Page 29 of Love Me Reckless

By sleds, he means snow machines, but his bewildered tone is putting me on edge.

“The skiing here is unreal. Like fucking world class,” he says, almost to himself. He scratches behind his ear like he’s hoping to uproot some answers. “This gig might look cush, but it’s brutal sometimes. We’re out there in all conditions, and when the lifts break, or there’s a safety issue, the pressure to fix it is intense, like balls-in-a-vice intense. So,if you don’t ski…”

“I do,” I say because it’s obvious that without this skill, I’ll be an outsider, and I know what that’s like. “It’s just, um, been a while.”

“Oh,” Carson says, nodding. “Cool. Well, you couldn’t pick a better place for it.”

We carry the last of my things upstairs, but the panic growing inside me makes the climb feel like a mountain.

Because I’ve never skied a day in my life.

Chapter Eight

SAWYER

When I finally crawl intomy makeshift bed on the floor that night, even though I’m exhausted, sleep doesn’t come. Zach stopped by on his way back from dropping Sofie at Western, and we ended up making dinner for Carson and Brody and telling stories late into the night. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Zach about my problem, or how to fix it.

Kirilee mentioned something about the ski pass benefit that night in the hot tub, but I honestly didn’t give it much thought.

My plan to keep my head down and work hard just got a little bit more complicated, because now I need to learn a skill that no doubt takes years of practice in a very short period of time. And even more tricky is there’s no snow yet, so I can’t even start.

My first day as a Finn River Ranch mechanic starts at 6:00 at the uniform shop run by two little old ladies who finish each other’s sentences. After taking my measurements, they disappear into the recesses of the shop. When they return, their arms are piled high with items.

I get three madras plaid shirts, two pairs of black work pants, a setof thick leather work gloves, a hard hat, and black insulated one-piece coverall plus a black winter work jacket and insulated snow boots.

After ferrying everything to my locker, I change into the madras shirt and black work pants, then carry the hard hat and the gloves to the machine shop in time for the morning huddle.

Inside the giant space, it smells like grease mixed with detergent thanks to the neighboring linen service department emitting perfumed exhaust from the industrial dryers. It is ten times tidier than the damp and dank train yard shop I left behind in Alaska.

The boss, a ruddy-cheeked man with graying hair named Robin McTavish, gathers us closer. “First off, let’s all welcome Sawyer Reed,” he announces in his Scottish lilt.

The dozen other mechanics clap and whistle.

Fighting the flush of heat rising up my neck, I give a little wave.

“He comes to us with loads of experience with diesel engines, and we’re blessed to have him. He’s apprenticing this week, so I expect you to be generous with your time and knowledge to get him up to speed. We still have plenty to do before the season starts.”

Our current task is a visual check of all the moving parts on each tower. There are two lifts and one gondola, with a total of forty-five towers and six terminals. Before the ski season can open, the resort has to pass a series of strict state safety assessments, and the reps will be here in two weeks.

I’m paired with Carson. We load up one of the Finn River Ranch work trucks with tools, safety gear, and spare parts, and drive up the service road under the lift.

“McTavish seems like a good guy,” I say.

Carson parks the truck below tower four. “Yeah. He’ll get hot though. Just wait until it’s blowing forty miles an hour and we’re out here banging ice off the sheaves to get the lifts open in time.”

I want to ask if people actually ski in weather like that, but I’m staying quiet until I learn more about this crazy sport.

We suit up in full body harnesses, hard hats, and gloves, and I follow Carson up the ladder. The metal rungs vibrate and hum as wego, but it’s soon lost to the steady breeze. It’s ten degrees cooler up here, but fuck, the view.

Carson clips his harness to the safety cable, jolting me back to the tower.

“You get used to it,” he says. He clips my carabiner to the safety line, then nods at the sweeping vista of jagged mountains and spires, the endless forests, the tiny buildings of the village, and the glittering surface of the lake down in the valley.

“Fuck, I hope not,” I say.

By the end of our ten-hour shift, my brain feels ready to burst from soaking up so much information, and I know I’ve only scratched the surface. Thanks to the cool, dry breeze, I’m parched, and like a moron, I forgot about sunscreen, so my arms and back of my neck are tender to the touch. But I’m liking my new job. It’s challenging, and diverse. Way more fun than coaxing a busted locomotive back to life inside a drafty shop day in and day out.

I’m leaving the locker room with Carson and a few other mechanics, my spare uniform clothes tucked under my arm, when we come face to face with a security guard blocking the path leading down to the employee parking area.

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