A week ago, I spent two thousand dollars to have an engine fixed. I paid the mechanic, loaded up my truck and headed to Tahoe where I hoped the snow wasn’t slush. Upon arriving in town, I noticed the mountains were bare; and when I turned down my stereo, a pinging sound appeared. I immediately went to a mechanic, to have the situation appraised and the news that followed made my checking account break: more trouble in the engine¿the price, a mellow two g’s. I kicked a door, punched my face, and had a nervous breakdown, not even George Clooney could fake. I pondered my actions of the previous years, but this incident had nothing to do with fate, karma, or beer. I had dealt with it my entire life, from the first girl who dissed me, to why I always missed the bus. It, wasn’t a he or a she, it was the curse of South Lake that did this to me.
Is there something in the water that brings bad luck or is it the flailing public education system that keeps peoples lives running amuck? Maybe it’s the legalized gambling and nonstop flow of booze. Or shall we blame the instant loc’s, who think they’re way doper than you.
Despite the above, a few individuals out of South Lake were able to succeed, but that’s only ’cause Palmer, Plake, and Sanders spent their winters at Squaw Valley. Folklore would have it, the three sold their souls, and out the trunk of a rusty Hearse, first appeared that ol’ dirty curse.
In the early and mid -nineties there was a small pool of talent of snowboarders struggling to stay afloat, but the South Shore Posse had little or no hope. The skills these individuals possessed back in the day were immense, and even though they tried, none of them were able to rise above the cess. Was it girlfriends, wishy-washy sponsors, or trouble keeping their lives on point? Nah, it was the bastard child of the mountains; it was that damn curse.
Despite the fact the terrain encompassing the Tahoe Basin is some of the sickest in the West, there was not one photographer or filmer that lived there, what the heck? After what seemed like pulling teeth, one would occasionally come, and then so would the rain, the clouds, and no sun. The dream of stardom slipped away faster than it was conceived, and in the process made many unhappy. Fighting, oppression, and bitterness to this day ensue, and that fabled curse of South Lake proves to be, oh, so true.
Nowadays, many have the curse under control. Mike Knowles works for an upscale restaurant in San Francisco, with plans to go to culinary school in the near future. Dusty Orcutt works out five days a week, is in charge of one of the largest construction companies in town, and can snap any punk snowboarder in half, even on his worse day.
Trevor Snowdin was injured in a tragic accident at a snowboarding competition, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. Trevor is now the number one rated down hill wheelchair mountain bike racer in the world; and plans to be the first sit down skier to do a McTwist in the halfpipe. Randy Walters works for a snowboard academy in Maine during the winter, and is the head coach for Mt. Hood Snowboard Camp in the summer.
Sean Baulman is an aspiring artist. Phil Ferguson is working in construction. Ian Ruhter is a photographer. Halopoff is still chasing the dream, and is bound to catch it any day now. As for Palmer, if you don’t know, just pick up a magazine, turn on the TV or listen to his new band, The Elko’s, which will be headlining a nation wide tour with Brittney Spears any day now.
As for my engine, it’s now running like a top, but when I put it in gear, I heard a loud pop. It was the curse again, it’s down right uncanny, there goes 35 hundred for a new tranny.