But when the one guy opened his mouth, my heart sank…"Ve haf not so much English please." All those colors confirmed my worst fears…Euros! It is tough busting European dudes because in the Alps a rope at a ski area simply means "be careful on the other side, you are on your own." All the same…I meant to introduce them to American law, west of the Pecos…or north of it, in our case. I went on and on in my best Special English about ropes and hazards and laws until one of them managed to ask where the nearest bathroom was and I gave up.

They schussed away and I tightened the set of my jaw and looked back up to the rope line. By God, the next people to test me were going to be in for it. No mercy. No excuses. And there they were… two more guys ducking the rope. These guys were going to get it. I’d place their names into the file over the radio, I’d take their tickets, I’d threaten them with a Kit Carson National Forest Citation…I’d…I’d…"Hey are you Dave Hahn?" said a guy I hadn’t noticed before, just behind me in the open terrain.

"Uh…yes, I am."

"I thought so. Hey you probably don’t remember me, but we used to play Ultimate Frisbee together like fifteen years ago."

I shook his hand but tried to skate away from him, saying, "I can’t talk to you just now, I’ve got to bust these guys for skiing under a rope."

But then he said, "Oh, but actually, those are my friends." Which kind of confused me some. The bogies were coming into range and I was looking back and forth quickly from him to them. He yelled out, "Hey you guys, this is the man I was telling you about, he found George Hillary."

And that really confused me, "I…you…the rope…Mallory, you mean? Conrad found…hey, that is a closed area, you know." But I was sunk. They just gathered round and asked me questions about big mountains and fame and fortune until I excused myself and skied away in embarrassment.

I made my way back up to the mountaintop, a beaten puppy, not worthy of my lofty position on the Taos patrol. I dragged myself into the building and there was Royal with his binoculars again, looking out at that closed area beyond Hunziker that now appeared to be getting moguls from being so tracked up. He shook his head at me and turned away muttering.

But that was years ago. I’m tougher now. I’ve tried to take lessons from that cop at the burning house. I’ve practiced my pointing finger and harsh voice. I’m getting a pair of mirrored sunglasses. If you come down this way, you might see me talking to myself on the chairlifts, practicing over and over, "Do you feel lucky, PUNK?" And if you step over the line on my watch there will be hell to pay. The sheriff of Hunziker rides again…well, at least unless I can find a good bloodless knee injury first.

— Dave Hahn, MountainZone.com Columnist