Extreme Skiing and Psychedelic Mushrooms: The Art of Chasing Fear

by Jason Matthews

  Chapter 3: Strange Happenings

  “There, now.” They were down the hatch. I felt better instantly. A good dose of fear does wonders.

  We reached the top of the chair and headed out, the four of us skating across the crest of the mountain ridgeline, away from the safety and confines of our patrolled ski area toward the destination. The initial pace was moderate with Sam leading the way, Tess following, me next and Rudy thirty yards back. There was no need to hurry. We had a long hike to do on a beautiful day, and we were going to enjoy it. I immediately knew if Tess stayed five yards in front of me with her shapely butt on display in thin black pants, I could go for hours on end.

  We skate-skied across our familiar traverse past the friendly backside of the resort, overlooking the ungroomed terrain of the sun bowls below us. We peered over the final wave of cornice, a six foot drop that I once thought was something I'd never ski over. In the past four months my skiing had improved so much that by then I wouldn't hesitate to point my skis right over and go, easily catching twenty feet of air. Looking back on the things that used to scare me, I had to laugh. And twenty minutes later, when we passed the OUT OF BOUNDARIES/NO PATROL BEYOND THIS POINT sign, I laughed even harder. As I giggled, I got that familiar creepy feeling that the mushrooms would soon be taking effect.

  The look-what-I've-done kind of feeling I got during my first roller coaster ride as a child, while it climbed to the initial peak and was about to drop off the other side. For a nine-year-old, being locked in to a giant moving hunk of metal that’s about to go from zero to a sixty in two seconds was plenty scary.

  Once when I was twelve on a skateboard, I got going way too fast, losing all control going downhill and had to point it through an intersection hoping there'd be no traffic. That was truly scary.

  Or the time in college when I first set a hit of psychedelic acid on my tongue and let it dissolve. These were all trilling moments for me because of the unknown, which is the birthplace of fear.

  Sometimes you know your ass is hanging on the line, and you're just going to have to perform and take what happens. As we settled into our pace, traversing along the uppermost ridgeline and feeling the preliminary tingles of psychedelic mushrooms about to kick in, I realized the strangest part is the fact that I make these choices for myself and don't know why. I willingly ask for a dramatic change to see how I'll deal with it. The mushrooms were a gentle reminder that I was going to receive my request for change whether I liked it or not. I just hoped I wouldn't do something stupid in front of the others.

  As we continued with poles in hand, legs working, hearts beating, lungs pumping oxygen, I felt a slight comfort thinking the shrooms might pass through my body faster than usual from all the physical exertion.

  Sam stopped for a break, allowing the rest of us to catch up and regroup. “Are you guys starting to feel anything?” he asked. His purple fleece jacket and severely weathered face matched so much in color I was surprised I hadn't noticed it before.

  “I'll say,” Rudy hollered as he caught up. “I was wondering if I was the only one!”

  Tess nodded. “Definitely starting to feel it.”

  “Oh yeah, me too,” I said.

  “We ate them an hour ago,” Sam added.

  “Has it been that long?” I was clueless. I was entering another world already, a trip for me that started in the locker-room that morning.

  “No need to get there too early,” Rudy said. “It's not even ten o'clock, and we're nearly halfway.”

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Let's take a pit stop.”

  We clicked out of our skis and walked over by some rocks and shrubs that offered seats and protection from a slight breeze. Everyone drank water as Rudy handed out orange wedges. I broke two Mars bars in half and shared them. Rudy took a swig of his Jagermeister and passed it around for the rest of us. Sam and Rudy each had a stash of pot and loaded two bowls. Sam's pipe was standard and simple brass, a bowl like many others. Rudy's was a flamboyant glass pipe with a variety of swirling colors mixed into the bowl and stem.

  “Your pipe may be cooler,” Sam admitted, “but who's got the better weed?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Rudy said.

  The pipes were lit and passed around. Tess took a hit from Sam's pipe and had barely exhaled while Rudy was pushing his in front of her face. She coughed and started laughing as she said, “Wait a second, I can hardly breathe.”

  Rudy took a deep hit and held it in until he nearly burst from coughing. He exhaled a field of smoke toward me then patted the rock next to him. “I love how the shrooms bring out the color in the limestone. Normally it's just gray, but now there's all this purple and blues and greens. Am I the only one seeing this?”

  “Are you sure that's limestone?” Sam asked.

  “I dunno, maybe. Sandstone?”

  Everyone began to laugh slowly at first but then deeper at the combined sound of laughter, a sure sign the shrooms were taking effect.

  “Do you want to eat some more?” Sam said, holding out the baggie. “I brought a half-ounce. There's plenty left.”

  “I could handle some more,” Rudy said, taking delight in the tiny morsels. He popped some in his mouth and began chewing.

  “Okay, I'll take a few more,” Tess said, following Rudy.

  Sam split the remainder on his palm into two equal halves of stems and caps, then placed it before me. I somewhat reluctantly grabbed the side that looked the tiniest bit smaller and held them in my hand while my brain was doing math. I determined I'd be tripping on close to three grams of psychedelic mushrooms, an amount that was more suited for an outdoor rock concert with a designated driver or a safe night at home with trusted friends.