Snooooooooooow!

Let me give you a small idea how much snow we've had this November.

Whistler is reporting 84 inches of snow in the past 7 days (that's right, one a foot per day)
There is a 75 inch base (a landmark we didn't reach until March last season)
I got face-shots. (Plural. Face-shots.)
Nothing above treeline can be opened until it stops snowing (ski patrol was triggering 3 foot deep slabs quote "with certainty")

I came home from the village today at 4pm. The roads were wet, but clear. At 9.30pm I went to shovel the driveway. It took over an hour. The snow in the driveway is knee-deep. Knee deep!!! In the Driveway! I was whooping and hollering so loud I probably woke all the neighbors.

My forecast for tomorrow?

Epic with a chance of legendary.

Awkward....but successful...and with dry legs

First day on the hill!!

I'd like to say it was picturesque and sunny and I slayed everything, but it wasn't quite that way.

First off, I showed up at the shop at 8am (a stretch to be sure), because I was meeting friends and my skis are in the shop. Problem: Sam has decided not to open until 10am until business picks up. So instead of skiing I went to two coffee shops and read two newspapers and waited two hours to get my skis out of detention.

Second, it was pouring down rain until one reached the roundhouse, where it was dumping snow and extremely windy. There is a lot of snow....about 3 feet in the past week....(yes)....but it's pretty wet. Which, actually, is fantastic because it makes for great base to cover the rocks. But it's heavy and not that great to ski. Especially when, at the end of last season, you turned your DIN settings to 6 and forgot about it, then tried to ski two feet of liquid concrete and double ejected facefirst into a snowbank. Fantastic.

Also, one should scrape summer wax from the bottom of one's skis so they can be expected to slide. Finally, don't ski in the rain. The only part of me that stayed dry was my legs, thank you sweet patagonia pants. Everything else was completely, wring-me-out, sodden.

The good news?

It's puking right now, there will be at least a foot of fresh snow in the morning, and the temperature dropped so it will be nice and fluffy. Also, it's supposed to keep snowing all week.

As for my skiing abilities, well, it's a work in progress. It took a couple runs to get the feel for the sport again, and at first I felt extremely awkward with two giant semi-slippery planks bolted to my legs. But I started to flow a little better towards the end of the day, so things are looking up.

Oii!

My Life as a Clock

I left Fort Collins one week ago today. Since then, my life has ticked like the smoothest of chronometers.

The drive was uneventful. I slept in the car only once, visited Alex and Lily in Portland, then cruised up to the border on Wednesday--an event I approached with some trepidation. Thankfully, my work permit was approved without hassle. After a brief victory dance in the parking lot, I proceeded to Vancouver where my visit to the city coincided with that of my mother, aunt, and uncle. This slice of serendipity resulted in a superb gourmet dinner, good company, and a 23rd floor suite at the Fairmont.

In addition, I got the job as the house manager. That means not only a place to live but discounted rent as well. Best of all, the house is currently empty, giving me the chance clean, organize, and generally prepare for the winter. It also means I get to indoctrinate all incoming housemates so things get done my way. Hehe.

This weekend I'm going hot-springsing with Mark and Meg and Co, and I start work next week. There's only 5 of us this winter, as opposed to 13 last season when I couldn't get enough hours. On top of that, I ordered the skis I've been dreaming about all summer, sold my snowboard to fund said purchase, and finally found some ski pants that fit to replace the ones I destroyed last season (see archives "R.I.P, R.I.P.").

But most importantly, it has snowed all week with no signs of stopping in the near future. Which means the resort may open as early as next week.

I hope last week was as good for you as it was for me.

Whistler, Round 2

Well, here we go again!

After much ado, I've secured a work permit to return to Whistler for one more winter.

I return this time under much different circumstances than my carwith, penniless, lonely, debut of last October. This time:

I have a job that I love.
I have a place to live.
I have friends.
I have ski pants which repel water and have not a stitch of duct tape on them.
I know exactly what I'm getting myself into.

Well, sort of. See, the Olympics are in Whistler this year, which adds an incomprehensibly large variable to this already-unstable town. So I don't entirely know what I'm getting myself into. I'd be bored otherwise.

I'll also have a few more responsibilities this season. I may be managing the international house (hopefully), and i'll probably be working more hours. I want to volunteer for the Olympics if there are opportunities, and generally life will be a bit more chaotic than last year.

That said, I don't know yet if I'll be blogging as regularly as last year. But tune in occasionally.

My verbosity comes in spurts.

Mouse-ion Impossible.

Your mouse-ion, should you choose to accept it, is to infiltrate the government facility we call "Volkswagon." Once inside, you must disable the windshield wiper aparatus. In incliment weather this should effectively immobilize the vehicle and the mouse nation can operate un-threatened.

So, last night the fam headed to a natural area just south of Wyoming to watch the Perseid meteor shower. The shower itself, while beautiful, wasn't particularly noteworthy, unless you consider small extraterrestrial chunks of debris making very temporary and ill-advised incursions into the earth's atmosphere to be noteworthy.

I should mention that this open space is in the middle of nowhere--about a 45 minute drive from Fort Collins--hence its selection for star-gazing. On the way home, after watching the stars for several hours, Cliff, Madeline and I headed back in the trusty VW Passat Hound. Becoming lost on the return trip, I stopped the vehicle to perform an "about face," when, unannounced, a mouse popped up from under the hood and scrambled on top of the windshield wipers! Now, a crueler person might have promptly wipered that mouse off into the heart of darkness, but, being the compassionate soul I am, I decided to remove the mouse more humanely.

That was before he decided to take up residence on my engine block. After the wily bugger slipped back under the hood and remained undetected during 5 minutes of flashlight searching, we gave up and, hoping not to smell fricasseed rodent wafting in through the vents, resumed the drive. Well, 30 minutes later, I slowed down to make a left hand turn, and, sensing the decrease in velocity, the mouse reappeared!

This time, I was ready. Having mulled over the damage small mousey teeth could do to the more sensitive components of my vehicle, I was feeling considerably less compassionate. So when this, the boldest of mice, decided to step onto the hood, I tapped the brakes.

Imagine if you can (and I doubt you can, unless you dream far more vividly than I) the terror, the unfiltered panic of sliding helplessly into a dark abyss; picture the frantic scrabble of impotent mousey claws against an unyielding metallic veneer as faster and faster you plunge off the brink into nothingness.

Now try to express those emotions of terror, disbelief and betrayal on a tiny, brown, whisker-bracketed face. I swear to you, it's possible. Only the Tom Cruise of mice could so accurately convey emotion.

Now please don't fret; we stopped and shooed the dazed mouse off into the bushes, so today he's fine (though no doubt massively inconvenienced).

Counting backwards....49th to 48

Without question I will return to Alaska to fish, climb, or hopefully ski, but for now, the 49th state is behind me and I return to the familiar, crowded and tame lower 48.

The summer was spectacular. As of our departure on the 1st, it had been the hottest, driest summer on record in at least 20 years. Needless to say, we lucked out. Of the forty-some odd days we spent in and around the Juneau area, I used my rain pants a grand total of once. The statistic may be slightly skewed since the pants self-destructed after a 2 mile hike, but the salient point is this: we visited a rainforest and had stunning bluebird weather.

I wish that I could describe to you how wonderful the summer was--full of laughter, adventure, hard work, music, and gorgeous sunsets amongst other things--but I simply cannot. Many of my stories involve students, and for privacy's sake I cannot tell them here. Also, being an employee of Overland puts a certain restriction on what I can publish in this blog. But in large part I simply feel I cannot accurately convey the experience of the summer.

My stories, at least for this chapter of my life, must remain unpenned. My photos, however, I will happily share.

Shank the cameraman!

Virgin Islands? Nope. Glacier? Check. Must be Alaska. Sweet!

God-ray sunset near Haines.

My feet are freezing in this picture. This lake is pure glacial runoff. It is so cold that swimming just makes you angry. Augh! (Swimming = 10 second endeavour + cursing)

Dinner. Point Bridget State Park, near Juneau.

Section of trail the group built in Point Bridget State Park. Trail is a boardwalk for much of its length, and we spent many hours carrying planks, pounding nails, and leveling boards.

Sunset near Haines.

Southeast of the Northwest

Point Bridget at Sunset.

Alaska is not as expected. At first blush, all seems as it should. The landscape of Southeast Alaska is drastic; the sea gives way to dense forest, which gives way to enormous peaks jarring the skyline, punctuated by hundreds of glaciers. But get up close and personal and the ecosystem seems incongruous. First off, the forest isn't a coniferous forest as I would have expected this far north. Its a rainforest, plain and simple--a humid jungle minus the heat. To my eye it is an ecosystem more comparable to Costa Rica than anywhere else I've travelled. While there are conifers, other vegetation like the giant skunk cabbage, towering deciduous trees, and spiny and poisinous Devil's Thumb smack of a jungle. Above treeline things become decidedly more predictable. It is cold, windy, snowy and steep, and the views are as gaspingly intense as a plunge into one of Juneau's many iceberg-riddled lakes.

Insert into this dramatic landscape all the animals you've always wanted to see but never, or rarely, found--Mountain Goats, Bald Eagles, Grizzly Bears, Humpback Whales, porcupines, native Alaskans in brown rain gear and gumboots.

But I'm accustomed to all that by now, and after three weeks Laura and I have the drill down pat. One thing is slightly unsettling. Our first day, we both bought bright yellow rubber rain suits in anticipation of the 90 inches of rain Juneau receives annually. Since purchasing them on June 20th, we have used them: never. Contrary to all probablities, the past week has been sunny with record-setting high temperatures reaching the 90's.

Perhaps the next three weeks will make up for the lack of rainfall we've had, perhaps not. Either way, the next group will be hard pressed for a better trip than the one we've just finished.

In the past three weeks I've been reminded of how difficult and frustrating and exhausting this job is--how all-consuming and energy-sapping it is to reign in 11 energetic teenagers 24 hours a day. But I've also been reminded why I do this job; moments when 11 kids raft their kayaks together at Seduction Point near Haines and sing Billy Joel's "Piano Man" at the top of their lungs, while rare, make your heart glow.

Our next group arrives tomorrow, and I expect the first few days to be equally as taxing as they were with the previous group. But I know and remember how big the payoff can be, and I am ready.

As for me, I've had some incredible experiences. I saw a Grizzly bear and her three cubs and saw 28 mountain goats, both firsts, as well as some of the most spectacular scenery of my life. I am loving every minute, and while I must cut this short (7 minutes remaining!), know that I am having a blast here in AK.

Me, Eagle Glacier lake.


The Group

Point Bridget State Park, 11pm.

Me, about 1 hour's hike from Downtown Juneau.

Kayaking near Haines.

Endless supply of skipping rocks.

Part of the group, Point Bridget.

Massachusetts!

Our flight to Juneau departs at 2:32 pm from Newark Intl airport. After one connection in Seattle we will arrive in Juneau at 9:32 pm (Note that there is a 5, count it 5, hour difference from ET to Alaska time). After one day of frantic prep and scouting, our kids will arrive!!

Staff training has been just as I remembered. We start at 6:45am and work nonstop until dinner, then fall into our tents at 11, not to move again for seven hours. It has rained all but two days since we've arrived, which has left our tents, sleeping bags, clothes, shoes and in my case an Amtrak boarding pass for my return trip, completely sodden. Also, after talking with folks who led trips in Alaska last year, I went and purchased a real raincoat. Apparently it rains pretty much nonstop all summer. The coat is bright turquoise blue, and I love it. I intend to purchase glaring yellow rubber rain pants in Juneau and look like a layered Slurpee.

Any time spent in the company of 120 high-achieving 18-27 year olds is bound to be excellent, and the past week has not disappointed. We've hiked the AT, played frisbee, given speeches, memorized information about our kids, and worked our tails off to prepare as fully as possible for the coming summer. Now, wet and tired, we are so excited to part ways and begin the summer's journey. In six weeks we will see all the friends we have made back in Willamstown and tell our stories of the summer.

Each night this week I have tried to write a journal entry to capture the essence of the Overland staff training, and each night I have fallen asleep and drooled on a blank page of my notebook. This entry, therefore, is a shallow representation at best. Maybe the slobber on the journal pages says all that needs to be said. With that, I bid you

Adieu!!

Juneau

*Click to enlarge

Having procrastinated all manner of packing until the day before my flight, I can be found on this 9th day of June running around like a headless duck (why let chickens have all the fun?) hastening to compile the necessary supplies for my Alaska excursion.

Alas, the "procrastinate" part of my nature is somewhat unfortunate for a venture of such magnitude. Yesterday my all-knowing father (the "all knowing" may be redundant as I have recently come to the realization that once you become a dad you automatically know everything) mentioned that it might be rainy in Juneau, something my Colorado-tuned cerebrum hadn't even considered. I looked it up, and yes, Juneau averages 90 inches of moisture each year (compared to a paltry 14 inches for Fort Collins). Thankfully, the driest months are June, July and August, so hopefully my trusty, although no longer fully waterproof, orange jacket will see me through.

I very dearly hope to update the blog after staff training, which produced enough material for a small novel last time, but I may not be able to find the time. I will surely post several entries from AK at different intervals at the very least.

Wish me luck, and may adventure find you!!

Desert Desserts

I've got Moab pegged--though I will admit a bit of luck goes a long way when one chooses to venture into rugged desert terrain on two wheels of mechanized confusion.

Our week in Utah was a smash success--six days of biking, gourmet cooking over a fire, swimming, hiking national parks, and afternoon naps for less than $200/person, all expenses included.

In honor of the venerable Rider Mel (author of our sometimes questionable guidebook) I have composed a list of things that ROCK and things that SUCK, according to us.

Things that ROCK:

Anything cooked on a fire, especially corn, steak, chicken legs, and marshmallows
Eating the aforementioned with your hands
Gnarly intimidating descents on which inspire fear of death
Shredding gnarly intimidating descents and cheating death yet again
Going fast (Speed is your friend!)
Barefoot night hikes
Perching on massive cliffs
Poison Spider, Amasa back, Kokopelli Down, Flat Pass, Slickrock, Schumann's Gulch
Not getting a single flat tire or breakdown in 100 hours combined riding!!!
Wicked technical ascents
Yelling battle cries when charging wicked technical ascents
Cramming 4 people, 4 bikes, and gear into, onto, and around an '02 Outback Sedan
Blasting Hip-Hop when rolling into the campground
99 cent cones at McDonalds
$1.09 cent cones that are twice as big
20 foot cliff jumps into a swimming hole
Zaks pizza
Singletrack!!!
The La Sals
Battle wounds from high-speed endoes
WANTING IT ALL!! (See playlist)

Things that SUCK:

High-speed endoes resulting in dirt-eating and facial scarring
Throwing Romaine lettuce onto hot coals
Black Widows the size of ping-pong balls
Bear cubs on the trail
Jeeps
Dirt bikes
Throwing other people's little brothers off ten foot drops into water
Troop 191
Rider Mel (that bastard!!!)
Riding in sand
Riding uphill in sand
Twenty year-old kids from the UK who sit in the pub all day
Losing "the stoke"
Sweaty old men who ride slow
Fat guys who act surprised when Mads and Nat throw down on burly ascents
Portal trail
Hike-a-bike

May Madness

Going back to Sky Ranch for three weeks felt a bit like going home. It was, for the most part, a cold, crisp and refreshing spring at 9200', and the mountains were just as beautiful as I remembered. For a while, I was "concernicus" that Colorado would pale in comparison with BC's Coast Range, and while it is less formidable, it is no less picturesque. Please note the bias.

For three weeks I taught Environmental Education to 3-6 graders. My class was trees. This involved discussing the plague of the Rocky Mountain Pine Beetle and waltzing about in the woods. I myself learned a great deal about the Pine Beetle as well as how difficult it is to get ten 8 year olds to plant 4 inch saplings in a neat 12 x 12" grid without trampling existing trees into oblivion.

Graduation was spectacular, we had live jazz at P/M's grad party (which was a smash hit in spite of the downpour), and it was an excellent time. My cibs are cool.

After the commotion, Dad, Paul and I escaped for two nights to Delaney lakes. We caught lots of little rainbows, I caught a big cutthroat/rainbow (cuttbow, see photo above), and we had an excellent time. Paul and I discovered that sleeping next to an open fire under the stars isn't as romantic as it sounds. Between being woken up by the moderate asphyxiation of inhaling smoke while sleeping due to changing wind direction, and waking up with one's pillow/hat/sleeping bag covered in a heavy frost, I think next time I'll simply brave the cold and nix the fire. Also my sleeping bag smells like beef jerky.

Tomorrow PMN and I are of to Moab to brave the desert heat in search of hardcore mountian biking, slot canyons in which to hike, and cool oases in which to soak our soon-to-be battered bodies.

Hope all's well!

To the Future and Beyond!!

Whistler is over and done with, at least for the time being. Unfortunately, during the next few months of my life, access to a computer will be more sporadic. Here are my plans for the summer.

May 2-May 22: I will be at Sky Ranch, CO helping the camp get up and running for the summer season.

May 22: My brother and sister graduate from high school.

May 26-June 5: Several trips including fishing at Delaney Lakes and Biking/hiking in Moab UT.

June 11-August 5: My real job for the summer is with Overland Summers, leading the Alaska Service trip. I worked for Overland during the summer of 2007 in Costa Rica, and it was an incredible experience. I cannot wait to get started in Alaska this summer, and it should be very rewarding.

Mid-August: The PMN trio (of Whistler Fame) and I are planning a trekking excursion to southern Colorado. Ideally we will make about an 8 day hike into the wilds where we will fish, peak 14ers and camp in the largest Wilderness area in the state. It should be incredible.

So, although entries will be more scarce, don't stop reading!!

I will be journaling/writing most of the summer, and when I have access to the web I will post a glut of entries all at once. Expect plenty of stories from Massachusets, Colorado, Utah, and of course Alaska. Hopefully the latter does not involve any Grizzly Bears.

Whistler on Faith

I took Whistler on faith—its reputation needed no up-sell. Vodka fueled and red-bull propelled, Whistler was all the adrenaline you could handle and a dance party to boot. It was bigger, steeper, deeper, and more badass than anywhere I’d skied, and it was mine for the taking.

Of course you’ve got to eat a little cockroach to enjoy a Snickers bar, and like any resort, Whistler has its flaws. With all the sick and gnarly we must swallow rent prices that would make a Saudi prince choke on his Al-Kabsa, beer prices that sting even after a few rounds, roommates that would incite Gandhi to violence, and shucks, you might as well just throw your wallet at the grocery store. Powder, when it comes, gets chewed up faster than a pig’s ear at the pound. It’s not just the runs that get tracked out—it’s the tightest trees you could possibly ski, the landings below any cliff, rocky chutes, pillows, hike-to terrain—Whistler’s skiers and riders put lines where they simply don’t belong. Forget scoring freshies by ripping a tougher line than the dude before you, because the dude before you could probably take you to school.

Yesterday was my last day on the mountain. As I blasted huge GS turns down the hill, reveling in the absence of the Mountain Safety Stooges while doing “Mach Rabbit” and whizzing past tourists like tortoises, I reflected on the season. How had 88 days of skiing changed me? For one thing, I tried my old skis the other day, a pair of 175cm Armada ARVs. It was miserable. They were too soft, too light, too squirrelly, too forward, too slow. I’d loved those skis with my heart and soul. They carved, jumped, and bumped— everything I’d ever wanted in a ski. Now they’re just frustrating.

But more than my abilities as a skier changed. In college we’d chase powder, borrowing the old Suburban (God rest her) every time winter storm warnings flashed on the TV. The only way to cure Powder Fever is to die (it infects the soul), so I’ll still ditch my grandma on a powder day, but I’ve also realized that there’s more to skiing than chasing hip-deep fluff. No matter how bad the snow, how flat the light, how tired your legs, or how crowded the hill, every day skiing has something unique to offer. Whether it’s the new trick you mastered, the stranger you met on the lift (thanks Grandpa!), or simply the time spent with all the incredible people you’ve met in one short season, climbing out of bed is all it takes for an exceptional day on the hill.

So was it worth it? Was cramming all my earthly possessions into the “Passat Hound,” and voyaging north without so much as glancing at a Whistler trail map worthwhile? Unconditionally, yes. I learned this year what four years of university never taught me, and collected two fistfuls of exceptional stories along the way. But most importantly, Whistler made me a skier. And I’m damn proud of it.

Ozomatli

At the end of each season, Whistler hosts the Telus Festival--a huge blowout party to end the winter season and kick into summer. It started Friday and will run through Sunday--10 days of events, bands, competitions, and myriad other goings-on.

Saturday night was the Big Air competition. Whistler Parks crew built a truly massive booter right next to the gondola above skier's plaza. Held under the lights, it was a perfect showcase for talent from all corners of the world--Japan, Colorado, California, Idaho, Norway, and of course some of Whistler's local talent. Simon Dumont even showed up to compete. The competition was sick. The winner threw a switch 1440 (that's 4 complete rotations while taking off and landing backwards), and made it look like nothing.

To my delight, Ozomatli was also booked for the festival. Ozomatli is one of my favorite bands. They hail from LA and their music is a mix of Latin, Hip-hop, funk and reggae. They rock., and they've got the Grammys to prove it. I saw them live at the Aggie in Fort Collins a year ago and it was spectacular.

They didn't disappoint. I saw them perform 2x in 1 day--first at the outdoor venue in the afternoon and then in a tiny bar that night, front row both times. It was pretty epic. I've put up a playlist of their music, so listen if you like!!

Shutter (Shudder)

I took pictures on Tuesday: pictures of moss-covered old-growth trees backlit by the early morning sun, a lone skin track cutting through a glittering snowfield of the most dreamy fluff imaginable, slices of the 360* panorama of the coast range mountains in their intimidating glory, profiled shots of the krummholtz trees, their backsides encrusted with wind-etched snow, their frontsides dressed in the purest shade of green.

I deleted every single picture. In my mind's eye they were shots worthy of National Geographic--fit to impress my friends and neighbors with the sheer majesty, the raw beauty, the pristine serenity of the journey. Instead, each photo was a shadowy imitation, totally unrecognizable as any place I had ever traveled.

I had a crisis. What have I done? Have I converted my entire life's story into a collection of half-truths and second-rate landscape architecture? All my adventures, all my journeys, all my fondest memories of nature's most beautiful moments I have reduced to a shabby aggregate of pixels and zeroes.

I remember the Dorado--possibly the most beautiful fish I have ever seen. Sleek and powerful, the fish wears an incandescent skin: golden, now pink and red, then green and blue, sparkling in the brilliant Mexican sunshine. It is a marvel, and it is fleeting. A dead fish does not glimmer; its metallic skin shows the pallor of death.

The metaphor is fitting. The passing moment of regret from killing the fish is redeemed in the eating. The meat of a Dorado is a delicacy: firm and moist, yet flaky. Likewise, snapping a photo is redeemed months or years later. For those who found themselves in that time and place, the photos tickle dormant neurons, bringing back the sights, sounds, smells and exhilaration of the moment. Yet perhaps the image is a crutch, something to show our friends and family, to relieve us the duty of describing in full account the moment encased in that frame.

My most beautiful memories have no pictures.

The Chief (El Jefe)

The Chief is a massive rock face that towers over the town of Squamish, BC. The rock face and surrounding boulder fields are a mecca for world-class climbers who travel to scale the massive face and tackle smaller challenges in the surrounding area.

Polek is a climber, and he gave me a tour of the area. He mentioned one route in particular, called the Dreamcatcher, which was first climbed by Chris Sharma several years ago. We scrambled the boulders up to the route, and saw the carabiners left in place from the climb. The line is ludicrous. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, to hold onto. The initial pitch alone is a sheer face--it'd be like trying to climb the dining room wall using the texture sprayed on before the paint.



I also recommend this video which I stumbled across while viewing the previous clip. It's pretty amazing as well, if you've got a couple minutes.



Though the climbers made my efforts seem somewhat mundane, we did hike to the top of the Chief. The hike, known as the Stairmaster, was very steep and involved a fair bit of scrambling, but the view from the top was spectacular.

Polek, Garibaldi Peak in the background.

I scared myself silly doing this--that crevasse would treat my body like a pinball for about 500 feet before it got completely wedged. But seeing the mountains on the opposite side of the valley upside-down while so precariously perched was quite a trip. Check out the size of the cars below to gain perspective.

Seated on the edge of nothing.

I threw a bunch of snowballs down--average fall time was 7-9 seconds. You do the math.

Fall time was 7-9 seconds for other things as well.

Cool perspective shot by Polek.

Brandyw(h)ine

It was a long day, by the end of which Polek and I were spectacularly slap-happy and so completely exhausted that I fell asleep at 6:30pm trying to watch "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" (my quest to watch the trilogy in three days, needless to say, failed).

There were plenty of early signs it was going to be a trying adventure. The crusty, grouchy miser in charge of collecting the day fee for the parking lot really cheesed me off--not that irritating me at 7:00am is difficult--but this guy really rubbed me the wrong way. Polek had to deal with him to keep me from getting my car towed.

Then I had to take an emergency dig. Blissfully, there was plenty of snow around (thank you natural alternatives to toilet paper!), but doing a 2 minute wall-sit in a mossy tree well with your pants around your ski boots isn't the most auspicious way to start any adventure.


The chafing started around the same time as the hunger pangs and the realization that I'm not in nearly good enough shape to be undertaking massive 10-hour, 2500 vertical foot treks with a 20lb pack and no hope of a quick and painless ski-out. It was a really unfortunate chafe, the one that makes you pick from the following a) keep your self esteem and cherish the sensation of having a sheet of sandpaper wedged amisdst your buttocks or b) a humiliating-duck waddle that would be cause for any self-respecting human to give a prompt "about face" and head down.

The blister on my right heel started about an hour later, and though it wasn't painful enough to eclipse the burning of The Chafe, came close. Oh, I nearly forgot. Both my hip flexors were incredibly sore as well, something that usually happens when I skin. (Vocab check: Skins are something one puts on the bottom of skis to stop them from sliding backwards. They make skis a much faster and more efficient form of transport than the other thing that lets you walk across the snow: snowshoes. Plus you get to ski out.)

Salt in the wound: snowmobiles. More on these irritating contraptions later, but suffice it to say that it isn't good motivation to have some punk-ass snowboarder with baggy pants whizzing by at 40mph and spraying you with snow while you slowly plod, plod, plod upwards.

Anyway, lunch couldn't come soon enough. I plopped straight on my backside like an indignant 5 year old, and busied myself eating two tortillas with tuna salad, chased by a Snickers and an immense gulp of water. Ah.

After lunch we quickly broke treeline and the woes of the hike in were quickly forgotten. The view was absolutely spectacular. The brilliant sunlight showed the surrounding peaks in all their glory, and I found myself stopping frequently to gaze in wonder at the 360 degrees of beauty in which I found myself. I took pictures until my camera died.

Backseat landing!! Had to give the Pollinator a little grief for this particular splash. If you look closely, you can see Whistler in the background.

Polek broke out the beer at the top--it was a remarkable morale booster. I was a little apprehensive when he told me to close my eyes (thought I'd get pushed over), but then I heard the sweet "chh" of the cap opening. I've drunk beer in worse places.

Tour with a view.

It was the perfect shape!

So the ski/hike out was long and arduous--the spring slush bogged us down making what would have been a 20 minute zip into an hour's slog. But, we made it through ok and got McDonalds ice cream cones to top off a whine-derful day.

Check in the Box

Tonight I can't even put together a coherent sentence. Since everything I have tried to write in the past 10 minutes has been backspaced into nonexistence, I'm just going to put up a few pictures with the hope that captions will prove manageable.

It would be a blatant lie to say I'm not proud of this picture. I am. This was the last item on my unwritten list of "Things to Jump Off This Season." Paul has seen this particular cliff in person (bottom of Bushrat) and I promised him I would do it before I left. Check. Polek snapped the photo with my wicked new camera!!

P.S. Don't jump cliffs with your sunglasses in your front coat pocket. The pair of sunglasses I found in the gondola several weeks ago were reduced to 8 pieces. Oops.

Whoosh.

This is Polek jumping off a cliff in Spanky's. It took me about 10 minutes to get into position for this shot because I had to bootpack up underneath the cliffband. Polek and I each hit this cliff several days ago, and he really wanted a photo of it, so we came back.

What for a Tuesday

I have never seen Whistler look so beautiful as it did Tuesday morning. Poleck and I got up the mountain just as the sun was cresting over the Horstman Glacier. The 10cm of snow that fell overnight was followed by brilliant blue skies, and the morning sunlight was fitting of a Warren Miller ski film.

Skiing down to Pakalolo, I had one of those moments that will last a lifetime--the snow was consistent and grippy, perfect conditions to make those huge fast sweeping turns that send powder arcing to the side, instantly turning golden in the sunlight. It was one of those rare moments when I was able to ski the way I picture myself skiing, the way I would want to ski if someone were filming. Fortunately, I have no photos of the day, and forgetting my camera was an excellent accidental decision. The pictures would have been a cheap imitation at best.

Spankys is a gonzo dream. Three bowls, each as steep as the next, a veritable patchwork of rocks, cliff bands, narrow chutes, straightlines, cornices and trees. The lines you can ski are limited only by your "skier's vision" and guts. The morning cold kept the snow light and fast, before the sun could warm it to a heavier paste. We made two laps, stopping briefly to jump a cliff I've been eying all season (PMN: it's the big one to skiers left of Paul's cliff near the top of the bootpack).

In the afternoon we headed to Whistler. The most memorable (and scary) event was watching a skier fall down Air Jordan. Air Jordan is a highly technical double-stage cliff drop. Skiers enter from the top, and jump a 25 foot cliff onto a small patch of snow, the only exit from which is jumping a 40-foot cliff below. A fall on the first stage sends the skier tomahawking at top speed over the lower cliff band. The skier jumped the first cliff, but was bucked to the side. Losing a ski, he flipped twice before falling 20 feet onto a vertical rock face and bouncing off the rocks onto the snowfield below. It was brutal to watch, but thankfully he was OK.

It was one of the best days of the season, and also my last day at Surefoot. My visa expired yesterday, so I had to stop working. That means the month of April will be dedicated to a) skiing and b) all those things I've been meaning to do but haven't had time to accomplish.

Flute Cliff Sesh

Polek and I hiked Flute and stumbled across a cliff so fun and zesty that we just had to spent the entire morning hitting it. We set a boot pack and took turns photographing each other, each hitting the cliff 4-5 times. Consensus opinion was 20 feet, but we eventually decided the size was irrelevant. It was "honest."

The photos are not so honest. The light was pretty flat, so I spent an hour of my life playing around with photoshop to give them a little more punk and spice. Blow 'em up for the full experience.

Polek.

Sunset? Or is it....

Polek, sending.

Photoshop autofix gave me these colors. I went with it. Me.

Me.

R.I.P., R.I.P

Rest In Peace (alt. Rip In Pants)

Nine short years ago I purchased a pair of Bonfire snowboarding pants on clearance in a Grand Junction store during the annual family spring break exodus to Powderhorn. More accurately, my parents bought me the pants, my 14 year-old checkbook not being flush with cash. Since that day, those trusty pants have since seen me through nearly a decade of many (mis)adventures. First, they watched over my sorry wet tuckus during a 6 year stint of snowboarding. That era over, the seat of the old pants already worn from years of the snowboard butt-check, I switched back to skiing and began to trash the cuffs with my razor sharp ski edges. The gashes from the skis cut through the stitching of the lower leg, and the pants developed a habit of gathering snow between the layers of fabric, so that when I walked into the lodge I could make about 4 snowballs from the snow encased inside my pants. And, as I sat eating my lunch, the snow would melt, soaking my socks and boots and allowing them to freeze into solid blocks of ice by the end of the day. Thanks to my wonderful aunt Denise and her excellent skills as a seamstress, this problem was solved for several years. After the stitching failed (again) I resorted to duct-tape to see me thorough my junior and senior years of college. Finally, this season, I ironed on some cambrelle in place of the duct tape, which, remarkably, has held out thus far. But, all good things must come to an end.

Yesterday I went skiing with Manuel, Sievert and Domenic. We had a great day riding Blackcomb's secret tree stashes. Unfortunately, I got a little too cozy with one tree in particular. We found a sweet snow stash off of one run...tons of pillows and drops and we were the first people to ski it. The second time in, I came shooting in to the trees when some sadistic druid hit me in the left quad with a baseball bat. Or that's what it felt like. Domenic, Manuel and Sievert were just up ahead and kept asking why I was howling like a birthing hippopotamus. I groaned some profanities and hobbled over to their location, cursing the low-lying tree branch I hadn't seen. Looking down, I realized that the branch had torn and ruined my pants. I finished the day with the ripped pants, and repaired the damage with more duct tape to get me through the season. With any luck, I'll get a full decade out of the old tried-and-true pantalones.

Demolition of the pants.

This is a picture of the most incredible phone in the world. It was in the pocket that got demolished by the tree branch (which was the diameter of a baseball bat). When I pulled it out of my pocket, it was bent at a 30 degree angle. I was sure it was spent. After pulling out the battery, and bending it flat (with a disconcerting "crack"), it works as well as the day I bought it. Unbelievable.

Demolition of the leg, 30 hours post-impact. I can't imagine what this would look like if my phone hadn't been in my pocket to protect me.

A Storm and a Swarm

It took some convincing to get blog entries out of P and M. Nat was down from the getgo. Although it took some persistence to get text squeezed out of them, I'm glad I had help portraying the sheer excellence of the previous week. I simply can't cram such a frenzy of excitement and activity into a three-inch column.

PM and N took to Whistler like ducks to water. Not only did they immediately earn the affection and respect of my 15 housemates, they were never treated as guests in this house. From the moment they arrived, they were as much a part of our community as I am. On top of that, they skied the mountain in true style and left no gnarly lines untouched. I take no responsibility for any of the three dropping out of school and moving to Canada. None whatsoever.

They also picked a good week to come. During the EXACT 7 days PMN skied Whistler, the resort received this much snow:

149 cm
1.49 meters
4.88 feet
.815 fathoms
58.7 inches
14900000000 Angstroms
.0074 furlongs
14.67 hands

Hands down it was the best week of the season.


Paul left his poles on the car overnight...the straps froze.

Our last day, I took everyone into lower VD trees, a steep tree run accessed by a somewhat questionable goat's path and a 5 minute hike. After finally arriving above a steep, powdery pitch, we couldn't find Natalie.

Turns out her crappy Salomon binding had magically made itself two sizes too big, and would no longer hold her boot in. (Something it took a large flathead screwdriver to fix). The solution?

Natalie falling/rolling/somersaulting down a steep tree run.

Then, I gave her one of my skis and skied to the lift bottom on one leg. Skiing on one leg turned out to be hugely entertaining and one of the day's highlights.

Mix-n-Match skis

If you blow up this picture and look closely, you will find me and my one-leggedness.

I've been waiting all season for the right day to hit these cliffs. It's a bit intimidating because the lift line of 200+ people has a direct view of the cliff band. So if you wipe out, everybody goes "oohhh." (not in a good way). My track is the lone one down the middle.