"My
Best Day Ever" Essay Contest, Page 1
More: (1), (2),
(3), (4),
(5)
Entry #12
Routines Were Made to
be Broken
I went to work on Thursday,
April 15 1999 anticipating the usual series of events that seem
to always fill up a typical work day. I sat down at my desk within
my cubical and proceeded to turn on the computer. As I accessed
the Internet and clicked on my email inbox, the plan for the
day began to be laid out before me. There was an email to remind
me that the sales team would be meeting in the large conference
room at 10:00am. The next email stated that I had to do a conference
call with a prospective client at 11:30. Next stop would be to
my boss’s office at 1:00 to review next month’s sales
goals. It was a different day with different meetings but in
the end, it was the same predictable stage of events as always.
Then fate stepped in and delivered me an email that could only
have been sent by the Gods themselves.
I clicked open the daily
snow report email from Winter Park/Mary Jane Resort and you could
have heard my chin hit the keyboard when I read that El Nino
kindly delivered 12 inches of new snow over the last 24 hours.
My ski bum’s intuition was telling me that I was about to
be thrown from my typical day. The snow report was all that my
emotional self needed to convince my logical self that it was
time to go. I looked at my watch and it was only 8:05am. If I
left now, I could drive back to my apartment, grab my gear and
be on the highway-heading west within 30 minutes. The thought
of me floating on 12 inches of new snow without a trace of the
weekend crowds sunk deep into my brain and at that instant, my
mind was made up. There was no way in hell I was going to talk
myself into sitting in this cubicle for the rest of the day wondering,
“What if?” This email was a calling card. Attention
Drew: You can waste away at this desk all of the other 249 work
days of the year. But today, you must break from the routine
and live.
Thirty-five minutes after
reading that email, I was already in my car, skis in the rack
and my lead foot hitting the floor as my car screamed west towards
the Rockies. As I drove, I wondered if I had made the right decision.
After all, I had made up some lousy excuse about a dying relative
in order to drop my responsibilities for the day and indulge
myself with the potential of an amazing ski day. My mind was
put at ease as I pulled into the half-empty Mary Jane parking
lot and I got my first visual of the mountain and it’s untracked
runs. I had just won the powder lottery and I was about to cash
in.
Satisfaction ran through
my veins as I ascended the mountain on my first chairlift ride
up and looked below to see that my favorite runs were teaming
with powder and ready for my first tracks of the day. I felt
like a kid who was just allowed to ride the roller coaster for
the first time. I clamped my boot buckles down, took a deep breath
and paused to look around and savor the moment before taking
my first plunge down the mountain. Brief gusts of wind had just
shaken a few snow filled trees and now, ice crystals floated
in the sky, dancing with the sun against a bluebird backdrop.
It was a random Thursday. The rest of the world was hard at work,
with their eyes transfixed on their computer screens and here
I was, on a lonely peak in the picturesque Colorado Rockies with
the simplest of agendas: To ski to my heart’s content.
Gaining speed, my ski tips
began to emerge from the powdery white as I slowly bent my knee
to let my uphill ski drag behind me and casually rolled my edges
over to initiate my first, heavenly turn. I have always loved
the gracefulness of the telemark turn and nothing exaggerates
it more then a few long arcs in fresh snow. The grin on my face
grew as I leaned into my next turn and ventured low enough into
my stance so that I could stick my hand out and let my fingers
wisp through the snow as if I was surfing a 50-foot wave of champagne
powder. At that moment, my soul was swimming in complete gratification.
This is what experiencing life is all about.
For me, skiing is an outlet.
A rest stop for my soul on the road of a normal, career-oriented
existence. Our lives can be spent by working hard, making a name
for ourselves in a particular industry, earning a respectable
position in a large company and in the end, receiving a gold
watch and a healthy 401(k) for our efforts. The social-economic
world that we have created views this lifestyle routine as a
successful, honorable way to spend one’s life. In many ways
it is. By working five days a week, 50 weeks a year until you
are 59, you are living up to your end of the working man’s
bargain. You are providing yourself and your family opportunities
in life that seem to be achievable only by the almighty dollar.
But life is more than that. Experiencing a truly rich life means
growing from one experience to the next outside of your regular
routine. Living the same life day in and day out is like walking
through the streets of Rome blindfolded. Without sight, you can
still make your way down a narrow ancient street and hear distant
conversations going on around you in Italian. However, unless
you take the blindfold off, you will never be able to know what
the Coliseum looks like, where to throw your coin in the magnificent
Trevi Fountain or how beautiful the Italians look in their fashionable
wardrobes. If you never venture of the beaten path of the every
day world once in a while, your heart and soul will be unable
taste the sweet moments that a random powder day can provide.
As I grabbed the next empty
chair up after my first run, I knew I had made the right decision
that day. Maybe I should have been at my company’s sales
meeting that morning, and maybe it would have been beneficial
for me to lay out next month’s sales goals with my boss.
But as I peer down from my chair and see the solitaire, curving
line I just made on my favorite run I can only smile with concrete
justification. I knew that the following day, I would jump right
back into the routine I have created for myself. I knew I would
be at the next sales meeting and the next one after that. But
today, I am breathing the cold air, I am feeling the sun warming
my face and I am hearing the distant whooping of skiers as they
guide themselves through one face shot after another. On that
day, I had made the decisive choice to live, knowing that my
normal routine life could wait, if for only just one day.
Entry #11
Ski Bum Contemplates
Suburbia
A grey sheet of rocky mountain clouds have been snared by sharp
Teton peaks. A low whisper of four percent trickles down, teasing
my thirst for snow and lightly dusting a dimly lit Casper Bowl.
A throng of eager athletes, admirers, gaukers, and gapers are
denying sensible urges for a warm lodge or perhaps a few turns
as they scan the horizon, eagerly anticipating the next competitor.
I can't help but let out a slight chuckle as I bury frozen fingers
deep within the confines of my three-day-old polypro. Someone
to my left asks, "Who knew that 'extreme' skiing came with
'extreme' spectating?" This time I really laugh.
For the last three hours
I've been riding a mental rollercoaster of emotions so intense
they actually blur my sense of reality. First there was the two
hours of torturous anxiety and mental preparation. Then my four
and a half minutes of fame; cliff drops, high speeds turns, labored
breathing. And finally an hours worth of self badgering and regret.
Thankfully, my inner monolog froze long ago and the badgering
has been cut short.
Cheers well from the crowd
as a lone skier is spotted high amidst the rocks. His path is
untouched, possible due to the permanent Closed Area signs now
ten feet above him. Half of the day's onlookers turn away with
disgust while he waves from the top of the first fifty foot drop.
Patrol looks less than pleased. Hands now at his side, the skier
launches into the abyss, sans hesitation. Cries travel simultaneously
with the sound of rock hitting ski and finally bone. The sound
is vile, almost primal. Too many memories can be summoned by
such a sound. The rest of the daredevil's tumble; a few more
rocks, another fifty-footer, and finally a resting spot amidst
a heavily tracked slope; seems minor when stacked so closely
with that primal noise. The noise cuts deep into half buried
memories of good times gone horribly wrong and as far as I'm
concerned, the day is done.
Back in Salt Lake, the images, rather the sounds, have followed
me home. A week of mediocre skiing leads to more bad news. Andy,
an old friend from California, is dead. Even worse, I'm getting
all of this through the phone. It strikes me how worthless a
phone can be when the news is real. Pointless, when the true
message is hidden within expression, within the eyes of an old
friend. Bits of the story trickle down. He was skiing. He was
alone. There was a cliff. Of course there was a cliff. "Do
this stuff long enough and someone you know is bound to wind
up dead," says no one in particular.
"Why Andy, why now"
I ask. The news had come too fast, too strong, and too awkwardly.
"No one ever knows why. You should go skiing tomorrow, Andy
would want you to take a run for him." comes the cliché
response.
I tried to ski the next
day, but fell short when tears blurred the slope below. I don't
know if I cried for Andy, or cried because of it all. A built
up of anxiety founded in skiing. The loss of a friend, the image
of missed calculation, the sound of a helpless body, and the
nagging question of all who risk: why? Why huck? Why straightline?
Why go fast? Why go big? Why not study business and make a butt
load of cash and retire at thirty and buy a wife. Why not live
like a drone, but a safe drone who lives to die an old withered
man with a garage full of crap. For the next two weeks my skis
see nothing but the smooth plaster walls of a dusty dorm room
corner. Like a criminal, I decide to skip town for the week,
you know wait until the heat dies off, or in my case until the
memories wear thin.
Three weeks later I'm back
in Utah, standing atop a chaotic jumble of snow laden Alta granite.
The prior week of Southern Californian surf and cheap Tijuanan
booze have done their job and my old thirst has returned. The
week was fun, but far from intense. "I need action damnit!"
The following week of whiteout
storm skiing is just what I needed to refuel my reckless drive.
After six days of snow, all thoughts have convened on the east
side of Mt. Baldy. Blanketed with 40 inches of windblown, untouched,
Utah powder, the stage has been set for the great Alta Snow Circus.
All season I've drooled over the cliffs hiding under Mt. Baldy,
named "Bad News" by the locals. Complicated, billygoat
style entrances leading to massive airs, and nothing but snow
to swallow you whole upon impact. All week the energy has been
building. An unusually dry winter has left any huck-hungry local
with a building sense of urgency to catch their slice of meat
for the year. And now, this building wave of energy, fueled by
anticipation and a touch of ego, is breaking before my eyes.
With countless airs being hit all around me, the energy is infectious.
Two more cylinders kick over as my emotions climax. No holler,
no countdown, not even a wave as I kick my skis 90 to the right
and lean hard on the cuff of my boots. Into the transition, I
lose sight of my landing, but any sense of panic is quickly dowsed
by the eerie feeling of sudden weightlessness. Bomb holes disappear
beneath my skis while realization overwhelms my system. Half
fights to flee the arena while the other half fights for front
row seats at the greatest show it's ever seen. Even now, committed
to the air, my thoughts are far from Andy and the daredevil.
When one finds themselves forty feet above the earth, with nothing
but two skis and a helmet, there is little room for distraction.
The impact is strong. Like a slap in the face or a punch in the
gut. Like the girl who slaps you because you're an ass, but really
because you lost sight of what was real. Like an Olympic diver
surfacing from the pool, I stand triumphantly, centered in the
bulls-eye of my short but epic flight. The roar from the crowd
and the sunshine in my eyes all taste sweeter then before. Well
at least that's how Hollywood would end it. Back in reality my
legs are shaking uncontrollably from the adrenaline. Any cheers
are muffled by the snow packed into my helmet and my vision is
obscured by the clumps of snow plastered to my face. But to my
own amazement, I am alive.
The memory begins to fade
with the final scenes at the Alta lodge. I'm piss drunk, swapping
war stories with the boys, when someone asks me how big I went
that day. A brief pause. I think of Andy, of those silly competitions,
of the daredevil's attempt at greatness, and of my own motivation.
"Oh you know, twenty off the backside, nothing big but it
was sweet."
"Bullshit" cries
my ego. "You went twice that big."
Entry #10
A Duck in my pack [inspired
by Y.K. Idgadambr]
Many may think that being
a duck is an inflection produced by some village witch. You can
sleep safely tonight knowing that this is not the case. A duck
is a very important link in evolution. Ducks are, for better
or worse, part of the food chain. Humans were once in the food
chain until they invented nuclear weapons. Ducks are individuals
with a keen perspective on the universe. Humans don’t recognize
this fact. Nor do they realize they are being watched. Some see
ducks as a quaint sign of nature’s beauty. Yes, yes there
are those who would through out euphemisms like: Smoked duct,
Duck in Orange Sauce, Roast Duck, Duck with spaghetti, Duck with
Wild Rice, Duck on a stick. Sensationalism. There is more.
Frankly the level of human
arrogance is what led me to writing this story, the story of
‘A Duck in your Pack. It’s written by me, the Duck.
The story isn’t just recipes for my tasty carcass, its about
skiing. I know, you are thinking ‘what does a duck know
about skiing?’ Again you are correct. I know nothing about
skiing, ducks don’t ski, any idiot could tell you that.
However, no one else really knows anything about skiing either.
I have peaked over a shoulder two while Telemark Tips is perused.
A forum of ‘Like’ thinkers. Ha! I have to admit though,
the Telemark Tips Forum is a bit more civilized than some other
forums out there. Those ‘other’ forums use language
that even a duck would not use.
The Wilderness
One would think that a
stroll through the deep forest during winter would be one of
tranquility. Nope. Squeaky, noisy, and a smell that comes from
those gatherings in a cluster of trees, hidden will from view
cause me to have an altered perception of my surroundings. I
can tell right up front that enhanced color vision is not required
for ducks.
I like these trips. Getting
out of the house on a regular basis is refreshing to the spirit.
It seems that humans, well some humans, enjoy the same thing.
Whooping and hollering like they have been indoors for far too
long. This usually follows after long arduous hikes up some ridiculous
hill. Cruising at speeds that were never intended for human travel
on a surface that is better used for a back drop for Christmas
Cards. White smoky dust invades my field of vision. I momentarily
panic. Being constrained to a backpack is both a comfort and
a fear. The fear follows from only being able to see where you
were. The sudden release of gravity is enough to make the mornings
cracked-corn come up. I never get used to that. Being verbal
about this activity is of no avail. With all the whooping and
hollering, no one notices.
Skiing with Dogs
Now this is a curious thing.
Dogs seem to like these trips as much as their human counter
parts. Are dogs much the same as ducks? I ponder. My only question
is why don’t they ride in packs? Some are very large and
I can understand why they don’t ride in packs. Is it because
no one makes a pack that large? Little dogs don’t seem to
ride in packs either, so perhaps my logic on this is in error.
One obvious advantage of not being constrained to a pack is that
you can leave your ‘business’ on the trail. The pack
needs daily cleaning, if you ascertain the drift here.
The cold
Being in a pack has definite
advantages. I never get cold. The zipper sometimes catches a
fist size full of feathers and I get a bald spot started, but
that beats getting cold. I also don’t have to fidget around
with layers. Being a duck I don’t understand the layer concept,
but it seems to work. That is good enough for me.
The cold also brings precipitation
in the form of snow. Snow is the common substance that brings
out the humans and dogs, and of course me. When the snow is gone,
I find myself daydreaming of flying north with other ‘like’
creatures, along with the dog that is drumming out some kind
of primordial rhythm as he sleeps in the sun.
Snow
Snow is an unexplainable
thing. It seems to come in a variety of forms. Some days it is
very deep and the breathing from humans is heavy and the progress
of going up that hill seems to slow to a snails pace. I have
watched snails in the garden and the analogy works. Dogs seem
to be more akin to Dolphins on these days, as the porpoise their
way through the deep fluffy snow. Are dogs’ porpoise’s
too? The huffing and puffing [aside from the gathering in the
cluster of trees hidden well from view] seems to go on and on.
These humans trade places leading the troop up the hill like
ducks trading the lead in a migration. Is this really a migration
and are humans really different from ducks? Hum…
On other days the snow
can be very hard. I can speak from experience on this one. Being
in a pack that has had its vertical momentum stopped by hard
snow can be dangerous and could possibly lead to the pot sooner
than a duck would like to consider. On these days the whooping
and hollering is not so prevalent. Language, like that used on
other forums, is often heard. Humans don’t seem to like
hard snow as much as soft snow. I have heard of places so cruel
that only hard snow is found. It seems unnatural for snow to
be any color than white. Blue seems so wrong.
Skiing
Now this is humor in motion.
A lanky animal like humans that insists on having really long
feet is hilarious. The laughing stops when the they pull of the
animal fur from the bottoms of the really long feet and slide
down the hill like otters, but standing up mind you. I hope it
isn’t real animal fur. Heading back down the slope is a
fascinating thing to watch. Everything is made possible with
these long feet. Flight, quickness of maneuver, and deep snow
exploration can all occur with in moments of each other. Some
of these humans ski by bending their knees, others insist on
standing up completely. I often hear unanswerable arguments as
to which method is best and which method gives you ‘the
most grins’. Being a casual observer, they are equal in
giving me grins, that much I can admit too. These humans have
also said ‘the one with the widest grin’ is the best
skier. I have the widest grin after these events, does that make
me the best skier? Hum…
What does it all
mean?
Ducks have a short attention
span, so I don’t know if I understand the question. For
me it is getting out of the house, and when we get home it is
about getting out of the pack. At the end of the day, the humans
cheer with libations in hand, and argue over who has had the
widest grin of the day. Later they argue about their long feet.
Who has the best long feet. When they go home they go back to
the forum to argue about how to best measure the snow.
All-in-all it’s a
very confusing thing for a duck.
The Best Day
Everyday is the best day,
but I’m just a duck.
Entry #9
Spring Tele
“Oh, kiss the mountain air we breathe
Good-bye it's time to fly.
Sparrow climb, the air is thinner,
Open wings cast this valley in the shade.”
This is the tune blaring
in my ear as I cruise down the mountain in the awesome spring
skiing in Aspen Colorado. As the Panic continues to play I fly
past tourist who should have gone to a resort that they could
of handled like Vail.
I love to tele in the spring
nothing is better than skiing in a t-shirt and listening to your
favorite tunes making perfect turns down the Face of Bell in
the 60 degree weather.
I reach the bottom, legs
burning from the vicious run I previously did. I Rip off my skis,
wipe the snow from my hair, and hop on the Gondola and head up
for my next run.
As I ride in the Gondola
I look for the perfect line that awaits me below, I imagine the
graceful movement of telemarking, and picture myself down on
the hill performing the best.
I glance over towards jackpot-nope
too many bare spots,
I glance over at the dumps.
With tight aspen trees I know that it would be a perfect run.
Trees everywhere, making
quick turns, my heart racing faster and faster every time I pass
a tree.
With clumps of corn snow
flying up in front of me I can see the end of the run coming
closer and closer. Concentrating on nothing but my every move
I come to the bottom breathing heavily. I turn and look up to
see what I have done. With my favorite tunes still rockin in
my ear I ski down to the Gondola ready to do it all over again
Entry #8
A Warm Spring Day in
the Mountains
Back at the lot, I had
carefully lashed my skis to my pack. I now felt them ease and
sway with each step, their weight gently tugging at my shoulders
as I moved from rock to rock along the ridge.
I stopped for a moment
- just long enough to loosen a boot buckle and to take a quick
drink of water. By now my shirt was getting a bit damp. One could
see this was to be a rather warm day in spring. I was grateful
for the comfortable breeze, lazily making its way across the
mountaintops. Looking ahead I judged I had about another twenty
minutes to go. I took one last gulp of water, snugged my pack
close against my back, and set off again in steady rhythm along
the trail.
It is rather easy to wander
off trail up here, the path often being hard to distinguish among
the crumbled pieces of granite. I was careful though, given the
fragile alpine environment that surrounded me, to keep my bearings
along the subtle twists and turns.
It had taken me thirty
minutes more, not twenty, but I finally arrived at the top of
the run. After all, I was in no hurry, and had not been hiking
all that fast. Pipeline, Airplane, Hallway; despite Goodman's
guidebook and helpful locals I have always had trouble remembering
which gully is which. Peering over the edge, the snow stretched
all the way from floor of the Great Gulf, reached up, and spilled
out over the top of the chute. The snow had softened up nicely,
and my boots sunk in deep. Making my way to the lip, I swung
my pack from my shoulders and leaned it against one of the car-sized
boulders beside me.
Had I been with my usual
partner, the next few minutes would have filled with talking:
commenting on the weather and the fine quality of the corn snow,
pointing out the various gullies we have skied in years past,
making plans about ones we aught one day descend. But I was skiing
alone today. I silently tightened my boots, clipped into my bindings,
and snugged my pack against my back. I thought about how difficult
the last few weeks had been for me. months really. It had been
a long time since I had seen snow.
I stood and drank in the
scene for a moment longer. The sky was perfectly clear, and a
familiar string of peaks laid thrown out to my left. My heart
quickened. I leaned forward, and tipped my skis down the slope.
Picking up speed, I knelt to the right, bending into a wobbly
telemark turn. I suddenly realized how tired my body was after
driving all night. Trying to regain my composure, I stepped back
into a left turn. I began to find my balance, my turns grew confident,
and now found myself lost in the effortlessness of gliding down
a perfect spring chute. The past was forgotten. I drew buttery
arcs down the slope.
The best day of skiing
I ever had....
By skifreeK
The best day of skiing
I ever had took all night. We’d have gone on longer, but
the sun came up and people had things to do. Besides, the diamond
encrusted magic carpet we’d been whirring around on for
hours vanished with the dawn like a homesick vampire making shadowless
tracks for his home sweet coffin...or something or other like
that.
There’s a rare convergence
of forces and factors which may occur several times a winter
in my neighborhood. It doesn't take much to whack the whole collaboration
out of synchronization and render the remaining elements interesting
but yet somehow unenergized. Nope, it don’t mean a thing
if it ain’t got that “thang.”
Western Colorado is a desert.
I know, I know you're all thinking, “But there’s mountains
and ski resorts, and rivers, and I seen all these beautiful pictures
of lush green valleys, etc.” Hype. Western Colorado is a
desert. Some of it is a bit higher than other places, and some
of it is less desert-ish than others, but at the end of the day,
at the end of the month, at the end of it all, and when the cows
come home and beyond – it’s a desert.
One of the main and most
obvious factors in making Western Colorado a desert is low humidity.
It’s dry. The air is dry, the snow is dry, heck I'm an advocate
for saying aloud and publicly to the whole world what people
who have lived around here for a while know good full and well
to be the strange truth of this western desert – even the
rain is pretty dry. Honest.
In winter this dry western
desert gets cold. Cold, dry, clear air and the absence of any
significant metropolitan region to pollute the darkness with
wasted light energy makes for a night sky so dripping with the
gaudy effects of the Milky Way and all the other stars that a
person can almost find themselves walking a bit crouched like
you would if you were approaching a helicopter just to keep from
bumping their head on the shining stellar shafts. Honest.
If you place a carpet of
snow over a gently undulating northern Canadian spruce forest
cut generously with large, lazy meadows, drag the whole thing
down to the Western Colorado desert, and then lift it 10,000
feet or so into the star infested darkness of a cold, clear,
winter’s night, then you're getting closer to getting all
the elements assembled for getting the “thang” going.
It’s a darn beautiful
sight when we step from our assortment of gas burning, pollution
spewing, resource depleting vehicles that have hauled us up and
up and up into this magic region of pristine natural beauty.
It’s intense, all of it. The cold whacks you up-side your
nostrils and threatens an instant calorie free ice cream headache
event. The silence is deafening, broken only by the sounds of
our much practiced routine.
Gear is quickly unloaded
and checked. Skis on the feet, pack on the back, song in the
heart, and not a thought in the head, perfect. We climb over
the towering embankment of plowed snow that separates the world
of our vehicles and our lives in the lower world and slide down
into the shadowy depths of snow dolloped pines. A minute or less
of kick and glide and there it is.
The THANG in all its enormous
glory is in the house. Heck, it IS the house.
With a surprising and graceful
quickness not often seen in celestial objects of its size, a
full moon rises over the spruce fringe on the far side of the
meadow. And then it hits. All the elements have converged. The
collaboration is completed by our presence, our senses, our minds,
and our spirits.
Every single dang snow
crystal on top of the whole crazy “northern Canadian spruce
forest set 10,000 feet above the western Colorado desert”
thing erupts with a must-see-to-believe brilliance. It’s
as if each and every one of them truly and fully believed the
only reason for the chaotic fusion of the sun's nuclear material
was to produce the particular photons which hurled through space,
bounced off the moon, banked into that one crystal, and were
beheld by my eye. That's what it seemed like. Honest.
Well sure, that high desert
snow blanket of over achieving snow crystals looks great, but
how does it ski? “Oh my gawwd!” seemed to be the gist
of the main comments heard when anyone felt inclined to speak.
It skis even better than it looks. We’ve got our work cut
out for us; we know that. There’s miles, and miles, and
miles of sky dripping stars and enchanted shimmering snow carpet
for us to cover and we intend to do just that. We also know our
limits (sort of), and our packs contain all the creature comforts
needed for helping sustain us body and spirit through the night.
And we’ll do it until the sun returns to end the “thang”
and send us home.
Yep, the best day of skiing
I ever had took all night. Honest.
Entry #6:
Alarm Clocks and Shreddin'
Grandma's
The alarm clocked began
a steady pulse that would eventually drive any late sleeper to
insanity, but lucky for me that happened one year ago. That was
the year I truly committed to the telemark turn. Now at fifteen
years of age, I wasn't going to pass up neither a moment of pure
crystalline pleasure, nor the spiritual joy of dropping a knee
in a way that surely beats proposing or being knighted. Through
this medium of snow and wind, I defined myself in many ways.
As with all other days
spent on my misery sticks, I was determined to prove my prowess
in the Tele turn. When the persistent siren of the alarm clock
crescendo, I woke up because of the promise of new snow and good
times, and the fact that the clock was damn annoying. I opened
my eyes to find a stocky five feet eleven inches and one hundred-eighty
pounds of pure teenage morning staring back at me. Ignoring my
reflection, I vaulted down the ladder of my modest bunk bed with
the grace of a dying moose, and made my way to the bathroom that
my parents so aptly named my second home.
I shucked off my stylish
snowman boxers and looked at my insignificant body. "Well,
if I can't have abs like Arnold, I can try to have his legs,"
I thought, trying to reason the presence of some fairly bulky
and moderately toned legs in comparison to the quite bulky and
not remotely toned torso. I pulled at my underbrush thick leg
hair, wondering if the mosquitoes needed machetes to reach the
flesh in which they would leave itchy welts come next summer.
I began to warm up the shower, but was interrupted.
A stirring in the bedroom
beside mine was accompanied with a very groggy moan, and that's
when I remembered the alarm clock. "Turn it off, turn it
off" was the whiny yet assertive plea from my sister, a
skinny girl three years my junior. I walked my naked arse back
into my room, nearly tripping over the family dachshund, Gretel,
in the process. After hitting the Mickey Mouse alarm clock a
little too hard between the ears, I stumbled my way into the
shower.
One of my most peculiar
traits is the taking of long showers. It took me a good thirty
minutes to warm up, fall asleep, wake up, and shampoo. As I got
out, I wondered what one of my extremely liberal friends would
say about this waste of water. Something about the excess consumption
of water in America leading to a greater frequency of clubbed
seals elsewhere probably. Though darn liberal myself, I realize
that I’m a little bit too liberal about my showers.
Back to the room now, I
search through the piles that litter my floor for a thick pair
of Thorlos (don't know why I like putting my socks on first).
I follow up with a simple blend of polypro, not a single stitch
of cotton on my body. I grab the baby blue 185cm pocket rockets
mounted with sangria red G3 bindings leaned up against the safety
of my bedroom wall and glance over my various stickers. They're
a myriad of brands: smith, telemarktips.com, and a Lizard skins
carbon bicycle chain stay protector, slapped onto the right ski
for no apparent reason.
I tiptoe past my sister's
room, skis in hand, and am reminded of what I gave up when I
freed my heel. The walls of my sister's room are plastered with
race medals, mostly first and second places. When I alpine raced,
I never had any medals except for a single first place, a couple
third places, and a pair of first place Brian Russell memorial
boxers that I unceremoniously wear at the moment (well, everyone's
got to have a lucky pair), but the thrill of direct competition
kept me coming back for subsequent rounds. I felt a small and
remote pulse of remorse, too much like the drone of my alarm
clock for comfort. I remind myself that the same Brian Russell
that I have printed on my drawers gave up his racing career and
his life in a car accident in '98. I count my lucky stars and
continue downstairs.
Stuffing down a ham and
cheese hot pocket, I grab my thin wallet and stuff a pack with
my yellow and black, bellow toed Crispi CXR boots. I shrug into
my blue bibs, red Pearl Izumi fleece, and black Polosport jacket.
The pants are worn on the outside boot cuffs, another reminder
of racing days. Whisking my Scott poles, Giro helmet (almost
as stickered as my skis), and Patagonia gloves into my arms,
I head out into the abnormally warm dry air of Anchorage, Alaska
with a weird winter.
Bumming rides from your
grandmother has got to be one of the most despicable mooches
on the planet, yet that's what I had to do to get to the slope,
and lack of a ride wasn't coming in between me and the hill.
She was waiting in the driveway, engine on and stroking the bison
frisé that went everywhere with her. Rose Tanaka, everyone's
favorite grandma, nothing ever went undone and no child was not
spoiled when she was around. I had to remind myself that under
her kind round Japanese face lay a 67-year-old with better triceps
than me. I carefully slid my gear into the back of her Audi station
wagon, careful not to scrape my freshly waxed bases, and rode
shotgun.
The ride to the bus stop
was punctuated by mandatory Grandma questions about school, health,
and my non-existent love life. These were responded to with mandatory
the brief and exasperated teenager bull. When we pulled up to
the bus stop at Peter Glenn Sports, I grabbed my stuff and told
my grandmother that I loved her, I meant it.
I started towards the ticket
office inside the store, and reached for my wallet. It felt incredibly
light, but the pair of new Crispi boots felt heavy, so I contented
myself to give the thoroughly pierced snowboarder behind the
counter my remaining thirty-eight dollars. That money got me
round trip bus fare and an all day ticket, and I marveled that
I could spend thirty eight dollars to access seven hours of fun,
while others spend thousands simply to satisfy their fix for
the day, and some don't have to pay anything at all.
The bus arrives at the
loading zone. I make an effort to reach the cargo bays before
the boarders and the jibbers get there, and invariably pack up
space. The bus driver is a middle aged, overweight woman with
a sour unhappy look on her face. Her image turns itself over
in my mind until a pair of tourists jostles me from behind. I
take a seat and slip into a rather unzenly trance for the forty-five
minute ride ahead of me.
They say that time flies
when you’re having fun, but it simply folds from one point
to another when you don’t feel anything at all. Next thing
I knew, the bus had stopped and the sour conductress gave a hearty
"Don’t ferget to grab yer stuff," in a voice too
warm for her worn features. I disembarked, casually listening
to the conversation of the borders squeezing past me in the parking
lot. I don’t remember much, except that every other word
was an F-bomb, enough linguistic uranium to make the Ruski’s
nervous. I also noticed the use of "Dude" and "Sweet",
although I use these too much to care.
My skis survived the trip
unscathed; they usually did despite my worries. I headed for
the ticket counter, optimistically fumbling for my wallet in
the hopes that I’ll reach an empty lane. No luck for me
today, the lines were packed with borders and weekend warriors,
many hoping to get captured by the borderline photographer rumored
to be on the hill today. I settled in behind a family of four,
one dad and three pre-teen boys. "What the *&!# do you
have a lizard skin on your skis for, dude", said one of
the snow surfers.
"It’s so I don’t
scratch my top sheet when I’m nailing a crossed out mute
720", was my lame and definitely untruthful response.
"Sweet dude"
I painfully reminded myself
that I couldn’t even nail a slick 360, even with nice air
and soft landings.
I finally get to the ticket
window; a bored looking girl of about twenty years, again pierced
and dyed tends the register. "What’s the snow like?"
I inquired. "What does it @#$^in Look like!" I believe
she replied, pointing at the typed snow report behind the slightly
frosted glass in front of her. The ‘postcast’ declared
no new snow, but with ‘awesome tracked powder’ off
piste and some ‘pleasantly firm’ snow on piste. It
couldn’t have been more wrong.
Today, in the month of
February that usually averages below twenty-degree temperatures,
the corn harvest was full on. Light, wet orbs of sugar filled
the pistes, and last months softies turned to razor sharp blades
of ice. People tell me that Alyeska is small and insignificant
compared with such out of state behemoths as Sun Valley or Whistler,
but that doesn’t mean anything to me, since the quaint resort
is all I’ve known other than the backcountry. It’s
like a good dog; I’m convinced I’ve scratched every
fur on its 2500 vertical foot body.
As the slower lower mountain
lift crested the last rise before the unloading zone, I saw a
gaggle of six freeheelers in the two chairs ahead of me, all
set up on various gear. They unloaded, but started off before
my chair reached the last pole. They weren’t blazingly fast
by any means, but they took the easy route down and hell if I
was going to take the easy route on my warm up.
I turned skier’s right
onto a little cat track, gaining speed in anticipation of the
lip. I considered it an accomplishment, hucking blindly down
drops no matter the conditions. It also helped that this lip
was below our upper mountain speed quad, in plain view of any
sure to be impressed what I thought was to be massive air and
a smooth landing. The condition report should have tipped me
off, but there was nothing but death cookies to land on. I uttered
a clipped cry, and biffed. According to witness reports, I hit
an elephants head on the landing (think babies head times fifteen)
and ragged dolled for ten feet before landing in a homogenized
pile of Gore-Tex. I uttered one last gurgle, and raised my head.
Half the people on the lift were cat calling as they sped along;
others looked away in obvious disgust.
A bruised butt can hurt,
but a bruised teenage ego hurts even more. I chose to collect
myself calmly and head to the upper lift loading dock without
any more acrobatics. I came into the single’s line hot,
to hot for comfort. I just barely pulled off an awkward stop,
right behind a crusty old man in a red one-piece, and sporting
a pair of old Atomic Red Sleds. I half-expected him to mutter
some epithet about youthful indiscretion or loose cannons, but
he gave me a paternal look and simply said, "Mighty short
fat skis you got there."
I ended up pairing up with
him and a couple of the Alaska-experience-Texans that fill this
particular mountain, probably a dentist and his wife by the looks
of their gear, for the ride up top. I never remember lift rides,
ever. They just sort of blend into a kaleidoscope of strangers
and friends, jokes and debates. I wish I could remember, I’ve
had some good times on chairlifts. I can blend a first kiss and
a completely unrelated ski pole in the eye into this medley of
tram soup, but it never means anything. This particular lift
ride proved unique.
The man on the Atomic 220cm
skis beside me never stopped looking at the sky. I decided to
determine the source of his interest and stared upwards as well.
For awhile the only sounds on that chair were those of gears,
the mechanical ones of the lift, and the figurative ones in my
thick skull. I could not find out what was so interesting about
today’s ceiling. The answer came as we once again disembarked,
when the old man turned to me and said "No one your age
ever notices a blue sky" and shot down a groomed compression
to the right, known as Silvertip, before I could begin to decipher
his meaning.
After about two minutes
of pondering at the top of the lift, I realized the significance
of his remark. This was the first clear day the resort had experienced
in a couple of weeks, not necessarily strange for Alaska, but
when combined with first snow in December and forty-degree temperatures
in February, it was disconcerting.
I was never completely
in my element for the first half of the day; the corn was not
completely ripe on the upper mountain, and my fat pocket rockets
skipped like coins on pavement over the icy medley. I had high
hopes for the afternoon, but fell victim to my appetite and skidded
into the day-lodge near the summit for clam chowder in a bread
bowl.
Due to the rubbery rockered
soles of my teleboots I was impervious to at least one form of
adolescent embarrassment, the legendary cafeteria boot sole slip.
For the greatest effect, the boot sole slip must be performed
with a loaded lunch tray preferably laden with soup. Points are
granted for execution, style, and rotations. As it was though,
no boot sole slip today, and no companions to share the absence
of such with. I was painfully alone, and chunked potatoes don’t
make good conversation, so I bolted the chowder down my hatch
and left in search of friends.
After a couple of hours
in the sun, the upper mountain was softening up nicely. I descended
a particularly bright piste with gusto. I delighted in the sheer
mechanics of the turn, feeling the pulse and flow of the kinetic
energy through the springs of my legs, exalting in the roostertail
that my twin-tips insisted on throwing. I finished this particular
run with a couple of long Super G turns down a face that connected
to the lift, and settled in for another mundane trip up Chair
Six.
A couple of runs later,
I met the gaggle again. The group of telemarkers was just about
to descend the North side of the mountain when I caught them.
"Got room for one more?" I inquired. I was greeted
pretty enthusiastically by these freeheelers, so they let me
latch on in true drop knee fashion.
Turns out that they were
a clinic, two instructors and three students. Paul, a bearded
twenty-something with a perpetual expression of knowing on his
face and another energetic twenty-something known as Steve were
the guides. A jovial middle aged couple were students, along
with a surprise. The husband had brought along his mother. While
they had each paid for this instruction, they did not mind if
I joined in.
The mother’s age was
not apparent to me at first, until she took off her hat. Silvery
hair fell in pates about her narrow, but strong shoulders. The
smoky mantle crested a weathered and wizened face, filled with
the lines of defeat but ever focused and altogether pleasant.
Her turns were shaky but determined, and shaved twenty of her
seventy some odd years from her appearance. She seemed locked
into the moment, her mind never straying from the purpose of
getting down the hill.
Paul and Steve provided
some good tips from very different perspectives and styles. Paul
had a very pronounced classic Tele turn, applicable to all times
and all places. Steve was more aggressive, charging a fall line
turn into an arc, and bouncing into the next turn with a spry
release. I was told to quite down my upper body, and it helped
tremendously.
After about three runs
together, we decided to hit the dogleg that I ran earlier that
morning. Everyone had some well-executed turns. When the mother’s
run came, she initiated her first turn with a snap, but dragged
her outside foot through the release. The outside ski caught
on a rut, and she sagged into a heap of purple snowsuit. She
issued no cry, and quickly propped herself back on her feet.
She finished the run with a shit-eating grin on her face.
She was the fulcrum for
our conversation for the rest of the day. Comments of awe were
pitched into a blended smoothie of praise, and the words "Hope
I can take a fall like that in forty or fifty years" were
thrown around.
We learned to appreciate
each other’s unique Tele styles. I was quick, while Paul
was deliberate, and Steve was fiery. The mother was determined,
and the couple enthusiastic. During our four hours together,
we learned a lot about technique and each other. The sun lasted
all day, and by five o’clock we were skiing some impressive
slush. While not my favorite snow, slush in the correct consistency
can be a blast. The last run of the day was caught on tape.
It was on a steep pitch
at the bottom, about forty degrees by my guess. Traffic and sun
had mounded the slush into heaves, so transitions could be tricky.
The mother executed a flawless run that became the highlight
of her day. My run started well. I stabbed short powerful turns,
bouncing from heave to heave, small pearls of refreshing slush
hurtling themselves at my face. I caught an edge and recovered
with the reflexes of a small dog. I was feeling proud of my performance
towards the end of the run and neglected to lean back for the
puddle that collects at the very bottom of the mountain on warm
days. I fell flat on my face in front of my skiing partners.
I shook the marbles of ice off of my goggles and let out an unabashed
laugh, I had no reason to be embarrassed and none of them felt
the less of me for crashing.
We took off our gear and
grouped up in the Base lodge to review our performances for the
day. Video is a great medium for critique, we alternately complimented
and criticized each other’s turns and each had a great deal
to work on the following sessions. When we parted, we did not
exchange phone numbers; there was no need. We had spent an awesome
day of Tele together, and in that would always be bound to each
other by the turn.
Why was this the best day
of my skiing career? I lived, learned and lived again. I lived
my life the way I had been living it for the majority of my teenage
years. I learned that focusing on the now and all things unique
to the moment are key to squeezing every ounce of enjoyment from
a day. I learned that a sky is always bluer after the gray. I
learned that while youth are supposed be the future, we often
neglect the gravity and consequences of our attitudes in the
present. I learned that time in good company is time well spent,
and that everyone has something unique to add to any given experience.
I also learned never to jump blind, and to finish the day with
a (literal) splash. I learned that being ‘good’ at
something did not necessarily mean excelling in the skills, but
could also mean reveling in the joys of failure and successes
both. I learned that people can be bound by a single commonality
and in this bonding learn to appreciate each other’s successes
and failures. But I also learned that as long as enjoyment can
be gained, or something can be learned from an experience, failure
never exists. I learned to live better.
Entry #5:
Cheshire Cat
Way back in 1979, I went
on a hut trip outside Aspen with a group of other fools to celebrate
New Year. I don't remember the name of the hut, but we left the
old Volvo in a parking lot by Ashcroft and skied up to the hut.
There, someone broke out a copy of Steve Barnett's Cross Country
Downhill. Mouth agape, we marveled at the contortions he was
performing in the photos. We decided we needed to add the telemark
turn to our limited arsenal of technique. The good news-there
was plenty of powder snow, so nobody got hurt. But mostly we
just managed face plants of all types trying to imitate what
we saw in the book.
Undeterred, fast forward a few years later. A lecture at the
now defunct Holubar (later North Face) store produced Mike Boone
and Katie Pytel. Furthermore, Katie had just won the women's
telemark championship on some Rossignol Descentes at Crested
Butte. Amazingly enough, these two had some actual Descentes
to show all interested parties, as well as the rest of Rossignol's
cross country lineup for that year. They described the telemark
turn, but said that to really learn to telemark, you had to try
it supervised on the snow, not just talk about it So...if you
really wanted to get serious, you could join telemark challenge,
and learn to be a bona fide telemark racer at Winter Park.
Which brings us to the fantastic day about which this anecdote
pertains. During various lessons, Mike, Katie, and others attempted
to teach us the telemark turn, and its applications running gates.
We had fun and got so we could kind of do it sometimes. One day
after going through the gates and not falling, we met another
member of telemark challenge with a glean in his eye and a worn
rucksack slung over one shoulder. "Watcha doin'?" he
inquired with a glint in his eye.
"Trying to run gates" we responded. "Aw, hell
with that, I got some Fosters, lets go hit Cheshire Cat, they
just groomed it" came the reply.
So how do you argue with
logic like that? We loaded onto the next lift and followed Fred
into the trees between two runs and helped him lighten his load.
Proceeding to Cheshire Cat, we looked down the run and Fred said
what all of us were thinking "It ain't groomed!" There
before us lay myriad frosted bumps and minibumps.
Now, you have to put this into perspective. Our telemark challenge
instructors persuaded us to buy Rossignol Descente skis so we
could ski just like them. The reasoning went that this was racing
ski and somewhat unforgiving, so that if we didn't ski just like
they did, the ski would spit you down into the snow in a kind
of negative feedback. To us relative new tele skiers, this ski
would head for the fall line and for what seemed like a long
time, but was probably only a second or two, would accelerate
like a striped ass gazelle before it's edges would grab and it
would turn, rather abruptly. So driving these with Asolo Snowfield
or Fabiano leather boots produced sensations of joy and terror.
When you didn't get it quite right, judo on skis would result.
So the bumped out Cheshire Cat and us being premedicated with
a few oil cans of Fosters presented a more formidable challenge
than initially meets the eye. "I'm glad you anesthetized
me before you brought me over here" Bob offered.
Well, ain't but one way out now. We got down, and somewhere in
the process we thought we invented the Tarzan turn, whereby you
stab the mogul with your uphill pole and swing around it much
like Tarzan swinging off a branch. There was lots of judo on
skis going on, and even a lucky turn here and there. The point
being that you can do an awful lot with enthusiasm when relaxed.
That was pretty much the theme of the whole season. We learned,
but we had fun. We later had to unlearn the Tarzan turn. But
fun is why we go out there, and good technique lets you have
more fun, because you don't beat the crap out of yourself and
ski more efficiently.
Fun is the reason we still go out. Mercifully, the gear has improved
orders of magnitude since then. But fun is still the key word.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Entry #4:
My Lunch With Andre
My best day in the backcountry was also the only day I have ever
'stuck an invert'. It was at Jay Peak, Vermont during the famous
snow year of 01. Five of us took off with skins, climbing from
the base lodge, passing through beaver pond and breaking trail
on up to one of the best peaks. We had just had a monster storm
and the three feet of fresh powder reminded us all of Alta's
finest. Blue bird sky, a seven foot base with three feet of fresh..oh
man this was going to be good!
Once we topped out, the
general plan was to take our first run together, then yo yo with
every man and women for him/her self. As you would imagine, that
first run was incredible and, once to the bottom, it was a major
scramble to find the next un-tracked run.
I headed off to one little
isolated section that looked as if may have some hidden gem waiting
to be violated. Panting and huffing I dragged myself the last
15 feet or so through Vermont Pucker brush only to find myself
facing an incredibly steep, very narrow little run with a tree...one
lonely tree...right smack in the middle of it. There was a choice
run after the tree but how I was getting past it was the problem.
The opening was only about 7 feet and the tree was in the middle.
Although the powder was deep the pitch had to be close to 60
degrees. I figured I had no room to turn and the best thing I
could do would be to just hunker down and straight line it through
the opening. However, as usually seems to be the case, my plans
were well thought out but, once I had pushed off, my skis had
other ideas. A snow snake grabbed me, or a tree well sucked me
in, or a hidden root caught an edge...or maybe I just sucked
and tripped..but either way, I fell forward just as I got near
that tree and and went right through the branches head first.
Fortunately, I guess, rather than tumble the rest of the way
down the slope and destroy a perfectly fine untracked ski run,
my right boot and ski got caught in a branch and stopped me dead.
Then, as I swung out over the slope, upside down and backwards,
my pack opened up and out came granola bars, two bottles of ale,
a sandwich, my shovel, probe, spare jacket, radio and all the
rest of the crap that had been weighing me down all morning.
Ahhh, finally, the perfect lightness of being.
So there I was, upside
down, with my ski wedged firmly in a tree branch somewhere above
and all my worldly possessions beneath me scattered amongst the
deep virgin powder snow and, believe it or not, the first thing
that crossed my mind was' God I hope no one sees me like this!'
I needn't have worried because they were all too busy yahooing
and breathing in face shots somewhere on the other side of the
peak and wouldn't be missing me for some time. My next thought
was of my coffee thermos filled with Starbucks finest and now
somehow miraculously caught in my pack and slowly leaking down
onto my neck and into my helmet. It was kind of warm and comforting
but all the same, a hindrance. My thought after that was..'What
is that squirrel doing?' A Vermont red squirrel had appeared
in the branches above/below me and was looking down at this strange
thing hanging from it's tree. It was around this point I started
whacking at my ski and boot wedged in the branch, perhaps hoping
to knock something loose or at the very least to work off some
of the frustration of the moment. All I knocked loose was snow
from the branches of the tree which came down to join the coffee
now leaking into my helmet. The squirrel started chattering something
fierce. It obviously did not care for my violent attitude or
the invectives I had been uttering at the impeding branch. I
finally stopped my apparently worthless swings of the ski pole
and fell back into a full inverted, hanging position. They say
doing headstands gets the blood to your brain and can help keep
your hair from falling out. Maybe something good would come of
this. I noticed that the squirrel had stopped it's incessant
chattering and I forced my head up to look. The squirrel (I called
him Andre) had moved from it's perch and had come down right
to my stuck Mountain Surf. I had a quick, crazy thought that
the little guy might start gnawing away at the branch in a valiant
effort to save me. Sort of a rodent version of Rin Tin Tin. But
Andre had apparently more selfish ideas than rescuing me. He
had spotted my loose bag of corn flakes that had, just like the
coffee thermos, somehow escaped the fate of it's brethren and,
rather than drop to the deep bottomless snow below, had caught
onto one of the many gizmo, loopy things on my pack. The squirrel,
I guess now assuming I was harmless, then climbed down my leg
and onto my pack. It bit into the bag of cereal and preceded
to...have lunch. I have never watched a squirrel eat it's lunch
before. Well at least not close up while hanging upside down
in a tree. It was fascinating! Not quite as much fun as skiing
deep pow but still very interesting. They do this funny thing
with their paws. ....
Well, lunch went on for
quite some time. It wasn't much of a lunch for me as few flakes
fell my way but, just before the little guy was finished, he
took one big bite out of the bag and everything that was left
came sliding out and down my neck and......into my helmet. It
was getting really crowded in my helmet. It was right about then,
as Andre was coming close to peer down into the dark recesses
of my helmet that the much hoped for crack of a limb resounded
through the still green mountain woods. I lurched as the limb
began to break and the squirrel, caught off guard for probably
one of the few times in it's life, fell from it's perch and disappeared
below into the deep, bottomless, Vermont , powder snow. I never
saw little Andre again.
Well now you are no doubt
wondering...why is this the best ski day of Biff's life? I mean
he biffed, flipped upside down, got caught in a tree, hung there
for a half an hour, was attacked by a squirrel, had his helmet
filled with coffee, snow and granola ...and all this while his
friends skied 3 feet of powder. I'll tell you why it was such
a great day. Because when I finally put myself back together
(after first digging down to see if I could find the squirrel)
I skied away and for the rest of the day laughed and laughed
with every face shot through that light fluffy powder. I just
kept seeing myself hanging upside down in that tree sharing lunch
with Andre and I wished to heck someone had found me after all...and
at the very least, taken a picture.
Entry #3:
A True Story
Boy meets Girl. Now that’s
an old chestnut. But how about Boy meets Girl AND Teleskiing?
Now that’s something you can write home about. So, I had
this bad back injury (cauda equina for you geeks out there) during
the summer and I was distraught. I mean, I recovered from the
injury, but no more drops or bumps or terrain park…no more
alpine skiing as I knew it. But I had always admired the swooping
grace of the teleskiers; the soft rise and fall looked like it
had to be back-friendly. And so I sacrificed my Volants, slapped
on some new O2’s, and waited for ski season. Now, I knew
about as much about tele-technique as I knew about the migratory
patterns of blue whales, which isn’t much. However, I had
met this young lass at work who was taking up tele herself. She
was a very strong athlete but had had a knee injury and felt
that tele would help her strengthen her leg. Maybe she would
want to learn with me. It didn’t hurt that she was as beautiful
as crystalline new snow against azure sky. So I gave her a jingle;
she said she had been up twice, had gotten some good pointers,
and would love to have me come to the condo where she was staying
with two of her friends. That evening, I didn’t talk much
with her friends, but I found out that she was just an amazing
woman and I hung on her every word.
The next day dawned bright
and clear, chilly but not too cold. We went off to the resort
and rode up the first lift. The first few turns were, predictably,
exercises in the ill effects of gravity. But as we made our way
down the hill, parallel gave way to the ginger first attempts
at the tele-turn. At the bottom, we were exhilarated. Up the
lift we went, talking about anything and everything, grinning
ear to ear to be in each other’s company. And then down
again, getting smoother and smoother in our turns. Up again with
puppy dog eyes, down again with burning thighs. I’m not
a romantic by disposition, but I found myself thinking that I
was meant to be with this woman, maybe from before fish walked
on land. We came down the slopes, more and more confident in
dropping our knees, despite our frequent falls, accompanied by
much laughter. We went up the lifts, falling into the magic spell
that is the joyous promise of love. By the end of the day, we
were exhausted, sunburnt, our thighs completely spent, bruised
like I’d just been to a Korn concert. Our mouths were practically
split from our ear-to-ear grins. We had found teleskiing and
we had found each other. We now ski together, bike together,
live together, and share our lives, and we often look back to
that first bright ski day as the day that brought us together.
Entry #2:
Just Another Perfect
Day to be Alive
Pulled up at the Switchback
Trail near Hurricane Ridge about 9am yesterday. Looking up at
Mount Angeles was dazzling, with the shimmering white against
cobalt blue sky. The switchback trail route to the top of Klahane
Ridge was crunchy and perfect for crampons. What a contrast to
visiting in July when the wildflowers and buzzing bees carpet
the whole hillside! The air was cold, the cirrus clouds were
scudding along, and it was great to be converting oxygen to hemoglobin!
My lungs were very happy, and so was I. As I pigeon-toed my way
up the hill, the view to the south into the interior Olympics
just rolled up with me, revealing curving ridges stretching to
the Bailey Range and beyond. Olympus was shining gold with a
pelerine of blue color from the icefalls. Directly ahead and
about 5500 feet below me on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, a submarine
was partially submerged, looking like a very large Killer Whale,
heading east towards its base in Hood Canal. Port Angeles looked
like a paper map of streets and buildings, while Vancouver Island
rose out of a low mist about 40 air miles away.
After about 90 minutes
of climb, I topped the crest, and looked down the elegant north-facing
bowl of Heather Park. The wind was up, and spinnakers were flying
off the black rocks on the flanking ridges. I could just as easily
have felt like I was in Peru. The "powder" from 10
days ago was still lying about 6 inches deep over the ice, although
it had turned to a granular silver hoar. This was going to be
good!
I mounted the old Karhu
Kodiaks, battened down the hatches, and shoved off. Whooomp!
Face down in the snow! A raven flew over, cackling with glee
at my embarrassing start. I brushed off the shockingly cold crystals,
straightened myself out, and pulled a low, curving right turn
to "feel it out". I cranked a bit harder to the left
and found the groove with the Karhus! The final few turns, 1500
feet lower in the bowl, left multiple sundogs from the roostertail
of hoar, backlit by the sun.
I grabbed the nearest rock
for a chair, scrutinized my tracks, pulled out the water, and
thought about how truly lucky we are to have the freedoms that
allow us to visit these wonderful wild places at our discretion,
and to be lucky enough to get to do such a thing as skiing. I
am reading Slavomir Rawicz' book "The Long Walk", recommended
on the TelemarkTips forum. The impression has been great, and
I wept a little bit on my rock perch, thinking about his ordeals
and tortures and ultimate triumphs. One is inclined to possibly
be a bit more "weepy" when surrounded by the magnificence
of these mountains, as well as having the luxury of being alone
where no one can see you cry. I cried for him, and I cried for
the people I've known and lost, as we all have, over the years.
This was not a self-pitying cry, it was just cleansing release
of emotions. The raven swooped overhead, letting me know that
it was time to climb up and make some "eights" out
of my tracks with another crystalline run on just another perfect
day to be alive.
Entry #1:
Dog In The Hole
Blake and I are sitting
on our packs on top of Middle Sister at roughly 10 am for the
third Spring in a row, having brought our dogs Ike and Jane for
the first time. We’re content to just sit, gaze, and ponder
while the dogs-pink tongues extended to counter the warmth of
their thick, black coats-watch our every move hopeful for one
more scrap of food.
The view from atop each
of the Three Sisters is unlike that from any other high peak
in western Oregon. What is most obviously missing is the checkerboard
landscape that plagues this bountiful part of the world and is
most pronounced during the snowy months; white squares represent
snow-blanketed clearcuts and the dark second or third growth
forest.
Instead of a disheartening
panorama of piebald forests, we are treated to a gin-clear view
of a white wonderland containing two Sisters, the Husband, the
Wife, Broken Top, Bachelor, Washington, Jefferson, Thielsen,
Tipsoo Butte, snowy lava fields, fourteen glaciers, and hardly
a trace of the chainsaw's handiwork. What a relief it is.
On top of it all, there
is no question in our minds that the seldom skied north face
of Middle Sister is 'in' as we throw small lava rocks onto it
from above. The tiny projectiles don't bounce and roll, they
stick and float near the surface. During our past two visits
the route has been boilerplate, blue ice. Fine for front-pointing
your way to the summit but far too 'interesting' for a ski descent.
The north face of Middle
Sister is one of those drops that makes you swallow hard and
think twice. You see no middle ground, just the first turn or
two and then the Hayden Glacier 2,000 or so vertical feet below.
This time around the face is in prime condition: soft enough
to ski but not too soft to raise concerns of wet snow slides.
The dogs, unfortunately,
want nothing to do with this descent. Ike whimpers. Jane backpedals,
turns and wags her tail as if to say, 'C'mon dude, let's follow
the ridge instead.' It's not my turn for glory. It is my turn
to wrangle the dogs, partially descend the ridge, and find a
good camera position.
I ski a few hundred vertical
feet over wind-scoured Cascade crud topped with dollops of rime
ice. Ike's whimpering mellows but the poor beast is still gripped.
I find a spot from which to shoot and tell the dogs to 'take
a break' which they do gladly; it's been a long climb and the
skiing is a little dicey, not to mention that the golfball-sized
gobs of rime don’t make an ideal running surface for padded
feet.
Not only are we now in
a good place to document Blake's descent, but we're also in a
position to traverse out on the face and ski the lower half.
Before I can put my camera to my eye, Blake begins his descent
of a line that I doubt many others have tried. The dogs' tails
wag and their frames wriggle while my camera's shutter clicks
and the motor drive hums.
We ski the rest of the
face one at a time, Blake with Ike and I with Jane. Blake makes
turn after turn as Ike dutifully follows. I keep a close watch,
holding Jane back all the while.
1,000 vertical feet below
man and dog make an arcing left turn to move out of the face's
deposition zone. It makes no sense for them to rest in a place
on to which Jane and I could possibly release a fatal amount
of snow. Blake turns and waves a ski pole. Time to head. I release
granular waves of wet snow with each turn though none has the
momentum to keep up.
Near the bottom I spot
Blake out of the corner of my eye. He's pointing at something
and I can't quite make out what he's yelling. I'm almost there
and having too much fun to care. As I glide over the three-foot
wide opening of a crevasse located just above where the pitch
starts to ease, I glimpse a snowbridge 10 feet to my right.
I realize what Blake has
been vainly attempting to shout and point out. I stop, turn around
to face Jane who's charging close behind, and try to encourage
her to run faster and keep her eyes glued on me: "C'mon
Jane, good dog! Good girl Jane!" With little chance of directing
her across the snowbridge, my only hope is that speed, strength,
and wits enable her to soar and land safely below the crevasse.
My heart sinks as she drops
into the hole and disappears. 'What an idiot, I've killed my
dog,' I think to myself. As I'm out of one binding and leaning
over to release the other the dark day becomes light again. The
first thing to appear is a little black nose followed by a furiously
burrowing sixteen month-old Labrador frame. Then, like a pea
on a griddle, Jane bounds out of the crevasse.
Unscathed and unfazed,
she barrels into my outstretched arms, tongue dangling and eyes
longing for another treat. Jane can have all the treats she wants.
I give her the three I have left together in one handful.
©Michael G. Halle
2003
While you are at it,
take a look at the five finalist essays from our previous contest:
Essay Contest #1,
"What I Love About This Sport."
For more information on how you can
win a new pair of skis and bindings in our latest essay contest,
click here.
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