The Adventure Life with Steve Casimiro <br/ >The Saga of the One-Horned Viking

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Text by West Coast Editor Steve Casimiro

I personally don’t know anything about poaching powder or ducking a ski area rope without authorization and experiencing the transcendence of five-percent eiderdown snow, which is rumored to transform your life so that all you think about is skiing deep untracked, even at the beginning of May when the sun is shining and the birds are chirping. But I’ve overheard that some people do. One story I’ve heard concerned a Viking, or, since Norwegians pronounce “v” as “w," to be culturally more accurate, a "Wiking."

The Viking had size 13 feet and size 14 horns. He hailed from Eastern provinces, where the fruits of winter were sparse and shriveled, and so like his ancestors he headed west in search of richer pillaging grounds. Beyond the Continental Divide, after a journey of some hardships that included flight delays and TSA staffers who made him check his horns, he found them. Deep, cold, and lustrous, they glistened in the sun: acre upon acre of soft, fluffy snow. But other Vikings got there first and pristine powder fields were looted.

The Viking was sad, but undeterred. Norwegians invented skiing and so he moved expertly across the mountains in search of more and better snow. Eventually, he came to a thin red barrier. On the near side lay tattered remnants, on the far side, virgin white. The Viking didn’t think twice. With a well-practiced duck, he scooted beneath the rope and disappeared into a cloud of cold smoke. Swift, silent, and horned, he carved the most beautiful size 13 tracks. And when the slope turned flat, the Viking once again ducked the barrier, now returning to authorized lands.

This time, though, something went wrong. The Viking was a big man who sometimes underestimated his height, and as he skied under the rope without breaking stride, there was a “twang” by his ear and a sudden jerk. But he was battle tested, this Viking, and unless there was gushing blood or a missing limb, he didn’t give it a second thought. Not until later, that is, when he glanced into the black tinted windows of his longboat and finally noticed something amiss.

So, now it’s spring. Winter has lingered until the after-party, extending the season, but even so the snow is melting. Soon it will be summer, the steep slopes carpeted with thick, green grass and vibrant wildflowers. The hikers will come out. One of them will spy something white in the grass and they’ll bend to pick it up. They’ll hold in their hands a single white horn, a white horn with a crimson thread snagged on its tip, and they won’t know what to make of it. But I do.