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.
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.
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:
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.
Everyone knows us pretty well at the Surefoot shop by now. We trudge in through the front door every morning and make ourselves right at home, tossing our ski gear into the corner, acting like we work there or something. "The Fam"(Paul, Madeline, and Natalie that is)has become something of a permanent three-sided fixture in the back of the shop, an obstacle that is always moving yet always in the way. In the morning we arrive tired with plenty of gear, and in the afternoon we return wet, tired, and with plenty of gear. Usually, Andrew finds some way to hook us up with free gear and solve the baffling foot problems that plague the Sprowell-Geise crew. For Madeline, it was two hours of work and a free $235 custom foot orthotic, a free $200 liner and 1.5 hours of labor at $1/min. Unfortunately for Natalie, we had no throwaway orthotics in her size.
The back of the shop needs a little explanation for the full effect, so I will do my best to provide you with my impression while still maintaining the inherent "bro" vibe that defines a Whistler boot fitting company only too well. To reach the "Employee only" zone of Surefoot, one must squeeze around a hairpin corner laden with shoes, jackets, and other miscellaneous ski gear that has accumulated from a lot of people who came to ski Whistler and never even bothered to come back to get their shoes (I think most are customers, but it is frightening to imagine the number of employees they have lost to the inevitability of ski-bumming). Around the corner, the cabinets are overflowing with ski boots, liners, and bits and pieces of soon-to-be custom orthotics, but the work zone is narrow and surprisingly tidy considering the less than hard-working mindset of most of the employees. There are always more employees in the back of the shop than there are helping customers, so it isn't surprising that the unwelcome threesome can never find solitude. After hours, the dudes and dudettes of the Surefoot Bootfitting Co. crack out a few alcoholic refreshments and chill man. But don't question the efficiency of the business--orthotics are made, boots are sold, and customers leave satisfied. If you do decide to ask, they are liable to reply, "Hey man, it's Whistler," as if that explains everything.
We have now made several dramatic exits from the Surefoot shop: one on Wednesday, another on Friday, and from the looks of it, again on Saturday. Since now we have postponed our return flight not once, but twice in order to add on three more days shredding the gnarly pow-pow on Whistler's steepest and deepest, we have successfully fooled the entire Surefoot staff into thinking we are gone. For example, as we prepared to leave Whistler forever the second time, the staff wished us the best for our flight home (again), and Andrew's coworker Tim looked particularly pleased as we gathered our soggy gear for the last time: "Have a safe flight home!" He will be glad to see us tomorrow morning.
Despite Andrew's generally quite spectacular ability to lure unsuspecting siblings and cousin into ridiculously sketchy and most likely death-threatening situations, he has, to this moment anyway, been very trustworthy and helpful. Luckily, Paul, Nat and I have managed to elude one of his death traps, and are all greatly enjoying having a spectacular local guide showing us the best pow on the hill. Today was, of course, another spectacular day on the mountain. Since we skied Whistler yesterday, we decided to hit Blackcomb and head straight to the highest peak to try and catch some fresh tracks. We were shortly joined by one of Andrew's coworkers, French Paul, who we quickly discovered is quite the character. Upholding the reputation of a traditional Whistler local, French Paul is phenomenal skier and we all, Andrew excluded of course, had quite the time trying to keep up with him. Never satisfied with the average lift-accessible run, we decided to traverse a slope and head to the Pakalolo chute, which according to French Paul is "just steep and deep, steep and deep." Always weary of Andrew trying to coax me into suspect situations, and slightly worried by the words of a man who since the age of one, has been skiing the couloirs of France I was a little worried. Nonetheless, I was extremely excited to have some fresh tracks, and decided to follow the advice of Andrew and French Paul. As we headed to the chute, the conditions were quite windy and the visibility extremely poor. As expected, the mouth of the chute was a huge wind-tunnel, which made standing up quite difficult, but also made for a pretty cool experience. Turns out, all my worry was needless, and as usual, Andrew was right--the powder was fantastic, steeps were great, and the experience exhilarating.
Looking up from the Pakololo chute at Natalie.
Me, standing in Pakololo.
Looking down the entrance to the chute, aka wind tunnel. Nearest to farthest: Natalie, Madeline, French Paul.
Guest writer: Natalie Geise....otherwise known as 'the cousin' at the International House in Whistler, BC.
Today was the usual. Andrew was hucking major, major cliffs. He continually sent himself off twenty foot rock faces and didn't think twice about it. As we were standing a healthy 10 feet away from the massive cornice, Mad and I were saying that someone would have to pay us seriously 16 million bucks to throw ourselves from that ledge. Paul had his jaw dropped watching the feats of his brother. I was shaking my head in awe. Mad was so enthralled a bit of drool was spilling from the sides of her mouth.
Other than watching Andrew's incrediskiing, Paul, Madeline, and I are being spoiled rotten with the amount of powder we ski through every day. I don't know how I'll ever go back to the subpar snow back in Colorado. We skied a run called 'Spanky's' yesterday and were the 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th people to fly down the run. The powder was like none I've ever skied and was probably the best I will ski until I come back here, which better be pretty soon. Some of Andrew's coworkers have thanked us for bringing the snow with us to Whistler because the day we got here was the day it started to puke snow...and it hasnt stopped since :)
I have learned quite a few things during my stay here: 1) I am, no doubtedly, possily THE worst skier on this hill 2) Whistler breeds people to be extremely intense. Psycho intense. Example One: Mad and I were hiking up to 'Spanky's' and were a sustantial bit behind the nearest hiker, Paul. We were both stubbling andd tripping up the mountain and the people behind us were obviously annoyed. Mads even said that some especially frustrated skier yelled, "COME ON, Girls!!!" Thanks for the encouragement! Example two: On St. Patty's day, at the usual resort in America, there would be a lot of weird leprechauns and people in crazy green outfits skiing around making fools of themselves. Not at Whistler. People are down to business here. They fight for the untouched, even if that means sidestepping a holiday (or stepping on two teen girls to get to some hip deep pow) 3) Living in a house with 18 people is quite fun 4) Don't ask about mystery substances in the piles of dishes you wash every night....you probably don't want to know 5) You're laughed at if you have skis that are under 6 inches across in width 6) Never follow Andrew into trees. Never. If you do, be prepared to haphazardly fall into tree wells face first, get knocked in the head by tree branches, do the splits, get closelined by tree trucks, fly off unsuspected cliffs, etc, etc. 7) I am like my sister, Crystal in many ways 8) But most of all, I learned that skiing is the basis of all good times in life
Whistler Blackcomb spring break 2009=yet another adventure to add to the list of the Sprowell-Geise 4.
It's not Andrew swearing in the background.
We had a few difficulties getting the timing right for film.
Today was Rad. And we've got the videos to prove it.
Before we jump straight to the video, I've composed a brief dozen phrases to characterize the day. I made these by asking Nat, Paul, and Mads for 12 adjectives, 12 nouns and 12 verbs. I then placed an Adjective Noun and Verb in each phrase in the order they were given (adj #1, noun #1, verb #1). With no further ado...
Today was,
Epic Tree Well Flying Deep Cornice Sending Cake-batter Cliff Powder Skiing Like Really Freaking Fun Huck Eating Huck-worthy Stomp Sitting Rad Wipeout Pounding Fluffy Lineups Feeling the Burn Face-Shotty Moss Keeping Up Whoopful Sweat Going Down Stuff that Andrew thinks You Can Do Holleresque Spankys Getting Yelled at by Locals Cotton ball-filled Fields of Bliss Getting Intimidated by Freaking Locals Exhilarating Paul Being the Worst Skier On the Mountain, guaranteed, actually
Hah. The PMN trio is excellent at skiing, and we spent the day on Whistler's most difficult runs. Bushrat, Spankys, Diamond Bowl, Jersey Cream Trees, Seventh heaven trees, the Peak to Peak Trees, etc. It was fantastic! Madeline and Natalie filmed (after some technical difficulties) and we plan to wake up and do it again tomorrow. They're calling for another 25cms of snow by morning...ah, what a life!
Madeline and Natalie struggled with the video...make sure your volume is turned up.
This is a story. I went into great detail describing where the filmer should stand to take this shot. Once everyone was finally in position, Paul and I breezed down. The trees were extremely tight and we only had a small window through which to ski. To my dismay, Natalie, the camerawoman, was standing directly in my path. I had to destroy a small dead tree with my quad to avoid obliterating my cousin from existence.
We skied the natural forest (hasn't been thinned, cleared, cut ever) below the peak to peak Gondola. Paul was killing the tight trees...
Me skiing under the Jersey Cream chair, trying to showcase the powder. Our expert camerapeople held the camera sideways, so you'll have to tilt your head 90 degrees counterclockwise to watch it.
Well, walking home on Sunday night, I noticed that the full moon would come on Monday night. True to form, I walked into the house and scared the bejabbers out of the 6 people sitting at the table by howling at the top of my lungs. I decided we should mark the occasion by having a fire.
"We should have a fire, guys!" "Where?" "The deck." "Nah" "The driveway?" "Better..." "Green Lake!" "Awesome. I'll buy marshmallows, we'll load the sled with firewood. Who's in charge of paper and matches?" "Ok, see you all here at 9 tomorrow."
So, in the space of 3 minutes we planned the excursion. Amazingly, almost the entire house turned up for the event, even though it involved a 1/2 mile trudge across a frozen Green Lake through the punchy snow.
We were worried about the legality of having an open fire on a protected lake, so we decided to venture to the far shore of the lake next to the train track. After some postholeing through the trees on the far side of the lake, we found a perfect spot. Enclosed on all sides by trees and invisible from the houses and road on the far shore, this small circle in the trees was picturesque.
The moon lit the scene bright as day, and we couldn't have asked for a prettier spot amongst the tree shadows cast across the snow. We sat for hours roasting marshmallows, sipping our drinks and chatting. Slowly, our numbers dwindled to a last 5 survivors who rounded out the night by burying the fire in the newly melted 3 foot hole in the snow. We picked up our trash (Leave No Trace) and then chased each other across the lake, tackling another person at any opportunity.
Lounging by the fire. Actually, I had to lie uncomfortably close to the fire so the light would illuminate my face. (The pictures never look as romantic with the flash on) So close, in fact, that I singed my eyelashes in the effort. It made them much more noticeable.
Manuel's handiwork--tying the sled to my roof rack.
Crossing Green Lake, firewood and marshmallows in tow.
The train cruised by. It reminded me of that children's book about the Christmas train that comes at night across the snow...can't remember the title.
The gang, living it up around our (exceptionally well-built) fire.
I seem to have a penchant for cutsie blog titles that rhyme. If an entry has a boring, non-poetic title, it's probable that I sat staring at a blank screen for fifteen minutes before throwing in the towel and posting the lame-sauce one.
Last night was Rico's going away party. You may remember that Rico was one of the very first people I met here in Whistler, and the coincidence of our meeting may have been the best thing to happen to me in this crazy town. Unfortunately, he hurt his back and isn't able to ski at all, so I can't blame the man for leaving. It is extremely disappointing, however, because he is one of the most interesting people in my day to day existence, the life of the party, and a very genuine guy.
I was so moved by his leaving that I spent 5 minutes writing a song in his honor, which I sang at the going away party. It's funnier if you know him, I suppose, but I'm putting it up nonetheless. A few things to know: he's the house manager, so he collects rent and makes sure the cleaning etc. gets done; he makes lots of soup and banana bread; and he always naps from 6-8 pm then can't sleep at night.
Anyway, at around 3:30am Manuel, Kim, Lissie and I found ourselves craving pizza. Since getting someone to deliver pizza can be problematic at 4 am, we decided instead on bagels. Having Manuel (He's mexican) around the house is awesome for a number of reasons. Most importantly, I get to practice my Spanish and learn Mexican slang, but he has also introduced me to a number of tasty Mexican foods to which I am already addicted. Mysteriously, the level in my Valentina bottle has been dropping much faster since he moved in...
Dish 1: Bagel with cream cheese and jalapeños. At 4 in the morning, there's nothing so good as ruthlessly and methodically burning one's mouth and esophogeal tract with canned mexican jalapenos on a bagel with cream cheese. I'm not talking about the sliced pickled jalapeños, but some funky mexican variety that come in a small can with carrots.
Dish 2: Of my own invention. Toast a bagel. Place 3 slices of tomato across it. Squeeze 1/2 avocado onto the tomatoes, and mash down. Cover liberally with lime juice (crucial!) and large-grain salt (mexico style). Next, put crumbled blue cheese atop the avocado and re-apply lime juice. Repeat for other half of bagel.
I know those recipes may sound like something only I'd eat(a certain person I know called me Dagwood for this tendency), I recommend you try it.
