by Seth Mensing
Wearing skis and a fire-engine-red helmet, Eric Heil stands in half crouch. He wraps and grips the end of a forty-foot rope like it was the strap on a rodeo bull and gives a quick nod to Eric Goard. Goard grips the reins of Benny, an eight-year-old quarter horse with fire in his eyes, doing everything he can to keep it together, waiting for the signal.
When it comes, Goard screams savagely and drives his heels into Benny, who pins his ears back and tears off like the overnight leg of the Pony Express, launching Heil. Heil squats deeper and leans back as the rope snaps tight, and instantly he’s gliding down Leadville’s main street at 30 miles per hour, leaning and weaving as if he were on a Vail slalom course.
Leadville Equine Skijoring, with an emphatic ‘j’, started in the late 1940s with a conversation and a few drinks at the Golden Burro, a tap house that still stands not far from the starting gate, and gained popularity during the mid-1950s.
Fifty years later it starts with a guy on alpine skis going through a starting gate being pulled behind a cowboy, usually in chaps, on the fastest horse they can find. The trio careers down 805 feet of snow piled two feet deep on Harrison Avenue, which cuts through the heart of town. Not only must the skier master the jumps, but he aslo must snag hanging rings as he passes. Throw in a clock and a case of beer, and you’ve got a Rocky Mountain tradition.
For Leadville, a town that has a history dotted with fortunes made and lost by prospectors, gamblers and businessmen with names like Carnegie, Guggenheim and Doc Holiday, Skijoring weekend brings a different kind of gold rush. Curious spectators make the trip by the thousands and bring their checkbooks, to line the streets for a weekend where they stand shoulder to shoulder behind the course boundaries to see the longest jumps, the fastest times and, of course, the wipe-outs.
For the participants it is the competition, the thrill of the ride or run, beating last year’s time and, for some, the chance for a little quality family time. Eric Heil, 55, is the oldest skijoring member of the Heil clan of Anchorage, Alaska, which launched nine members of its extended family through the starting gate this year.The youngest Heil, Jake, broke into the sport this year at the tender age of 4.
Don’t worry, they aren’t sending preschoolers down the track behind a barely contained quarter horse. Instead, they break them in slowly, or slower, with the steed being replaced by a snowmobile with no spirit of its own. Saturday, the first day of competition, is their day to show everyone what the future of the sport looks like.
Passers-by stop to shake their heads as these miniature racers head through the gates and miss the jumps but still manage to reach impressive speeds, ranging between 20 and 30 miles per hour. The fastest time achieved: 18.6 seconds to make the full length of the course, mistake free, by the oldest of the young Heils, Travis, who turned 10 years old in May.
After the last of the snowmobile skijorers has gone and the grinning spectators erupt in cheers for the kids, those who know the game start to converge in the center of the course in front of the announcer’s stand. It’s “Calcutta,” and let the gambling begin.
Teams are “auctioned” to hopeful fans, with the auctioneer giving a brief history of the team in the context of the competition and a forecast of their potential. Some of the teams are worth as little as $20, some worth as much as $675. In Calcutta, only the bettors who bid on the top four teams take home money.
At the top of jump number two, a racer kneels stone-faced stretching with yogic concentration, visualizing the path he will take down the second half of the course, tracing it in the air with his hand. Goggles down and helmet on, he tumbles backward like a gymnast in a floor routine, once, twice and lands on his feet at the bottom. The crowd in Calcutta goes back to the sidelines and a Palomino with a cowboy and an American flag whipping in the thin air race down the center of the course. Like the World Series for mountain folk, this is serious business and none of the teams are there to lose.
A hush falls over the crowd and with a prompt from the announcer, voices grew in volume. The national anthem starts low and builds until everyone is singing in the cool mountain morning. It is a performance the Super Bowl could never have captured.
Then, with the snap of a starting pistol, the racers move in droves to the starting gate with those in the sport division going first. They aren’t the best of the racers, but they are fun to watch. The difference between sport and open divisions is only the height of the jump that the skier hits, the time of day, and the amount of money people are willing to bet. But really it’s just a warm up for the main event.
When the open-division racers take their places and the horses dance in circles on the pavement, the crowd swells considerably. This is what everyone comes to see. The horses are ready and wound up with cowboys gone hoarse from previous races. Racers are limber and eyeing jumps that are higher and a competition that is fiercer. Murmurs run through the crowd like an electric current with each horse that steps-up to the line. Who is the favorite and who is going to be the one to upset the favorite? Those with money on a team have white knuckles wrapped around a pencil and a sheet with all of the contestants.
Each horse has its fans, and the top racers switch between each, trying to
shave seconds off of their time. If they win the day, they take home a modest
purse and the much sought after pride of being the champion. The fastest rider
gets a saddle. But the fastest horse does not necessarily have the most fan,s
and the most fans don’t necessarily root for a horse. In fact, the biggest
cheers of the weekend come for Psycho Sadie, the 4-year-old mule from Whitefish,
Montana. Donning a blue and white derby mask and an unmistakable bray, she
is the crowd favorite, although not a favorite of those who had money on her.
Standing at more than 16 hands, she has the legs for speed but hooves too small
to stay on top of the snow. Either way, her rider, who makes the 1200-mile
trip every year doesn’t come to win; he comes for the get-away and the
chance to show people that mules can run too.