Vic

It was just after the New Year. The fun-loving Italians were in town having a rollicking telemark week in Verbier—a twice-a-season ritual full of funny hats, tortellini, vino and verve.

Like they are with most things in life, Italians are passionate about their telemark—passionate yet playful at the same time. Hooting and hollering on a powder day is the norm with them, bringing me back to very American memories of fun-hawg, banging-the-drum runs in SoCal and at Mammoth. (The most you will get from the Swiss is maybe a yodel.) Yes, the Italians have “Enthusiasm” silk-screened under the p-tex.

Whether it was Paolo and Icaro skiing a “canalone” (a couloir) off Mont GÈlÈ or 30 Italians—10 using lurks (we were all on a stick phase back then; some of us went to L.A.-LurkAnon, to get over it)—in various states of telemark proficiency blasting down Tortin all at once, it was always a hand-articulated, “Madonna...è bellissima!” at the end. That day on Tortin, even the snowboarders got out of the way.

Bernie picked me up to go to the traditional “Fat-Leg Folly” pasta party-slide show cum drinking sesh, hosted by Falkiner. No sooner had I hopped in and we pulled out onto the snowy road, Bernie started in with a story.

“Dude, you missed it today.”
“What?”
“John and I were skiing with the Italians up on Savoleyres, killer pow-pow all day. Afternoon comes around, we were hooting and hollering when we skied onto a cat track and this dude was standing there all quiet-like. Peaceful.”
“And?”
“He was a monk.”
“A monk?”
“Yeah. Shut up. He was a monk, and get this: he was telemarking! He was on tele gear.”
“A telemarking monk?”
“Yeah, a monkomarker! He looked like Friar Tuck and shit.” (Bernie=New York.)

We were halfway to the Pachou and I was cracking up at this story, knowing that he was right, I did miss it.

“Anyway, John and the Italians invited him for dinner. His name is Vic Bein.”
“Vic Bein?”
“Yeah.”
“Turn around!”
“What for?”
“I got a book written by him. A book on tele skiing. He wrote a book about tele!”
“No way.”
“Way.”

Back at my apartment I scooped up the book, excited at the prospect of meeting Vic. I dug his book, Mountain Skiing, which was published back in 82. This book, along with Flores’s Backcountry Skiing, and Parker’s Free-Heel Skiing, were my tomes of turn knowledge, and the authors my triumvirate of technique. (I still need to add Barnett to my collection.)

The cover shows Vic stylin’ through calf-deep Rocky Mountain powder, hands balanced like he could be holding a tray of drinks. Big pack and big beard, eyes focused down the hill, the brim of his hat flipped up like a skiing Jasper Parnevik. There are great sequences in the book. Vic demo-ing in the pow, always with a large pack on, tight and sweet. The toothpick Kazamas he used would humble all the youngsters out there today. Humble, I tell ya!

Some of the best sequences feature a shredding, jeans and flannel wearing, belt buckle toting, Keith Calhoun demonstrating “jump or step telemarks” and “lateral projection.” Vic then gives us some tele-esoterica such as “the Outrigger,” “the Charleston,” “the Royal Christy,” and Plake’s favorite, “Tip Drag Wedeln.” Awesome! He has a great paragraph in this section—Chapter 8 “Let’s Boogie”—where he says, “I cover only the techniques that have value and meaning to backcountry skiing. So you won’t find “helicopters,” inverted backward flips, and jumps.” Prescient! He also has the best “self-arrest” sequence and description that I have seen (as well as an illustration of Ramer’s MotiveAider. Who remembers that one?) The book is complete and very well written, covering such non-turning related subjects as shelters and camps, hypothermia, avalanches, and wilderness ethics.

But what was he doing as a monk? I mean it had to be the same guy, didn’t it? There couldn’t be two Vic Bein’s who tele, could there? Bernie snatched the book out of my hands and turned it to the back cover. There was a picture of Vic sporting CÈbÈ sunglasses and a very stylish Geze headband.

“Yup, that’s him all right.”

We showed up at the Pachou where the party was just starting to shift into second gear, the noise rising and tapering in waves. Vic sat quietly talking to an Italian on his right, his robe a striking contrast to the jeans and Italian leather loafer crowd in the room. Bernie introduced me and then told Vic that I brought his book. I asked him if he would be so kind as to sign it for me. Looking puzzled, he turned the book over in his hands, almost like he had never seen it before. Some of the Italians got wind that something was up and I could tell that Vic was getting a bit uncomfortable. Knowing I had put him on the spot, I told him to think about it, and write something after dinner. By this time the book was making the rounds to oohs, aahs and “mamma mia’s.” The vino flowed endlessly, the pasta delicious. Finally I got up to go hang with Vic a little before I had to go to work. He had written a little something for me, and I was very pleased.

It turned out Vic was on a 10-year sabbatical studying and living as a monk in his native Poland. I suspected he didn’t ski all that much anymore and he confirmed that indeed that was true. He said that he wanted to visit the Hospice du Grand St. Bernard—that it was very important to him. I volunteered my humble services and told him I would be glad to take him there. He had the book back in his hands and was slowly flipping through the pages and I had the distinct feeling that he had forgotten he had written this book.

The historic Hospice and Monastery du Grand St. Bernard is one of those classic places that could only be found in Europe. Located on the high St. Bernard pass separating Italy with Switzerland, the Hospice is where an image we have all seen was born: that of the ubiquitous St. Bernard dog—tongue lolling and barrel of booze strapped under the collar—coming to the rescue of a hapless wayfarer stranded in the snow.

The year was 1050 when the Canons of the Order of St. Augustine were given the task of watching over the safety of travelers venturing over the snowy pass. The resident monks aided by the famous St. Bernards—they are trained to recognize traces of human passage even under a certain depth of snow—have saved the lives of an estimated 2000 people since then. The legacy of the Hospice continues to this day—the clerics and their canines offering assistance and refuge to all that pass by. Charlemagne, Napoleon and Hemingway have all been hosted by the Augustine monks of the Hospice where the motto is, “Here Christ is Adored and Fed.”
It is said of the St. Bernards, “they bark from afar and caress when near.” Perhaps the best known of the Hospice’s dogs was Barry I, who worked the deep snows of the col for 12 years. He was such a worthy dog that upon his death it was deemed necessary that he visit the taxidermist. Barry I now stands proudly in the Natural History Museum in Bern.

Barry on display

Contrary to popular belief, the famous Barry’s Bowl in Verbier is not named after Barry I—but instead after Dieter L’oeufbeater I of Clambin’s Bernese mountain dog Barry, who was a mainstay in Verbier for many dog-years. Barry of Clambin, unfortunately, is no longer with us. Dieter however, is. The worthiness of Master Dieter is so unassailable that we will be sending him to the taxidermist when he expires. Prop him up at the Natural History Museum of Verbier (the Pub).

It was a brutally cold clear morning, my glasses fogging with every breath, as I drove down to pick Vic up. He was staying with the chaplains at the church in old Verbier Village. I was sent back in time as the ancient church’s heavy wooden door creaked open to reveal a dark chamber beyond a sunlit, beatific looking Vic, clad in his heavy woolen robe, a wooden cross around his waist, and Bible in his hands. I flashed on Ken Follet’s Pillars of the Earth and then to Monty Python’s The Holy Grail as Vic ushered me into the chamber.

Curious about his gear, Vic showed me his boots. They were old hiking boots that he had converted to fit some bindings he had made. The attachment was via a single 5mm or so wide, and 2cm long, pin. A single pin. His skis were 160cm Kestle’s that looked to be discards from the rental shop. He had tiny kids poles.

My Renault Clio seemed like the “Way–Back Machine” with Vic in the front seat. I bypassed the Black Sabbath tape in favor of some Spyro Gyra for mood music as we drove down from Verbier. Later, pulling into the ski area parking lot at Super St. Bernard (aka Super Self-Arrest for the oftentimes firm steeps found here), we got ready to skin up to the col. This tour is a very popular one with the Euro-skin crowd but curiously, there was no one else around. Then I noticed that Vic didn’t have any skins with him. Asking if he had forgotten them, he looked up and smiling his cherubic grin as he pulled a small piece of kick wax out of his satchel.

Halfway up the snow-covered summer road leading to the col we spied what looked like a shortcut up the fresh powder off to our right. I busted track as Vic had a hard time climbing with just wax. As we climbed up higher, winding around large erratic boulders, gaining altitude, we realized that we wouldn’t be able to make it in this direction. Plus, it looked steep and way dangerous up ahead of us. But it was a pleasant sidetrack anyway, mainly because I got to watch Vic’s powder technique as we headed back to the track. It was pretty special. Vic worked short quick turns on his 160’s in a tele-wedeln. He stayed in one tele position—no lead changes—as the snow billowed up and kissed his robe. Vic skied lightly and with economy of motion, his hands balanced and natural. Really nice tele slow-dog noodle back on the flats, too. It was, well…inspirational.

Back on the road again—snow crystals clinging onto the bottom half of Vic’s coarse robe, sparkling like stars against a dark sky—we continued cruising up. It was a beautiful day and Vic was talking religion.

“Bob, have you been Baptized?”
“Uh, no Vic…but I’ve been sprayed by beer a few times.”
It’s been said that one shouldn’t talk religion or politics at dinner. But what about while skiing?
“No Vic, I’m not a very religious guy.”

I was going to mention something about the mountains being my church—or something along those lines—but realized how hollow that would sound.

“But Bob, don’t you think it is important to believe in something? In a higher Being?”
“Ya know Vic, my parents were brought up Muslim but they were both against raising us under any religion. They taught my brother and I to just be good, correct, and fair with people.”
I went on, “I do believe in science, though. Things that can be proven. Whose to say which of the dozens of religions is the correct one? No one really knows until he dies.”

This went on for a bit longer then Vic fell into silence. I could tell that he wanted to be alone with his thoughts so I cranked up ahead. Hitting my stride and feeling good, I fairly flew up to near the col where I waited for Vic.

Again Vic had a hard time mounting the last switchbacks up to the col. It was almost like he wanted deliberately to go through tele-hardship—like a genuflecting Ghandi or a shortswing switchback Siddhartha.

Climbing the last bit together to the Hospice, we were greeted by other skiers who were milling about—most tripping on Vic in his Friar Tuck robe, hiking boots, no skins, and baby poles. One of the guardians kindly came out with a welcome pot of tea. Entering the communal dining room, people did double takes at the two of us, no doubt wondering what we were doing together. This American clad in bright red Patagonia, high-tech accoutrements, and plastic tele boots—and humble telemonker Vic—truly a skiing odd couple. We said bonjour and guten tags to everyone and sat and had a simple meal of soup aux legumes, pain de seigle, and the delicious local fromage d’Entremont as we chatted with the spirited skiers in the room

I reflected on how wonderful of a gift skiing is…about how many remarkably passionate and talented people I have met because of this sport. Skiing transcends mere sport however, and Vic was proof of this. Vic excused himself to go and pray in the Monastery, while I hung out and ordered a surprisingly strong (for a place of worship) 5.9% beer from one of the resident guardians. Four tasty beers later, I bid adieu to the other skiers in the dining room and went to look for Vic, who was going to spend several days up here with the other clerics. It was the later part of the afternoon when I found Vic in one of the dark hallways. Explaining that I had to start heading back, I bid Vic farewell and God-bless and we shook hands for a long moment.

With a nice buzz on, I clipped into my skis and started down the switchbacks, the waning afternoon getting colder by the minute. Ten minutes later, turning a corner on the frozen summer road, chin tucked protectively under my collar; I skied into a crowd of people in a semi-haphazard probe-line. My eyes were drawn up to the large avalanche that had completely buried the piste that I had been heading down. And what we had been skiing up several hours earlier. Two guys had skied off the top—apparently together—got six or eight turns in before the whole thing cut to the ice and dirt underneath. A 100 meters wide, and about 250 meters crown to piste.

I was stunned. One minute I was skiing, psyched that I had spent an incredible day with one of my Heros, and the next minute, a life and death tableau spread before me. One of the skiers had been dug out and the rescuers were over him trying to get his heart going. Just as the Air Glacier helicopter touched down, the second guy was located. One of the patrouilleurs noticed me and came over. Seeing that I was shivering, he said that there wasn’t anything that I could do and suggested I bail to the warmth of my car. I caught the story on the news a few hours later. One had died, the other alive upon arrival at the hospital, but he too expired after some time.

I talked with my wife and I called some friends. I needed to talk—to get these odd feelings off of my chest. It helped me to talk about the day and how sad it ended. Then I looked over and saw Vic’s book on the coffee table and I picked it up. I opened it and read:

Dear Bob,
I hope (and pray)
That you start
going up, and not
down…that is,
towards Heaven
and the God Creator,
the Lord Jesus Christ.

Vic

Although I’m not a believer, the sentiment here is universal, and for this I just wanted to say thank you, Vic.

In writing this story and going nostalgically once again through Vic’s book, Mountain Skiing, I realized that lately I have been too caught up with the equipment side of telemarking. Don’t get me wrong—the equipment we use nowadays is awesome—it’s just that thinking too much about gear can be distracting. Whether in a magazine, or on the internet, or speaking in a bar having a cold one, talking about ski gear can get a bit tiring at times. I’m guilty of it and I’m trying to move away from getting stuck in the black hole of, what-is-the-best. Lately I have been feeling the need to focus more on the skiing itself.

Inspired by the toothpick skiing depicted in Vic’s book and witnessing his minimalist approach first hand, I’ve recently broken out some old gear mothballing in the garage. I’ve been going out—every fourth day or so—on my old Rossi Descents with some beater Asolo Extremes. Man, what a blast it has been. So much fun. And then when you get back on your normal gear, you mach into a different zone. In the old days only the alpine skiers would look at you funny, but when I go out there now in leather and skinnys, everyone—including the telemarkers—looks bewildered. And that’s kind of cool. I have also been working the other end of the spectrum, breaking out my old 223cm Dynastar Descents—that I haven’t skied on in a few seasons—and going early morning mach-a-marking. My fun-meter has recently been on a serious upswing because of these shenanigans, even with the recent lack of snow.