Hiking near Pioneer Peak can be disastrous. Photo: Niles Grey

Gavin Gibson    

BOMB SNOW HQ—Stop blaming the rich for all that un-tracked powder on Pioneer Mountain, because it takes more than money to be granted clearance to the 13,600 acre government facility disguised as a luxury ski resort. It’s actually the true location of the fabled Area 52.

“We knew something was up,” says Bomb Snow Chief Motivator Todd Heath. “There’s just no way that anybody would spend that much money to ski somewhere and not be able to link a turn, and what kind of business goes broke more often than we do and keeps coming back? It’s easier to kill a Terminator. We had to check it out.”

Last May, Bomb Snow sent it’s most disheveled looking reporter, Gavin Gibson, on a four-month surveillance mission to discover the truth. Armed with only a notebook, magnifying glass, can of WD-40, and a lighter, Gibson set out into the Gallatin backcountry on foot and into deep cover where he could observe the compound undiscovered. Six months later and two inches taller, these are
his findings:

“I was actually given $150 bucks for other supplies, but I went straight to the liquor store and bought them out of Everclear. It’s a miracle tonic. It can be used for disinfecting wounds, water, and crabs." We double check everything for safety at Bomb Snow though, and I had to make sure each bottle wasn’t rotten. A month later I woke up in a ditch about a mile and a half from Big Sky Meadows. I’m pleased to say that not one of those bottles had Botulism.

It took about two weeks of waiting for a rain storm strong enough to wash the vomit out of my clothing so I could hitchhike to the gate of the compound. I survived off of roadkill and a second sock I had been wearing on my left foot. I’m not sure if I started that way, but let’s just say that none of my socks were missing when I got home.

I got a ride from a groundskeeper who smelled no better, into the compound and jumped out of the vehicle while it was moving roughly 35 mph before he noticed that I wasn’t there to clock-in. I discovered the Everclear was still lingering in by veins when my normally graceful tuck-and-roll was replaced with a tomahawk directly into a decorative boulder surrounded by several natural boulders. The phony rock became neon yellow and started talking to me in a strange language. I tried to run away but I pulled a hamstring, leaving me no choice but to hobble towards cover. I spent the next three days under a bush near the 7th hole avoiding uniformed men armed with rakes and feather dusters. It was here I discovered the grave mistake of forgetting a pen to record events that I observed. I found a sharp rock to make notes in blood with instead. I spent several days drifting in and out of consciousness because I was writing a ton. I lost my notebook though, so this is all from memory.

I asked them how come they all sucked at skiing so much. They told me that earth’s gravity was a hassle and that they simply couldn’t overcome it.

Photographer Colton Stifler observing another vortex.

I noticed that golfers came by rarely. When they did, they didn’t look right. Scaly. Their tongues seemed too long and they all had a hiss-p, which is how I describe a hiss and a lisp mixed together. They all hiss-p’d a lot, and slapped each other on the ass a lot in some sick version of bro-tag. They used the golf course more at night for some sort of strange game where they chased screaming naked women around with daggers. I can’t be sure though, because the WD-40 can was leaky and I kept inhaling the fumes and lighting my breath on fire when I was bored. Combined with the bleeding, it was a blurry mess, but I remember my memories perfectly. I think that lasted for about six weeks.

At that time I grew weary of my shelter bush and risked a venture further into the compound, towards the dwellings. The first one I came to had a hot tub in the backyard and my skier instincts kicked in faster than a wild stallion on crack. I stripped off what remained of my clothing and hopped in without looking. This was a bigger mistake than my lack of BIC. Instead of a warm watery greeting I landed on my ass butt-naked five million light years away on an alien ship via some sort of worm hole. I surprised a bunch of scaly dudes with hiss-ps running around the ship playing grab ass. I can’t confirm their earth identities, but I believe it was the entire chorus line-up from “We Are The World.”

That’s when the probing started. I’ve gone to some dark places in the bedroom, but this stuff would make Bruce Willis cringe. I know because he was there, cringing. I only survived the ordeal by going to my happy place, which at this point in my confused logic was the ditch outside of Big Sky Meadows. I can’t say how many days went by because days only exist when you’re on a planet orbiting a star. I abandoned all hope.

I awoke still naked on a metallic floor after one of them dumped a bucket of ice water on me. I was surrounded by scaly people taking cell phone videos and donating money to disease research. I struggled into the fetal position because I wasn’t going down without a fight. They handed me a Capri Sun—nectar of the shape shifters—and told me my punishment was over. They asked me in their hiss-py voices why I had ventured through the worm hole. “ I’m a God damn journalist and I will find the truth at any cost.”  Without any sense of fear in my voice I replied “Oh, God, oh God—please don’t kill me.”

They laughed at me and asked again. I asked them how come they all sucked at skiing so much. They told me that earth’s gravity was a hassle and that they simply couldn’t overcome it. I asked why they chose to take over such a prime place for skiing, and they informed me that Pioneer Peak is actually a giant storage facility for the Capri Sun required to keep them alive on earth, as well as a space port. It was hidden in broad daylight near a high concentration of stoners, trippers, and clueless tourists that nobody with a shred of credibility would believe about such matters. They told me poaching Pioneer Peak wouldn’t be such a big deal if skiers could learn how to stay out of the wormholes, but that was impossible.

Afterward I received a fresh pair of dockers and a v-neck t shirt. Before sending me back through the worm hole I was ordered to tell this story because publishing the truth in a ‘magazine of such ill-repute’ would only give them more cover. I appeared back at Bomb Snow HQ with a Capri Sun for the road and only a waddle worse for wear moments later. Todd was behind deadline anyways so I didn’t get in trouble for being two months late. I don’t know what else to say other than the hot tubs in Pioneer Peak’s shadow blow, and they can have them.

The first house I came to had a hot tub in the backyard and my skier instincts kicked in faster than a wild stallion on crack.

Bomb Snow’s “Piste-Off” is a fictionalized, satirical rant. Its content should in no way be interpreted as an actual record of events. these stories are also not intended to be, nor should they be construed as, attempts to predict the future course of any individual or entity, but should be viewed only as parody. Thanks for understanding. -B.S.

Gavin Gibson



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