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Why
Photographers Wake Up By
Ernie Scurvey
The early Rocky mountain air was far to cold and low in oxygen to fully
combust with the high octane fuel I was pumping into the carburetor.
Shiny decals from the new sled glistened from the sliver of fire
rising from the granite peaks; momentarily paused in its compulsive
journey of sailing across the Atlantic, immigrating upon the streets of
New York and photosenthesing the fields of bread, before awakening my
homestead of hermitical habitat. The
rusted tin roofs of Telluride flickered nearly half a
mile below from where the sleds were parked and I glanced over the cliff
and down to the single lane road which wrapped its belly, several times
before bearing the green, state mandated nametag, “Main Street.”
The locals referred
to it as a town, but like a parent describing a child, they were
exaggerating. Gas pumps
littered the markets parking lot where truants would
hang out, smoking Camel Wides and hucking tar colored loogies across the
snow.
Curly, the alleged phenomena, I was waiting for, was one such
truant. In fact his name was
not truly Curly. When he was
interviewed in Transworld Snowboarding
last month, he confessed his true name was Jim but his friends called him
Curly because he curled the toes of all the girls in his school.
But I pictured Jim sleeping late while curled in a ball under his
warm sheets
while I froze and toyed with the idiocracy of tardiness being fashionable.
Yet, lately, even breathing seemed idiotic.
Between shallow chest
expansions I find myself questioning my occupation. I ask why I’m still
here chasing an awoken dream, traveling on the same dead end road anxious
for the road block surely ahead. From
the age of ten, all I wanted was
to make a living riding a snowboard.
When I turned sixteen, countless hours
were spent behind the wheel chasing powder and the professional tour.
I would ride for twelve hours a day, from nine to nine I would
polish tricks and
perfect my smooth birdlike style. I
had a whole bag of tricks but my favorite,
the one I could perfect in any condition, off any lip, was the indy.
But before my Indy ever graced the covers of Transworld or
warranted gold, a pop severed my ACL and any chance of completing the
person I had been building.
Now I sit atop a mountain. The
snowboard that once graced my back has been replaced by a camera and
countless rolls of film. While
I once reveled in the comradery of my fellow riders I am now disgusted by
their trendy two hundred
dollar parkas and signature wrist watches.
The powder I once lived for is now an inconvenience and creeps into
my boot and I curse as I shake it out.
A pointless endeavor, I think, trekking for hours up a mountain just
to ride back down; with only the memory of a few seconds of air time or a
precise turn of the board. Now
the only memory of my days resides in an 8”
by 10” black and white. I
sit in a dark room and expound upon a registered
memory, not of my own, but of some young punk who robbed the life I was
meant to have.
“Hey Ted you ready,” the punk named Curly had finally arrived
and was perched above the road gap ready to hit the jump.
I freed my hands from my His lanky, slender build and economy of movement resembled my old form. Suddenly my mind melted into Curly’s experience. I sensed the undulations of the snow and the bend of the board as it molded to the uneven runway. My knees crouched as he popped from the lip. Into the air we sailed, the folds of his jacket danced, ballroom style, in the wind like the tail of a kite. The board merely an extension of his legs he tucked his knees into his chest, firmly grabbing the center of the board with his right arm. For what seemed like minutes the front leg was held straight, maximizing the stylish poke unique to the indy. I relished in the control of the poke and the power it exemplified. I did not breath, but I was not out of breath. I was floating in time, oblivious to anything but the perfection of my Indy. Oh how it felt. Countless nights have been left unslept while rekindling this sensation. Trees blurred from the speed yet my thoughts were clear. The senseless guilt’s and should haves were yesterday while the possibilities of the world were the present. Yet the future must become present and my flight must land. The speed was perfect for the landing and the board drifted to the snow. A thud echoed across the snow and awoke my reality. I released the grip on the shutter and watched as Curly sped down the hill and out of sight. My mind regained itself as I fell to the snow. The powder covered my face and fell into my ears, but all I could do was smile. |
Why Photographers Wake Up: Apparently, not to take pictures. The Making of: White Lightning: With filmmaker Mark McGarry The History of Snowboard Zines: Yo Beat's most researched story, ever. Snowboard Parks' Pact with the Devil: Another downfall of snowboarding. MIA at SIA: Veg-ass proves itself, once again. The 2002 LBS: How to be a good journalist at the Banked Slalom. Journal Excerpts: The ones about winter. -RC The Olympic Rant: : Hey, we had one four years ago. Vermont is for Skateboarders: An indoor park in Burlington. What will they think of next? Ticos, Imperial and Spanglish: Welcome to Costa Rica. The Blue Lodge: Where are they now?: It may be a little premature, but what the hell! Space Odyssey: Bendini Productions premieres its latest. Degrassi: The Next Generation: It's back and better than ever. US Open 2001: Better late than never. Yo Beat Midwest Skateboard Tour:3465 miles, one shop team, and a midwest that starts in Eastern Washington. Obligatory Mt. Hood Coverage 2001: Experience the power of a new snowboard during the summer. The Dry Erase Skateboard: New innovations in skatepark hooching. A Simple Guide to Living in Bellingham: Only funny if it is about you. Life Behind the Iron Curtain: Yo Beat's War correspondent David S. Bobolay reports. Got Drunk, Went to Oregon to find Heckler and got Drunk Again: Yeah. Slam City Jam 2001: Being some one is important, as we learn at BC's premiere skate contest. |
