“This Isn’t an Epic. This
Just Sucks!”
By
Hacksaw & Cesare
Among the countless benefits that we gain
as lifelong climbers or skiers are the great memories of expeditions
and roadtrips. Most climbers would define an expedition as a
serious undertaking, with a clearly defined objective. Usually
the success of a roadtrip, however, is quite another matter.
We submit that the success of a roadtrip is a matter of opinion,
and/or the degree of masochistic tendencies exhibited by the
participants.
Our criteria for roadtrip grins include, but
are not limited to, the following ingredients A) The roadtrip
involves little or no advanced planning. B) Masochism notwithstanding,
good traveling companions are essential. Nobody willingly sets
out on a roadtrip with known enemies. C) Having a good time,
no matter how the weather or other conditions may conspire to
defeat you. D) All of this takes place on the slimmest of budgets.
E) Having a suitably accessible objective means you won’t
spend all your time driving and approaching an unreasonably distant
objective.
We have both been involved in more than a
few expeditions and roadtrips. Any of the expeditions might be
the subject of a traditional article in a mountaineering publication,
complete with self-congratulatory tales of machismo and triumph
in the face of countless dangers. BUT, our all-time favorite
roadtrip was more farce and folly than fearless endeavor. We
don’t know where or when the idea for this misguided trip
originated. Somebody (probably Hacksaw) must have been under
the influence when this ill-fated plan to climb and ski the Middle
Teton, in single day day over Easter weekend, was hatched. It
seemed simple enough; drive 500 or so miles from Denver to Jackson
Hole on Thursday night, get some sleep on Friday, do the climb
on Saturday and drive back to Denver on Sunday. In the planning,
getting back to work on Monday morning was never much of a priority.
Finding suitable companions for this demented
adventure was easy. Maybe that says something about the sanity
of our friends and us, or maybe about ski mountaineers as a sub-species.
A few phone calls later there were four of us. The first was
Mr. McGoo, a small but effective mad munchkin telemarker. Mechanical
“I never go anywhere without my tools” Mountainman
was the second team member. Cesare our third choice, is a true
backcountry ski jock, who sometimes babbles about avalanches
in Japanese. The fourth member of this team, was Hacksaw, a self-confessed
heliski junkie, as well as a veteran of the Fairview Bar in Talkeetna
Alaska and the Mangy Moose bar in Teton village. Together, we
weren’t out for glory, just a few good turns, and a lot
of fun.
At nine o’clock on Thursday night we
gathered at Hacksaw’s house in Denver. True to form, McGoo
showed up at 10 PM wearing a small button, which proclaimed,
“This is the earliest I’ve ever been late!” Somehow
we managed to fit ourselves, along with four full alpine packs,
four pairs of skis, one enormous tool box, a case of “roadpops”
and a supply of pickled herring into one wheezing Volkswagen
station wagon (Roadpop: \rod-pop\, : n 1.
a twelve ounce cylindrical unit containing a carbonated nutrient.
2. a barley malt and hops soda.). The VW was sporting a brand
new bumper sticker that said “WARP 6, A LAW WE CAN LIVE
WITH”. With this load, we were pushing the design envelope
of the car. The tires ground against the wheelwells with every
bump. Even so, with an intermittent contrail of burning rubber
smoke, we hit the road for Jackson not long after midnight.
The first leg of our journey, from Denver
to Laramie went great. As we blasted along through snow squalls
we drank roadpops and ate the pickled herring (Note: the editorial
staff of Telemarktips.com does not condone the ingestion of roadpops
or pickled herring while having sex or skiing). In Laramie we
re-supplied on roadpops and gas, strictly the essentials. With
McGoo providing harmonious zzzzs to the hum of tires on icy pavement,
Hacksaw set the autopilot for Rock Springs. Colorado’s snow
squalls had turned into an I-80 ground blizzard, but we weren’t
concerned; we had a date with a mountain on the far side of Wyoming.
We weren’t interested in slowing down.
Somewhere between Laramie and Rawlins, Hacksaw
noticed that the headlights were getting awfully dim. Warning
bells suddenly went off in his head. Hacksaw could only account
for the delay by meekly explaining that he had been more interested
in hoarding the pickled herring than in paying attention to the
faint whimpers emanating from the car. It began to look like
our great roadtrip was about to come to an end. A forced bivy
on I-80 was not the grand adventure we had planned on.
Reluctantly, Hacksaw pulled the car off the
highway; Mechanical Mountainman leapt out and threw open the
hood just in time to see the last spark jump across a short on
the alternator. At least we knew what the problem was; but fixing
it in the middle of a Wyoming blizzard rivals any Alaska adventure
Hacksaw had previously enjoyed. The silver lining to this dark
cloud: bare hands and cold tools make great training for verglassed
rock climbing. We can’t repeat Mountainman’s exact
words, but he said something to the effect of, “It looks
like we’re in for a little of what you little white boys
call Afro-American re-engineering.” Mountainman went to
work by headlamp in the blizzard, while Cesare and Hacksaw did
their best to help. Meanwhile McGoo was peacefully asleep in
the car. To be sure, the true mark of a roadtrip veteran is the
ability to sleep anywhere, in any situation. As a highly decorated
roadtrip vet, McGoo was an excellent example to the rest of us.
An hour later as we miraculously restarted the car by pushing
it down I-80, McGoo finally awoke from his deep slumber and asked,
“Are we in Jackson yet?” He was answered with a volley
of empty roadpop cans and a string of unrepeatable insults. Somehow,
McGoo managed to talk us out of tying him to the roof with the
skis. Hacksaw hit the WARP drive button and we were on the road
again.
After one final quick and disaster-free re-supply
in Rock Springs, we arrived in Jackson late Friday morning. Eleven
hours for the trip from Denver to is no record, but we thought
it wasn’t too bad, especially taking into account the state
of our starship. At least we made it in time to open the Cowboy
Bar! Eventually, we found our way to the park headquarters to
sign-out for our climb. The ranger could only shake his head
as we piled out of our now reeking car. Filling out the simple
climbing registration form, like we knew what we were doing,
was a real test. With the effects of terminal “roadlag”
setting in, we set up camp near the Cottonwood creek turnout.
Sleep was easy to achieve; we simply passed out.
Hacksaw has always contended that the hardest
part of alpine climbing is not the long and difficult approaches,
heavy packs or thin air of high altitude. The hardest part is
opening your eyes and dragging your ass out of a warm sleeping
bag at 1:00 AM. So, being confirmed “alpine wimps,”
we slept in until 4:00 AM. Even though we knew we were “burning
daylight,” it was easy to crawl deeper into our sleeping
bags. Skiing across Bradley Lake at dawn was a pleasant way to
start the day. It almost made getting out of our bags bearable.
We were trying to move fast so we decided
not to dig hasty pits in the frozen snow of early morning. We
figured that as the sun came up, every potential avalanche slope
would become suspect anyway. Climbing up through lower Garnet
Canyon is like sticking your head into an avalanche cannon. We
thought it wiser to travel safely, rather than foolishly, and
having all become acquainted with the avalanche lizards several
times, we knew just how far out we were willing to stick our
necks. Besides, no one wanted to stick an avalanche transceiver
earphone in their ear, not with killer hangovers all around!
After working our way up the creekbed and
side slopes while seeing plenty of evidence of yesterday’s
wet snow avalanches, we arrived at the meadows of Garnet Canyon,
right about 8:00 am. We thought we were making good time and
our prospects were looking good. Except for some clouds around
the summits, the weather was nearly perfect. As the sun rose
from the direction of the Gros Ventres the temperature started
to rise, Garnet Canyon soon became one giant solar collector.
A fair size avalanche off the East Ridge of
the Middle Teton rudely interrupted our breakfast/power-tanning
break. Even by Alaskan standards this was a pretty impressive
bugger. It went airborne for more than 400 feet before overrunning
our intended route. Standing there, as the dust settled, it wasn’t
hard to see that our chances of summit success were getting slimmer.
To continue or descend was now the question at hand. Should we
stick our necks out further and risk immortality as avalanche
statistics, or call it a day? Still in possesion of at least
a few remaining brain cells each, we decided to retreat. After
all, there was cold beer waiting for us at the car! Sometimes
it’s those choices that bring true meaning to our lives.
And keep us alive.
After the decision to descend had been made,
we all began to wish we weren’t hungover. The ski back down
Garnet Canyon had the potential of turning into an epic. Now,
every suspect slope was growing more unstable by the minute.
The skiing was enjoyable, for brief moments anyway, as we descended
through snow that turned from corn to mush to mashed potatoes.
It was so warm, that you could watch the snow settle around your
skis and start creeping slowly downhill. When you stood perfectly
still, you could hear the ominous gurgling sound of water percolating
through the snowpack. Moving one at a time, and doing everything
by the book to minimize the avalanche risks was quickly becoming
our new challenge. This wasn’t going to be “pretty
skiing,” this would be “survival skiing.”
Somehow Hacksaw ended up being the last person
to cross a particularly large open slope. There wasn’t much
choice in the matter. A higher route would have taken us up through
several other starting zones, and the narrow creekbed would now
be a deathtrap. One at a time, everyone crossed the open slope.
Hacksaw could only hope that he wouldn’t be the final straw
to trigger a big slide. Half way across the slope everyone started
to yell at Hacksaw. The slope in front of him had just released
and started to run. A quick retreat was out of the question as
the snow behind him was also sliding…. All he could do was
stand there suffering an adrenaline overdose and trying not to
fill his pants. By pure luck, Hacksaw was standing on the only
spot that wasn’t sliding.
Once he got his act together, we continued
the descent. Skiing knee-deep mashed potatoes is nobody’s
favorite. At one point Cesare managed some great turns down one
suspect slope. From below he shouted up, “Come on down before
it goes.” Mechanical Mountainman wasn’t at a loss for
words when McGoo offered his opinion that this was turning into
an epic. “This isn’t an epic, this just sucks!”
was MM's response. That may have been true, but any day in the
mountains has to beat a day spent at work. Even after you’ve
just done your eighteenth headplant fall.
Twenty or thirty more headplants later, we
arrived back at the car, tired, sunburned, dehydrated and elated.
None of us cared that we hadn’t reached the summit. We still
had a great time. Yes, we may have been demented in the first
place, but we achieved our main objective: FUN! Too bad there
wasn’t a camera crew in search of some beer commercial footage
waiting for us there in the parking lot. They would have scored
classic material. With each round of beers, Cesare, McGoo and
Mountainman recounted, with gales of laughter, how big the whites
of Hacksaw’s eyes were during the avalanche.
The drive back to Denver on Sunday was relatively
uneventful. Of course, we did have the foresight to be freshly
re-supplied, so seven hours went by quickly. All too quickly.
Crossing the boarder back into Colorado, we could feel our adventure
slipping away into memories. Jobs, family responsibilities and
all the other little drudgeries of city life were taking over.
On Monday morning Hacksaw arrived at work on time, a little tired,
a little hungover and very sunburned. When asked by his boss
how his weekend went, he was at a loss for words. Where would
you start? Pickled herring? Afro-American re-engineering? Avalanches?
Dawn on Bradley Lake? Maybe ski mountaineers are a crazy group.
These roadtrips feed our addictions and give our lives some extra
meaning.
Anyway, they beat the shit out of bowling!
POSTSCRIPT:
This trip was in 1984 (before true lightweight
skis, plastic teleboots, etc…) and this story was originally
written in '85, so the article may not be as politically correct
as some would like it to be. A lot of times history is just not
politically correct. It was one of those trips that we look back
on with a certain fondness, but also with a measure of a “how
the hell did I survive that?” perspective. How we escaped
getting killed or arrested can only be explained by the strong
possibility that the Patron Saint of Fools, Drunks and Little
Children was watching over us. Needless to say, we have grown
up and no longer take such big risks in the backcountry, or consume
“roadpops” while behind the wheel. Pickled herring
is another matter…. Needless to say, the names have been
changed to protect the totally embarrassed, so nothing can be
held against them, still if you haven't been on a spring road
trip for awhile. call up some friends and put one togther, you
might just end up with memories to last a lifetime! |