It was a crisp, clear morning when Casey and the Quillers, Junior and Senior, set out on snowshoes to climb the forested trail that led to the Steeps. Casey had made that phone call with Quiller Senior earlier that settled where the challenge would be. He and Quiller Junior had their snowboards strapped to their backs. Ronnie was on snowshoes behind them, and behind her were Quiller Junior’s snowboard teammates. 

Further back through the pines came a single-file line of town folk, plowing along on snowshoes and cross-country skis, out to watch the action. 

When the procession reached a fork in the trail, Casey and the Quillers and Ronnie stopped. Waited and watched the snowboard team branch off onto another trail, each of them giving a thumbs-up to Quiller Junior as they went by, making a point of ignoring Casey. Right behind them the line of town folk branched off as well. Vera from the café was near the front, pushing along on her cross-countries – who knew? – giving a smile and a thumbs-up to Casey. 

Ronnie came up beside him. “You want me up there?” 

Casey said, “No, I’ll be fine.” 

She was just about to kiss him, could feel Quiller Junior’s eyes on her, stepped back instead. 

Said to Casey, “I’ll see you at the bottom.” 

“I’ll be there.” 

They held each others’ eyes – then Ronnie turned and snowshoed off to catch up with the others. 

Casey turned to the Quillers. “You want me to show you where?” 

“We know where,” said Quiller Senior. He hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat it disdainfully, leaving an ugly mark in the snow. 

He and his son took their snowshoes off for the climb up that last long stretch of hardpack. Casey did likewise, the three of them leaving their snowshoes by the side of the trail. When they started climbing again, Casey fell in behind them, Quiller Senior leading the way up the final push to the Steeps.  

As they climbed, with the trees thinning out, Casey glanced off to the side. Back among the last of the snow-dusted pines, the old woman from the bus and her Chihuahua were watching the threesome’s ascent. Casey and the woman nodded to each other, Casey the only one to see her. Had to admit he felt good she was here.  

He and the Quillers continued on up, leaving the timber line below, jabbing the toes of their boots into the hardpack. 

Almost an hour after they’d left town, they pulled themselves onto the summit, the wind blowing ice shards into their faces, the place as inhospitable as its view was magnificent.   

Casey and Quiller Junior unstrapped their snowboards and set them down on the summit ice. Quiller Senior stepped over to the edge and peered down the face of the Steeps, down the long, sheer drop. 

He turned to Casey. “You’re nuts, you know.” 

“It’s a family thing,” said Casey. 

“You really think you can do this?” 

Casey looked over at Quiller Junior, who was buckling one of his snowboard bindings. 

“Can he?” 

“You’re nuts and a wiseass,” said the father. 

Casey continued to look at Quiller Junior. Something was going on in the guy’s eyes, something beyond that cruel glint. Like maybe he was on something? 

Casey took his board over by the edge, knelt down to buckle his bindings.

Quiller Senior turned to his son, who had one binding buckled and was staring at his board. 

“You want to take a look here?” said Senior. 

Junior stared blankly for another moment, then straightened and pushed himself over to his father, stopping his board just short of the edge. He squinted down the Steeps, down the icy, vertigo-inducing face – then turned to Casey. 

“You checked this out?” Junior said. 

“Why? There a problem?” said Casey. 

Young Quiller didn’t answer, just stared at Casey, Casey wondering just how spaced this guy was. Quiller looked back down the Steeps. 

At the bottom, far down where it flattened out before the trees, the spectators who’d come out from town had gathered, their parkas little specs of color against the glistening snow. 

Casey looked down there and tried to see Ronnie, knew she’d be unrolling the long red ribbon he’d had her bring along, stretching it across the snow to make a finish line. 

Quiller Senior stepped back from the edge and turned to the two boarders. “OK, listen up. Rules are, there are no rules. Anything goes. First one to the bottom and across the finish line wins.” He paused. “Any questions?” 

Both boarders shook their heads, no questions. 

Casey made one more check of his board. Bent down to make a quick binding adjustment. He lifted his eyes to glance over the edge, started to get that panic feeling, pulled his eyes away. 

Quiller Senior said, “Boarders get ready…” 

Quiller Junior was standing slightly back, watching Casey who had just finished fixing his binding. 

Suddenly, as Casey was straightening up, young Quiller’s fist shot out, nailing Casey in the back. The blow sent him lurching off the edge, sent him flying into space completely off balance. 

Casey hung in the air over the Steeps – and then plummeted, out of control. Down, down… The sheer icy face blurred past his eyes, a flash of sky went by, and then ice again as he tumbled. 

On the summit, Quiller Senior pushed his son after Casey. 

“Get the hell down there! Get past him!” The man furious, realizing that if Casey somehow got to the bottom in one piece, or even pieces, before his son did, he’d be out ten-grand and look like a fool.  

Quiller Junior hurtled off the edge in Casey’s slipstream, barely in control himself, could see Casey down there still tumbling. 

Casey’s board hit a section of the face, glanced off and he was airborne again. 

Below, at the base, Ronnie could see what was happening, cupped her hands and yelled up. 

“Get your board down!” 

Like he could hear her, Casey thrust his board out and was able to connect with a patch of snow, made contact just for an instant, but it was enough for him to get his bearings. Then he was airborne again, but more in control now, letting the gravity take him, just like his father had said to. 

When he landed on another snow section, more room now, he tried to set an edge, to check his speed with a turn. But it was too steep and he was going too fast. He’d have to try to just run it out. 

But suddenly a blur shot in from the side – Quiller Junior trying to cut him off. They clashed with a bone-rattling concussion, bouncing off each other, each one barely staying on his feet. 

Quiller swung back in for another pass. Casey could see it coming, saw a mogul coming up, just above where they were about to collide. He hit the mogul and launched himself, sailing over Quiller’s head. 

Quiller lost him against the streaking sky, almost lost his balance. Then he heard the thwack! of a board hitting below him, turned to see Casey catch an edge and take what was sure to be a horrendous header. 

But Casey turned it into a Janz summersault, hitting on his shoulder and rolling quickly, thrusting himself skyward and coming down smoothly, landing upright way below and streaking for the finish. 

He schussed the last couple of hundred yards, bee-lining toward the fist-pumping town folk, crossing the red-ribbon finish line and carving to a sharp, snow-spraying stop. He turned around to see Quiller Junior cross the finish ribbon behind him. Quiller pulled up and gave him a dark look – then looked away from the hard steady gaze of the new Casey.  

And then Ronnie was there in Casey’s arms and it was hugs and cheers all around.