Why Am I Still Alive Pt. 24: The Chinese Downhill

Every winter since I was about 8 years old, my parents would drive my sister and I, and occasionally some of my high school friends including Steve Muhn, and Eric Fernando, out to Utah to ski the greatest snow in the world near Salt Lake City. We had been coming out west for years since the very first trip at age 8 where we faced a major blizzard that closed Highway 80 and left us stranded in extremely cold temperatures in the middle of Wyoming. The gas lines froze in the van so we couldn’t even run the heat. To attempt to keep warm all 4 of us bundled in the blankets on the bed in the back of the van. We were eventually towed to a gas station where the gas lines eventually un-froze and we continued on to ski Jackson Hole and Grand Targhee. After that it was always Utah.

Fast forward 8 years or so and at age 16 I am skiing Alta in Utah. This time my sister had already made the trek and was working at Alta. So it was Eric, Steve and I bombing runs. We spent a good deal of time climbing up to catch powder, but we also occasionally and somewhat randomly would declare a “Chinese Downhill” - a top to the bottom race down the groomed runs popularized by the movie “Hot Dog” in approximately the same year.

We were all good skiers and would take turns leading and by rotating due to the draft would easily hit speeds in excess of 60 mph - always on the lookout for ski patrol. On this particular run, Eric took over the lead not far from the top and led us to mid-mountain, where he suddenly veered right, away from the groomed run. Steve and I, more familiar with the mountain immediately slowed, skidding hard to shed speed. We both crested the drop at the same time where we were astounded to see Eric heading straight down a mogul run - his head seemingly disjointed from his body as he slammed into mogul after mogul at impossible speeds. Muhn says, “oh my god - he’s going to die - or kill someone!” Chasing and chastened we swept down the mogul field in his wake. 

Eric’s pattern did not change - he just went straight down. However the bottom of the run presented a new challenge - there was a wide cat-track going right to left which was the only exit from the run. Going straight meant going directly into a thick forest. Steve and I looked at each other worried as we watched our out-of-control friend bobbing down the tail end of the run. 

The natural line to exit the run would have been to turn left down the mountain and then try to control speed on the gentle slope of the wide cat track. But Eric, apparently, had had enough of going downhill and decided to slow his descent by turning right - by going uphill on the cat track. At this point, he was going well in excess of 50mph and he barely made the wild turn to go uphill.

Then things got weird - and funny. Just around the bend and directly in line with Eric’s arc was a kids’ group ski lesson. 

Here they were, 7 or 8 kids were lined up near the woods, listening to their instructor. I am sure they had been repeatedly admonished that they should always be aware of the skiers descending from above. I’ll bet never in a million years had any of them, nor the instructor considered the possibility that a skier might be headed uphill at them at mach 10. 

It happened so fast that none of them moved. Eric merely made the hard right to avoid the woods and then neatly tracked straight across the skis of the kids’ lesson heading uphill at a velocity that barely allowed their heads to swivel. “What the…?” was all we heard as Steve and I passed by them also traveling uphill though at vastly slower speeds. 

We regrouped well uphill of the group and mostly out of view and waited for them to head down the mountain. Steve and I were in tears we were laughing so hard - “dude! You just schussed a mogul run! I thought your head was going to pop off your shoulders! And then! And then you ran over a bunch of kids skis going uphill at 100mph - they are never going to understand physics after this!!”

My parents and I have a very visceral memory of Steve during this trip. We’d had a long couple of days of skiing and a tradition was to eat dinner once or twice at The Old Spaghetti Factory in Trolley Square, Salt Lake City - a tradition I will renew tomorrow when I fly in to visit them. One time, climbing the stairs to the restaurant, Steve had to stop halfway up to rest because he was so tired and sore.

Even now when we visit Trollery Square, my father, despite his dementia, will stop halfway up, grab his legs and say, as we climb the stairs… “oh god, no, I need a break,” as Steve Muhn did nearly 40 years ago. Sadly we have lost both Steve Muhn, and his wife Laurie over the last couple of years.