"It’s ironic. Here we are, at a time when Israel and the Palestinians have reached a historic peace agreement. But we can’t get together, and what we are talking about is just money."

Just past the Halloween mark signals winter–leaves a’changing, temperature dropping, first frosts and rain succumbing to snow at high elevation. Riders of the Great Northwest are especially hard-hit this autumn with no professional hoop-dee action delivering them on Mother Mountain’s powdered doorstep. After one of the longer, more gorgeous Indian summers in memory, most were probably hoping they’d make the leap with a flip to The Weather Channel. Sorry, nothing but fall colors to contend with. Lest one scarf desert before dinner hits the table, let’s enjoy this movement in yellow-orange, such as it is, by marking it with costumed balls.

The timing’s perfect for riders to gather–most are tuning up for the season within an inch of the panic button, as always. For Oregon’s many snowboarders, before they’ve gone where they’ve got to get, All Hallow’s Eve is a perfect day to take stock of the scene.

Wilder than Rodman Tour, to be sure. Halloween is a snowboarder’s perfect holiday, them being used to a body bubble buffer in the outdoors. Might as well be Mr. Bubble. Photographer extraordinaire (and new TWS acquisition) Chris Brunkhart and pro rider (and new Nike acquisition) Matt Donahue threw a rager on the river, smack in the middle of a dank forest, with pissing rain and a high school kegger next door. Events were destined to go sloppy.

The boys went all out with a giant outdoor tent–one room lit up in white light, the other, draped in black plastic with a stage and film/sound system pouring out of Matt’s parked black 1963 Cadillac a la The Salvador Dali Museum in Spain. Costumes milling about were inventive. It was a treat (no tricks) spying a girl on a leash, her mistress, and a female Andy Warhol monitor a possibly passable night at the Factory. The room was abuzzed with a viewing of The Walrus Project, Brunkhart’s current cinema conjured with still shooter Ari Marcopolus and writer Jeff Galbraith–what could be the first time riders have had their snow porn mixed with surrealism.

Seventies skiers had the films of Park City’s acid-gobbling powder poachers. Now we have Walrus, not exactly the fresh slope perfection you’ve come to expect. But there is lots of mediocre action and plenty of extra tracks and bombholes, and almost no glossing over of global travel’s numbing spells. The music is abrasive, even combative, not exactly what is supposed to be this demo’s head-bobbing fare. There are lots of pointless, untranslated ramblings by Scandinavians, and lots of pointed spoken word written by Jeff and announced by Ari with thick Teutonic accent.

The effect is a little more than interesting, a little less than mesmerizing–a reading of the snowboard pulse in this moment. There hasn’t been a picture like this since Whiskey–part rah-rah action, part real-time sociological study of Genus Snowboarderus. It does what many in the game seem to have forgotten to: Take a risk.

More rewarding than watching Walrus root around the screen’s margins is being a part of the audience subjected to it–some get instantly bored, refusing to pay attention. Others appear willing to give it a chance–perhaps more than it deserves. Two-thirds actually make it through and even appear to approve. There is likable footey–gorgeous black and white powder, riders throwing tricks off a cliff into water, the Scando squabbling, the sound of Ari’s voice reading Jeff’s words, and the pivotal voice mail from filmer Mike Hatchett wondering why the pros aren’t with him in bluebird perfection–where they’d be if they weren’t too busy playing (f)art.

But the priceless moment comes during a ho-hum night sequence with a bunch of young Canucks. They spray the business is all about the kids–if only it were true! Camera thrust in these faces, they reflect back nothing but pure fun snowboarding. The innocence of riding at night with some buddies and more energy than technique is how snowboarding began; how it should continue. When did we start running scared to be uncool?

The mood challenged, Brunkhart’s band Fiji Dogs took over, Donahue attacking his guitar and a juicy Fender Rhodes organ with formal training from Mt. Hood Community. USSTC founder Bob Gilley wandered up to rock the voiceless mic from behind gleaming shades. Rhyming in front of whippersnaps half his age couldn’t have been more appropriate. These can be imaginative times for riders with imagination. Gatherings like these, projects like Walrus, a little honesty in place of the perfect sheen, remind us: The players may butter their bread with the money shot, but it never hurts to hoist one over the backboard with style.