The Unsung Heroes
By: Marshall Roach

The warmth of the fire hits me like a shockwave as I walk through the doors. There is a faint smell of waffles floating in the air as I make my way upstairs to the meeting room. When I reach the oversized conference room I am greeted by the crew chief, Thom Theys. He asks if I am ready to work and thinking about this question, I realize that no good can come of his sly smile. With a deep, hearty laugh he replies to my silence, “Good, because you’re on the B-Net crew.” My heart sinks, as he spoke these words. B-Net is a protective fence that keeps racers from sliding into the trees and seriously injuring themselves. Each roll weighs 40 pounds or more and fences off 50 to 100 feet. There are three solid rows of B-net from top to bottom on each side of the two point three mile course.

Soon the meeting is officially underway, and assignments given. Just as Thom had said, I will be building B-Net rows from the pump house down to the Golden Eagle jump and through to “The Abyss”. Great, I thought, as I remembered that this is one of the most important parts of the course. I would soon be skiing 80 pounds of B-net down the icy pitch. The meeting was adjourned just as the sun began to peek over the horizon; at least it promised to be a beautiful day to be outside.

Looking back I recall skiing down towards the pump house, carrying one roll of net on my shoulder and dragging another between my legs, I realized how odd I must look right then. I finally reached the pump house and the entrance to the race course; peering off the edge onto the ice I saw a leaf embedded in the ice two inches beneath the surface. Edging my way out onto the slope, my skis suddenly broke free, and I slid ten feet down the pitch before I was able to set the edge of my skis into the rock solid ice. Slowly the convoy of skiers followed suit and inched their way onto the course.

After four hours of work, our gladiators of the ice had set up nearly 16 rolls of net. Fortunately, we moved onto the flats, a modest 25 degree slope. We sat down and took a break, drank some water, and nibbled on soggy ham sandwiches before we continued our work down the mountain. Once again we began our work on the course, making our way down, drilling, punching and stringing; the work went at a furious pace. Within three more hours we had finished the day’s task and were on our way down when we noticed the storm clouds building in the northwest. Simultaneously, every person on the hill stopped, faces became dark and somber. The clouds meant snow and snow meant work, lots of work.

That night three feet of snow blanketed our perfectly manicured race course. Mother Nature had thrown a big ugly wrench into the success of a downhill race scheduled for the afternoon. The lift ride up was unusually quiet; we had all heard the rumors. On the other side of the planet, European reporters claimed that the race would be canceled due to our inability to move the snow off the hill. The morning meeting was shorter than usual and we were soon heading out into the frigid darkness. As we ascended silently up the mountain, our headlamps illuminated the flakes of snow falling gracefully to the ground below. Today would be a long one; we would probably not be off the hill until well after dark tonight.

We reached the top of the race course and shovels were thrust into our hands. Like soldiers on a death march, we made our way down to the abyss, a freezing hole where the sun never shines. When we reached The Abyss, we found Günter, head of FIS World Cup Skiing, and Goob, our crew leader. It was obvious that Goob had been up there for hours, working in the dark to repair the damage inflicted upon our course. Günter was doing his morning inspection and began encouraging us, through his thick Austrian accent, to start our work. Grudgingly, we picked up our tools and began shoveling. After thirty minutes two snow blowers arrived. After another forty minutes, a spark plug wrench, and a few well aimed kicks from a ski boot, the air was filled with the noise of four stroke engines blasting snow into the woods.

By the time our lunch showed up, we had cleared most of the snow from the abyss. Unfortunately, more and more snow was being brought down by the slip crews every minute. We sat and ate our lunch and watched the snow pile up into mountains we had to move.

Then, without warning, two winch cats appeared over the horizon of the Golden Eagle jump. Like diesel powered angels from the heavens they crept down the seventy degree icy face with giant snow blowers mounted to the front of each machine. Twenty feet above the first pile, the operator started the spinning teeth of snow blowing madness. He let the cat slide head first into the mountain of snow, burying it nearly to the windshield. We heard the motor begin to cut out when suddenly the operator throttled up and a thick black, cloud of diesel smoke choked our lungs. Snow began to fly as the engine roared; the white powder of our nightmares was now sixty feet in the air and falling harmlessly into the forest. The second cat followed suit and began work on a pile of snow lower down the face. With two snow cats throwing snow into the air, the effect was surreal. The two columns of snow soared high above us into the sun and warmed everyone’s spirits; soon we were eager to start working again.

The snow cats had since moved on and we were left to our snow blowers and shovels. We worked faster than ever before, shoveling and raking at a madman’s pace. The race runs were rescheduled to begin in one hour, and we still had six inches of snow to move off the course. That’s when I noticed that Goob didn’t have a shirt on; most of us were down to sweaters and light jackets, but Goob was shoveling away topless. As the crew hurried to finish, the best ski racers in the world slid by during their pre-run inspection. Most did not seem to notice the twenty-five people bent over shoveling the heavy snow into snow blowers, but others stopped and thanked us for our hard work while some took pictures and signed autographs. Soon however, the party was broken up when Günter arrived and again encouraged us all to go back to work.

The time was 1:45 p.m. and we were still scraping the last remnants of snow off our section of the course. Slip crews had been diverted around us to protect the perfect icy conditions of the abyss. At 2:00 p.m. the race started without a hitch. Fans from all across Europe turned on their televisions to the live broadcast of the Beaver Creek World Cup Ski Race. Radios came to life in over thirteen different languages, chattering away, giving reports about course conditions and line changes. Ski racers from around the world began to fly by us at incredible speeds, holding an edge on sheer ice, while urging every ounce of speed out of themselves and their equipment.

Next in the line up were Bode Miller and Darron Rhalves, the Americans. Once again radios fired up. Every single course worker moved onto the run and erased all traces that any one else had been on the hill. Bode was first. He came soaring over 200 feet off the Golden Eagle jump into The Abyss. At 88 miles an hour he hit the compression at the bottom of the hole and rocketed out with tremendous force: perfect. The stands erupted as Bode crossed the line in first place, for the time being.

Once again, every available body was on the course, raking out the two inch deep grooves Miller left. Darron Rhalves was next. Flying off the Golden Eagle jump, like a flash he landed and was already into his tuck, he absorbed the compression and was out of sight; he was already over the next face towards the finish line. An eerie silence filled the air and then the sound of skis finding purchase on the smooth face was heard once again as Rhalves landed off the next jump. Again silence filled the air as Darron raced towards the finish line. Suddenly the roar of the crowd startled us all; it was a deafening sound as thousands of American fans screamed in unison. The Americans had done it, we had done it. For the first time in history, American ski racers finished first and second in a World Cup event.

At the awards ceremony, Darron Rhalves took the microphone as his gold medal glinted in the sun. During his acceptance speech he thanked his sponsors, his friends and his family. Then, he did something no one expected. He thanked the course crews for “Breaking their backs to put on the best ski race on Earth.” At that moment, every course crew member present broke into applause as Darron acknowledged the crew in The Abyss, and specifically pointed out Goob for working with no shirt on. This was all the praise we needed as we watched Darron and Bode celebrate.

As I looked on at Darron and Bode standing on top of the podium, I realized that if it weren’t for the volunteers, none of this would be possible. At the end of the day, when the winners go off to celebrate, the real heroes are those who made it all possible. Although there were doubters and critics the whole way, through teamwork we triumphed over adversity and a total snow fall of over four feet to put on the greatest ski race the world had ever seen. That is, until this year…

Author: Marshall Roach