Throwback to Rumble at Retallack: Orage Masters hits the BC for first time in its unruly history

Thursday. “Rough morning,” I jot in my journal, “4:00 a.m. bedtime didn’t mesh well with 6:45 wake up. In the night, Schuster mistook the door to his dormitory for a toilet.”

On the docket for day two: the 818 contest and backcountry booter sessions. Again, tired souls rally.

To kick off the jumping, White challenges Logan to a first-hit double flip contest. Logan takes a nice slam into the pow. He’s all smiles. P-White then puts a massive double front flip to his feet (cape waving behind him) and skis away with a defiant hand raised. This outrageous maneuver sets a high standard for the afternoon. The gang sessions three jumps in total. Once more, I’m completely blown away by the display of aerial mastery and general shenanigans.

I won’t soon forget the look of excitement on the face of “Karl the Gnarl.” A legend in these parts, Karl Guderyan is a longstanding cat driver at Retallack. The owner of a distinguished beard and a thick Canadian accent, Karl has certainly seen his fair share of antics over the years. Having the honor of chauffeuring the Pirates, Karl is openly rooting for those talented buccaneers, though his show of emotion is in favor of both teams on this fine day.

For the record, the Pirates have a commanding lead at this stage in the game. In fact, it becomes somewhat of a running joke by nightfall. The Superheroes can’t win anything. Knife throwing? Nope. Party challenges? Nope. Broomball? Nope. Online edits up for public voting? Nope. These Superheroes don’t mind much though, they openly accept their role as losers. It’s difficult to get too worked up when you’re at one of the world’s foremost cat skiing ops, the snow is deep and you’re surrounded by kindred spirits. Really, we’re all winning.

As daylight arrives on the morning of day three, some folks are waking after again logging just a few hours of sleep, while a handful of others are still going strong, running on zero shut-eye. At one point in the wee hours, Logan had gotten his hands on an air horn, which was used generously.

Overheard: “What asshole filmed me making out with Chris last night?”

Given the more than comfortable lead held by the Pirates, Mr. Nick, in classic Orage-Masters-shoot-from-the-hip fashion, proposes that the group forgo the slated itinerary in favor of freeskiing and exploring some of Retallack’s vast terrain. All approve.

We go nuts. We spin blower lap after blower lap. It’s steep. It’s deep. And the glades … my goodness, the glades.

Batman ditches his poles in favor of wielding his new, giant BCX throwing knife. With the blade pointed towards the sky, White drops cliffs and boosts off of natural lips—safety grab (ironically) in one hand, dagger in the other. We watch, bewildered, and admittedly nervous.

“I’ll be honest,” says one of our guides, “I’m not super comfortable with the whole knife thing.”

The entire Retallack staff has been incredibly lenient this week and we owe them great thanks. But the flaunting of the giant blade is certainly pushing the limits.

“I’ll be honest,” rebuts White, jokingly, “I’m a professional skier, so there’s absolutely nothing that can go wrong.”

There is simply no stopping this man nor his counterparts. In the cat cabin and on the slopes, too, the general discussion keeps most everyone laughing nonstop. The kind of laughter that genuinely hurts. It’s my best day of the season, without question. Batman survives unscathed.

By the time we’re all back at the lodge, I think the Retallack staff enjoys a collective sigh of relief. We’ve completed three days without major incident. Then, as quickly as we’d all come, we go. We dish hugs and high fives and hit the road, bound for the famed Hume Hotel in Nelson, BC, an hour to the south. Tonight, Savage Blade will play at the Hume’s Spirit Bar. It’s no coincidence. This is all arranged by Orage, of course.

For the fourth straight evening, we turn it up to 11. Mosh pits. Motor boating. Metal. At midnight, the Pirates take to the stage and are declared victors. They’re presented with a check in the amount of $10,000, plus the coveted white dinner jackets—a Masters tradition.

Overheard: “Wiley, you’re a fucking astronaut.”

Come morning, local police knock on the door of Schuster’s hotel room. It seems his snowmobile has made its way onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel at some point in the night. He’ll have to move it, pronto. Yet, the keys are missing. This is White’s doing.

And that’s the beauty of it, right there. When it comes to the Orage Masters, the clowning knows no end. What a wonderful break from the regimented structure of standard freeskiing competitions. This is about sessioning with friends. It’s about honoring the roots of freeskiing culture. It’s about putting fun above all else, even if that means getting a little reckless for just a few days.

Is there a better event in skiing? In this editor’s humble opinion, no, there is not. Bring on the Masters X!