It was 11 degrees below zero according to the thermometer on the bank building I passed driving out of town. I tried to see through the struggling, iced-up windshields wipers as I pushed on to log another hundred miles before stopping for stay-awake food at a truck stop. There I would get a cup of hot tea with a couple of spoons full of sugar a big scoops of chocolate ice cream and vanilla to boost my energy. Then I could drive the next hundred miles. That would put me at the ski resort I wanted to film the next day. I would sleep for a few hours in my car in the parking lot before I started filming.

Such late night drives to the next ski resort are something I did time and time again for many years. That night, drifting across my mind, was the thought that maybe the time has come to give in and hire a cameraman to take some of the load off of my traveling.

At that time, way back in 1964, my feature-length films were still a one-man-band exercise. That night I had finished showing my film in Portland Maine at 8:30 p.m. It was now 1:30 a.m. and I was bone tired. Suddenly, blinking red lights appearing in the rear-view mirror of my borrowed, Ford Motor Co. station wagon. I snapped up, wide-awake. Oops!

When the state trooper came to the window I handed him my drivers’ license; then the real trouble began. My California drivers’ license had expired three months before while I was in Salt Lake City showing my ski film. I had to go to the drivers’ license bureau the next day. There I was flunked twice in the driving test by the examiner. He was a former FBI investigator who hated snow, winter, Salt Lake City, and skiers in particular. I finally managed to get a Utah drivers license on my third try two days later, from another examiner. To get it, I had to tell a lie, namely that I was going to be living in Utah for three months while I was producing a movie. However, the Utah drivers’ license had my Hermosa Beach, California address on it. This perplexed the state trooper.

There is more. At that time, my contract with the Ford Motor Co. allowed me to use one of their new station wagons in any city I was showing my new movie. So the car I was using that night was registered to the Ford Motor Co. in Delaware, but it had Massachusetts’s licenses plates on it. This also perplexed my state trooper.

Then there was another, very real problem. The trooper had clocked me in a small town going 61 MPH. I was in his very own speed trap that was a 25 MPH zone only 400 yards long. And remember it was still 11 below zero outside. The trooper took my Utah drivers license, the Delaware car registration, and the Arizona insurance certificate, and he went back to his patrol car to write up the ticket.

I rolled up my window and eased back in the seat with the car heater running at full blast. I don’t know how long I slept, but it was quite awhile. I figured I was in deep trouble when he finally knocked on the window, woke me up, and motioned for me to roll the window down.

He cited all of my violations: “61 MPH in a 25 MPH zone, Delaware registration papers for a car with Massachusetts license plates, a Utah drivers’ license with a Hermosa Beach, California address.”

It looked to me like he had me nailed for a fine of about three weeks wages. Then he said: “There is no way possible for me to get all of your violations on this one ticket, so I should write two. However, I saw your movie in Rutland, Vermont last year and I just want you to drive slower so you can keep on making those films for me. I can’t tell you how many skiers you have turned on to the sport, but I get to write tickets for a lot of them on Friday and Sunday nights. Last year I set a record for the most tickets on a Friday night, a record that no other trooper has ever come close to! So you go along and try and keep it under the speed limit…and take a couple of runs for me tomorrow. Goodbye.”


Editor’s Note: This is one in a Tahoetopia series written by Warren Miller, legendary ski cinematographer. For other columns by Warren, see the Warren Miller section of tahoetopia.com.