We were lucky to have an awesome outdoor education program at our high school and up until this trip, most of our ski trips together had been school-sponsored events. This time, however, we decided to set off on our own. The crew consisted of Boz, Gronson, Whiteamus, Ernie, Kramer and of course, myself. Kramer was kind of an honorary member of the Bolo Bros because he didn’t really get into the sporting side of the group, but what he lacked in physical prowess, he more than made up for by having an totally awesome connect for Humboldt Sinsimilla (Spanish for “seedless”) and the fact that he owned a Ford Courier with a camper shell.
That morning, we loaded up my GMC pickup with all of our ski gear, jumped into the two trucks and headed down the road towards the jewel of the High Sierras, Mammoth Mountain. We hadn’t even made it out of Riverside County before my truck overheated and blew up. Undaunted, we transferred all the ski equipment, stuffed all six of us into the Courier and abandoned my truck by the side of the road. The rest of the ride up went off without a hitch and we spent the next couple of days skiing some of the best snow conditions any of us had ever experienced. Even Kramer took a shot at the slopes, but every time I’d get him strapped into his skis, he’d immediately turn his edges into the snow. It seems he was a natural at the snowplow, but not much of a downhill racer.
Everything went smoothly on the ride down from the mountain until we reached a little town named Bishop. I guess that old Courier had taken all it could take of six guys and a ton of equipment because it broke down also. So there we were, stuck on the side of the road pretty much in the middle of nowhere. After much discussion, we came to the conclusion that our best bet would be to split up into two groups and attempt to hitchhike the rest of the way home. We pulled all of our ski gear out of the truck, decided who was going to go with who and positioned our two groups about a hundred feet from one another on the road pointing south.
Eventually, an old 60’s style Ford Econoline van pulled up in front of the first group. The driver stepped out and motioned to the second group to come on over. He asked where we were headed and we all said “Orange County” to which he replied, “That will work, I’m going all the way to San Diego”. We proceeded to throw all our crap in and then piled ourselves into the van. A few miles down the road, the driver pulled over at a convenience store to fill up with gas and asked if we’d like some beer. I’m guessing he had already figured out we were too young to buy beer for ourselves and of course we all replied, “Hell Yeah!” Soon we were back on the road, drinking beers and listening to rock n roll music on the van’s old eight-track tape player. The van was pretty crowded and old Boz had decided to sit backwards on the engine cover that in those old style vans extended back beyond the front seats. I noticed that Boz was starting to sweat profusely, but before I could say anything, he turned to the driver and puked all over his shirt.
The driver immediately pulled the van over to the side of the road and jumped out, screaming obscenities all the way. I thought he was going to beat the living crap out of Boz (I think we all would have been willing to hold him for him) or at the very least, leave all of us right there. Instead, the driver took a few minutes to gather his composure, changed his shirt and although it was a very quiet drive from then on out, drove us all the way home.
It’s like I always say; No good deed ever goes unpunished Dude.