a familiar way. “You mean you got scared.”
I pointed at the front of my board. “It got stuck on the doorframe. I had to get it out. I didn't want to scrape up the bottom.”
“Seriously, Alex, how many rails did you do yesterday?” she said. “And now you want me to believe you are suddenly all concerned about the bottom of your board?”
I had spent the last two weeks training with Dave, Hope and Bryce. Dave was arrogant, but he didn't have the skills to back up his talk. Bryce was the best nonprofessional snowboarder I had ever seen. When the rest of us were making big jumpy turns down the hill, Bryce was cutting smooth lines. He was goodâ great even. But it was nothing to him. Just something he could do. Hope was⦠well, I don't even know how to explain what Hope was. First off, she's a girl. Not that I think girls shouldn't be Backcountry Patrollersâjust not
this
girl. I could only imagine what she would do if she found someone half dead in the woods or caught on a ledge. My guess was that, at best, she might become a groomed-slope Ski Patroller. Which, as far as I was concerned, was about the worst thing you could be.
“Believe whatever you want, Hope.” I knelt down on the ground, my board out behind me, and let the cool breeze rush across my face. The helicopter was pitching in the wind. It went forward, then back, then a little higher, then down so low that it almost touched the ground. Suddenly Dave dropped out of the side of the helicopter and disappeared into the tornado of snow. A moment later he was beside us, wiping snow from his goggles.
“Nice one,” Bryce said. Dave nodded as though he already knew it had been a nice jump. The helicopter pitched back again, then lifted up another twenty feet off the ground. “What's happening?” I asked. Sam, our instructor and lone connection to the rest of the world, was still on board.
“He said he'd be right behind me,” Dave said. We watched as the helicopter rose again, higher into the endless sky.
“He can't just leave us,” Hope said.
“Maybe it's part of the test,” Bryce said.
“Leaving us on the side of the mountain?” Hope said. “Alone? That is
not
what I signed up for.” The chopper lifted slightly, and Sam slid out the open door. He fell for a moment and then grabbed the landing skid. He did a couple of quick chin-ups, held the back edge of his board with one hand and let go of the skid.
He seemed to fall in slow motion, twisting at the same time. Just before he hit the ground, he kicked the board out and disappeared from view. It was like watching an Olympic high diver.
Beautiful.
“What was that?” Bryce said, obviously impressed.
“Wow,” Dave said, giving his head a little shake. Fifteen years ago, Sam Jenkins had been considered the best snowboarder on the planet. He had been the first professional boarder to do a 900 in a half-pipe during competition. That's two and a half
full
turns in the air. And this was back in the days when snowboards were so long and heavy that it took an amazing amount of strength just to launch yourself into the air. But Sam was one of those people who seemed to defy gravity. He was on the cover of magazines and won or placed in every competition he entered. There was even an early video of him and another pro boarder, Mike Carolina, tackling a hill that skiers had all but given up on.
Then one day he and Mike Carolina disappeared.
No one knew where they had gone. People said they were traveling the globe, looking for the highest peaks. The most extreme verts. Others thought they'd turned their talents to surfing and were in Australia or Hawaii riding waves. But no one really knew. Now Mike Carolina was still missing, and Sam was the man who would decide whether we would become Backcountry Patrollers and work the back hills of British Columbia, or if we would be shuffled over to the Ski Patrol. The difference between the two was night and day. Ski Patrollers ride lifts all day, warn people not to stand around in certain spots, and pick little kids up off the bunny slopes. Maybe, just
maybe,
now and then Ski Patrollers have to go off trail to drag someone out of the bush. Backcountry Patrol was something different altogether.
Something brand-new.
Backcountry Patrollers had nothing to do with groomed slopes and bunny trails. They were sent in when someone got into trouble while skiing or snowboarding in the backcountry. Until now, it had always been a job for skiers accompanied by snowmobiles. But last winter a snowboarder had managed to get into and out of the bush and save a woman who had gone off a cliff where no one elseânot skiers or snowmobilersâhad been able to do a thing. We'd been told early on that only one or two of us would be selected to work with the Backcountry Patrol. If we passed these tests, our job would be to help people who were in serious danger.
Our job would be to save lives.
“Where'd he go?” Bryce asked now. We were huddled behind a large outcropping. The helicopter had lifted off and disappeared into the clouds that almost touched the top of this peak.
It was silent and cold. Colder than I thought it would be. And with the helicopter gone, all I could hear was the wind rushing across the blank white space.
“Well, he has to be somewhere. He couldn't just
disappear
,” Hope said. Bryce took a couple of jumps toward the little ledge behind us. His goggles shone in the bright sunlight. It was a beautiful sunny day. But there were dark clouds in the distance.
