The Highly Selective Skiography of gincognito

Quote:

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Originally posted by splat
Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy skiing with gincognito?

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I'll second this.

Although some of basom's headcam shots look an awful lot like one of my more miserable runs at Jay (2nd most miserable after the one when I did my knee :( ), except there wasn't nearly that much open space where I went. I do distinctly remember doing the butt luge to tree hug to lower-myself-off-cliff-while-hanging-onto-tree-with-one-ski-left-after-other-ski-javelin'd-itself-30-yds-down-slope over that terrain, though. Yeah, that was great.

Other than that, though, the Jay crew is great!

This is great stuff Gin!

A Blur

I lose track of the years. They mix and meld and form one big experience in my head. Going back to pinpoint places in time is often a futile attempt. But rest assured we are still in the mid-90s and somewhere in there we moved on to University. For one of my ski buddies, this meant a move to Vancouver where, somewhat ironically, he didn’t ski as much as he did when he was with us.

For T. and I it meant student passes at Jay Peak. Our first season passes of any significance. With those in hand we’d log 25 days a year at our playground and continue our exploration of the Ridge. New lines were being found – some obviously cut shots around the cliffs and through the trees, others consisting of awkward scraping and billygoating over the rough until in decent enough position to point ‘em off the last 10-feet and into the open field below. Once there, a handful of turns through knee deep snow in an unobstructed setting was the reward. After those were savoured, it was back into the woods for a bobsled run around trees and over waterfalls before being shot back onto the groomed trails.

Our course load relegated us to weekend warrior status, with only the occasional mid-week powder day warranting a round of hooky. Friday nights would often see us joining our non-skiing friends for a couple of beers which invariably led to a couple more and a blowing off of the self-imposed midnight curfew. Stumbling back to our apartment at two or three in the morning with the alarm set for 5:47 became a routine.

Mornings, of course, were rough. Groggy and somewhere between hung over and still slightly drunk, our faith would waver. Why were we up? Was this really worth it? The only think keeping either of us from voicing doubt was an unwillingness to bow before the other. Peer pressure can be a fine thing and once the car was pushed out of the snow bank, once the road was behind us, and once our gear was spread out over two tables in the Tram Haus Lodge, all negative thoughts were behind us.

We’d usually get there by eight. A full half hour before things were set to open. We’d be relaxed about getting geared up, we’d fuel up on granola bars and Gatorade, we’d shoot the shit until we were good and ready to go stand in the tram line for the first ride of the day. Not even a flat tire could keep us from our half-hour chill time. An explosive pothole had us making the fastest tire change in history in order to still be at the hill by eight.

Ah, to be that young again.

Somewhere in those late nineties my buddy spent a year overseas and I spent a season scamming rides, renting cars, and skiing with my Dad. His style never changed, he still skied by brute force, but he was always game to follow me around, or at least meet me at the bottom. Somewhere in there talk of Tuckerman Ravine started circulating. A mystique hung around it and we spoke in a reverence that made us nervous. Somewhere in there fatter, shapelier skis were tried and on our first test run, on the coldest day of the year at Owl’s Head (-30 C without windchill), we bombed down the hill laying the most confident arcs of our lives, grins frozen to our faces. Speed barriers were being broken and another aspect was opening before us.

We only had weekends so we would ski no matter what. Hung over? No excuse. Too cold? Please. Raining? Fewer crowds. Ice, powder, groomed. Trees, bumps, cruisers. We took what we received and counted ourselves lucky.

But somewhere in there I landed a 360 slightly askew. And I felt my left knee let go.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and apologizing to John Irving for the pilfered thread title),
d.
--
"But I lay there awake contemplating the horror of having
to look for a real job. The notion of earning a living...
The phrase itself was like those other obscene propositions
offered on a men's room wall."
- John Irving, "The Water Method Man"

Quote:

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Originally posted by gincognito

But somewhere in there I landed a 360 slightly askew. And I felt my left knee let go.

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ack! don't stop now! i can't wait til next week! you're just toying with us now.

The Lost Season (or My Life in the Bargain Bin)

(From the archives...)

I remember the moment with heart-breaking clarity. I sat in a small examination room and listened to the words that would shape my season: ACL reconstruction. That same old, worn out, familiar story. But there was a difference this time. This time it was me.

I tried to take the news in a calm and composed fashion - the truth is I was too stunned to do otherwise. But when the doctor turned to leave as if this was no big deal, I found myself struggling to hold my emotions in check as I called him back for more information.

“I realize this is old hat to you,” I said through slightly clenched teeth, “but it’s new to me, so if I could just have a few more minutes of your time…” He turned out to be quite understanding and was able to do a lot to clear up my fears.

Which is not to say that I was completely set at ease. On the way home I suddenly reached out and punched a metal traffic pole. The hollow echo reverberated long enough for plenty of people to turn and stare my way. I found myself wanting to throw things. Wanting to scream. When I got home I played the heavy tracks off of the Smashing Pumpkins’ Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness at a near deafening volume. I fumed in the privacy of my own home.

I used to think I was healthy, in good shape. Not anymore. I have a bum knee. I am damaged goods. Bargain bin stuff. Crammed in there among the mismatched gloves and hats with large pom-poms.

The initial damage occurred back in December of 1997. A 360 landed slightly askew twisted my knee in a most unnatural way. The pain was large but not what I thought ACL tearing pain was. I had heard so many horror stories that the fact that I hadn’t passed out had me convinced it was only a sprain. I even managed to eke out a laugh as my friend came over the same jump, stalled halfway through his rotation, and flew ass-first into the trees and patroller’s rope on the side of the run.

I thank him for that – for giving me something to laugh about as I held my battered knee.

I was diagnosed with a sprain and was on crutches for about a week. The doc then gave me the go ahead to get back to my life (read: skiing). So I did. Despite the fact that I still felt occasional flares of pain and despite the fact that deep down I knew things were not quite right. I thought time would heal things. I hoped.

But then, in August of 1998, with the first real yearnings for winter beginning, my friends and I found ourselves in the sand dunes with skis on our feet. And the inevitable happened. A simple jump with a compression landing and my knee let go on me again. This time there was no fooling myself into thinking things would heal on their own. I slid down the dune and could not pick myself up.

After many doctors and many physiotherapy appointments the inevitable became clear. ACL reconstruction would be needed. The soonest they could fit me in was fall. A ski season would be sacrificed for many more to come.

Two months after this diagnosis I hopped onto an operation table and felt strangely calm. I joked with the anaesthesiologist and faked concern when I heard him call the resident a “spastic bastard.” He set up the IV, stuck a needle in my hand and told me to say goodnight. Out I went.

The first memory I have after that is hearing a nurse telling me to wake up. I slowly opened my eyes and tried to get my bearings. I was obviously in the recovery room. I saw a nurse looking down at me. I felt a strange throbbing in my left knee. I tried to form some words but I was feeling so groggy. “Did they operate on my left knee?” I managed to ask. “Yes,” she replied still looking down on me. “But they were supposed to do the right one,” I said in my slow, drug induced speech. She stared at me. I could not read her expression but I was glad I was able to get out a “just kidding” before falling back asleep.

I am one week post-op now. I have to say that the drugs they gave me have been rather ineffectual. Fortunately the pain has been bearable. Again, the stories I had heard had me prepared for much worse. I could deal with this.

The crutches are a bitch though. I’ve truly come to despise them. They make me feel like a prisoner. My one goal in life at this moment is to get off of them as quickly as possible. I have already been given the green light to try to put a little weight on my bum knee and so far things feel all right. I’m hoping to be hobbling on my own in another week or so.

The knee itself looks ugly. A six-inch slice runs over my kneecap and the flesh is currently being held together by staples. Those will be coming out soon, but until then I actually enjoy lifting up my bandages and sneaking a peak at my Frankenstein features. I don’t, however, take any joy out of seeing the monstrous swelling. My knee has been replaced by a softball.

The hardest thing for now is feeling so weak and so helpless. My quad feels like Jell-O and the simplest tasks are rendered humiliating by the crutches. But again I keep my sight on my goal. Once these crutches are gone I will be free. Once the physiotherapy starts, the strength will return. Once I am active in just the slightest bit, I will feel better. I do not want to spend too many more days with my ass glued to the couch, watching daytime television.

Unfortunately, the start of my recover will coincide with the start of the ski season. My roommate and brother have already bagged a day on the boards and will be heading out again this weekend. The winter has begun even if significant snow has yet to fall.

Every now and then it hits me with its original force. I see my skis propped up in the corner of my room and I realise that I will not be using them this year. I flip through pictures of seasons gone by and know that this year I will not be in any of the shots. I hear my skier friends talk about the upcoming powder days and, although I do not begrudge them, I cannot ignore the fact that I will not be there. It will not be the same for me; it will not be the same for them. It will be the first time in about six years that my ski partner will spend a season without me. He is going to have to find someone else to share his runs with. Someone else to share the epic powder days and the bored goof-off days.

He will ski with my brother. My brother, whom I may not get another chance to share a season with. Last season he was in Switzerland, the seasons before he was busy being a ski instructor. This would have been the first time in many years that we could get some significant ski time together. Next year? Who knows what it will bring?

But I am coping. As I said, I will survive. People have gone through much worse that this, right? Right.

Yeah, but that isn’t going to help me when I see the snow raging outside of my window. Perspective will be lost when I hear my roommate leave at 6:00 am to bag some first tracks through the glades of Jay. I will lie in my bed and curse my knee and wish I was going with him, and, then, when I get up many hours later, I will go outside and sit in a snowdrift – not so much to mope, but more to feel some contact with the snow, to help me be there in my mind.

I think I will be doing that a lot this year.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and the season wasn't completely lost...),
d.

sniff........... he knows how i feel.

can't wait till next week

I enjoy reading your threads more than anyone else on this board, gin.

Hope to get many more turns with you this season!

Shit, man, that's strong. Taken with a grain of salt, but a buttload of thanks nonetheless.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and it's going to be an awesome season (can you feel it?)),
d.

gin, dude, you need to stop posting this stuff right now. Go back, delete the whole thread, then head up to AK or Jackson or wherever they back this stuff up and find the disks and destroy them too.

This should be published, like in a nice mag with glossy pages and stuff.

Damn fine words, d, damn fine.

One Day

New Year’s Day. Some unknown hours into 1999. The two parties in a friend’s apartment building had morphed into one. Momentum was building. Three units held an open-doors policy and people streamed in and out like shooting stars. Hallways and stairwells held the overflow. The front stoop became the breathing space - a spot for a bit of fresh air and drunken contemplation. The January air cooled our sweating skin and we watched our breath drift into the night before disappearing.

The night was beautiful. I wanted it to last forever.

In those drunken states, when laughter is prevalent and there’s never a dearth of people to talk to, I get overwhelmed with melancholy euphoria. Every joke is the funniest ever told, every truth the most profound. I have a hard time letting go. I want to soak it up, because even through the alcohol haze, I can see the fleetingness of the carefree moment.

And so it was that when most people had stumbled home, passed out, or otherwise vacated the party, I found myself in a much quieter hallway discussing the finer points of god-knows-what with my fellow closer. And so it was that we were there when the door at the end opened and a girl with blonde pigtails smiled her way towards us.

She joined our conversation easily and soon enough we were talking about skiing. After spending seasons in Whistler, her scholastic pursuits had brought her to Montreal for the year. Her skis sat in her apartment, but lack of transportation to the slopes had left them gathering dust. I rolled up my pant leg and showed her the reason that I too had been relegated to the sidelines.

However, not being able to ignore a skier in need, I offered my roommate’s services to right her horrible wrong and get her to the hills (safe in the knowledge that he was (and remains) solidly spoken for).

“He goes every weekend, I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” I convinced her. Numbers were exchanged and everyone left happy (except for my fellow closer who claimed to have felt like a third wheel: “As soon as the talk turned to skiing, she ignored me and only had eyes for you,” he complained. “If that was the case, why the hell didn’t you leave us alone?” I countered.)

In any case, the winter continued and my pain was tempered by this fortunate fling. Life conspired to keep my busy and I can almost convince myself that I didn’t notice the skiing I was missing. I hit the physio hard and spent many afternoons riding a stationary bike in a basement room that felt like a dungeon. Staring at a cracked concrete wall, it was easy to believe that the lights would go off if I had stopped pedaling.

Come March I was almost at peace with T. coming home from Saturday skiing with tales of powder. He was excited and meant no ill when he talked of glades in prime shape. So I smiled and tried to share his enthusiasm, all the while hoping he would soon shut up.

Then Tuckerman Ravine crept into the picture. For years we had talked about it, but had yet to sack up and make the trip. Now things seemed to be getting serious. My brother and a friend of his were making loud noises about going, so of course, T. would as well.

Again, I don’t fault anyone. Things come together at certain times and people should take advantage when they can. I certainly did not want to hold anyone back. Of course not.

Any yet…a part of me was pissed. Pissed that after years of hesitating, they were finally taking the plunge while I was out of commission. I don’t remember what I did the weekend they were away, but I do know that I acted very disinterested when they returned. “It was good? Yeah? Great,” was the extent of my questioning. When the pictures came in I rifled through them quickly and went back to watching the hockey game. In short: I sulked. Can you really blame me?

But I would feel redemption before the snow left the ground. I did not let the season go by without putting skis to slope. Good Friday came along and Jay Peak was hosting one last weekend of skiing. I was just over the 5 month mark of my rehab and determined to cash in. Armed with a knee brace, I joined T., my bro, and pig tails in what promised to be a quintessential spring day.

“I’ll just stick to the blues,” I said. “Just gonna take it easy.” Easier said than done. Under blue skies and over soft snow I was feeling prime. The simple motion of gliding down the hill brought back so much of me. Testing the knee like a fawn, I gradually grew more sure of my rebuilt self. Turns came easy. Instinct returned. I was home.

We ate our lunch on top of the ridge. Sitting on rocks amid stumpy conifers, throwing snowballs and soaking up sun. I was almost okay with my first day being my last. It felt like closure. Closure on my rehab, closure on my injury.

I followed the crew down Radio Chute, a steep narrow shot down the lookers left of the ridge. From the blue cruisers to here I felt the rush of rapid improvement. The satisfaction was equaled only by the beers we quaffed on the deck at the end of the day.

I was home.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and appreciative of the delusional flattery),
d.
--
"I've got a dream, I've got a plan
I'll leave this world, live of the land
When I get good, when I get better again."
-Rheostatics

Quote:

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Originally posted by gincognito

“I’ll just stick to the blues,” I said. “Just gonna take it easy.” Easier said than done. Under blue skies and over soft snow I was feeling prime. The simple motion of gliding down the hill brought back so much of me. Testing the knee like a fawn, I gradually grew more sure of my rebuilt self. Turns came easy. Instinct returned. I was home.

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*feeling like you wrote that for me gin, and its making me feel good*

“I’ll just stick to the blues,” I said. “Just gonna take it easy.”



Understatement of the year. A better way to start my day there isn't, thanks Gin.

Just dove in to this, Gin. I thought, "one peek at TGR, then back to work."

That was almost 45 minutes ago.

The flattery would only be delusional if it weren't well deserved.

Bump for those (like me) that missed these the first time.

Back in the Saddle

My bro left for Whistler the next season. Got a gig with the ski school and ditched his engineering job for the mountain life (read all about it here:www.aspectjournal.com ). A move thoroughly endorsed by myself, if not so much by the rest of the clan.

Me, I picked up where I left off. Tried to anyhow. I had one year of school left and I found myself alone in the city. Drinking buddies had graduated and moved on, and ski buddy was finishing his degree in the skiing mecca of Ottawa. His first day of the year would come at the end of December and be an indication of the season he was in for. He made a game effort to get out every other weekend, but it was a sharp contrast to the seasons gone by.

I found myself scrounging for each day trip. Convincing my Dad to ski more than he ever would have otherwise. Signing up for trips through the local sports shop. Renting a car when the big dumps were forecast. Two years later Jay Peak would introduce a cheap bus service from Montreal and I would fume at their late timing.

Perhaps all was for the best though. The less hectic pace and the more mellow ski partners gave my knee a healthy re-introduction to the slopes. It felt strong. I felt strong.

And if the day trips were lacking, two things would make up for it: A trip out west and finally getting to Tuckerman Ravine.

The trip was almost 5 years in the making. On the plane ride over it felt surreal that we were actually going. We’d finally scraped up enough cash, there was no ice storm to cancel our winter break, and no knee surgery to keep me off the slopes. We were finally on our way. Heading “out West” to do the skiing we’d only ever read about.

As I settled into the passenger seat of our rental car in Vancouver, I turned to T. and did my best Blues Brother impersonation: “1300 kms to Calgary, 8 days before us, skis on the roof, gear in the back, it’s snowing, and we’re wearing sunglasses. Hit it.”

That fact that the skis were actually in the trunk and that it wasn’t really snowing did nothing to dull our excitement. The Promised Land awaited.

Eight days, four resorts, six days on skis and 1300km in a bad rental car with worn summer tires. That was the final tally. Essentially the trip was divided in three, with old acquaintances waiting for us at each stop.

We picked up W. in Vancouver and quickly fell into the familiar discourse of our college days. Your momma jokes and noxious fumes filled the car. Arriving in Whistler, my brother wasted little time in showing us the bars and we visited three before even securing our spot to sleep the night. Somewhere in there we met up with pig-tails who’d returned here after her spring fling in Montreal. And somewhere in there we all ended up crashing on the floor of a friend’s Delta Suites hotel room.

In the morning T. made the rather astute observation that the floor of a fancy-pantsy hotel room is just as uncomfortable as the floor of roadside motel. Nevertheless, we worked out the kinks and made the two minute walk to the lifts.

http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall.../Whistler2.jpg
What lay before us.

The two days passed in disorientating spring-like fashion. Strong sunshine and blue skies contrasted nicely with the overcast –20 C days we had left behind. Fresh snow was hard to come by, but we laughed at how easy it was to set an edge in the chalky leftovers. What would have been icy death back home was easily carve-able and a much truer version of the ubiquitous term “packed powder.”

http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...67/BroBowl.jpg
We did manage to find some fresh. My bro lays down a turn in one of the Jeweled Bowls

One day at Whistler and one day at Blackcomb. Ruby Bowl, Diamond Bowl, Jersey Wall, Purple Haze, Glacier Wall, West Cirque etc. They all fell beneath our skis and were devoured with shit kicking grins. Not always with style and not without a few bails, but always with everything we had.


http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...67/BroDrop.jpg
Bro drops a cornice onto Glacier Wall (I think).


http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...67/TRunOut.jpg
T. maching the run-out.

Two days later, the car packed and ready to roll, we said our goodbyes that felt like see-you-laters. We hit the road back to Vancouver and then eastward towards Hope and Nelson.

As we left the city that morning, Vancouver decided to show it’s true colours. It started to rain. The road rose and fell, and the precipitation changed from rain to slush to snow and back in a pretty a consistent pattern. Through the low cloud cover, the glimpses of the mountains around us served only as a tease to the scenery we were missing.

So we powered through the drive, singing stupid songs as the radio dial scanned through the numbers, searching for a hint of a station. Heading up the last mountain pass before Castlegar, darkness fell and a sign reading “Check Your Fuel: Next Service Station 74 km” passed into the rearview. Where we’re from these types of signs are found right before the last station and you’d better pull in before continuing. Over here it seems they come after the last station and you’d better pull a U-turn if your tank is light. The things you learn the hard way…

It would have been easy to turn around. But it’s hard to decide when you should. A look at the fuel gauge and a quick calculation told us that we’d be fine. So we forged ahead. Not long afterwards, the low light came on. And soon after that the radio found a station. A news report. The first words we heard, I shit you not, were “…a shortage of oil and gas.” We shared a nervous laugh and continued on in the wet snow, our inadequate tires nescitating total concentration as the fresh, wet snow danced in our headlights. Cresting the pass, we gave a small sigh of relief and coasted down the other side.

We missed the first gas station we saw. Drove by it before we could turn in. “It looked closed anyhow,” we rationalized. Castelgar came into view and we fueled up with our worries far behind us. Nelson, Whitewater and Red Mountain awaited.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and wordy),
d.

Gin, this is awesome. All of it. Please, please, please keep it coming!

As always, an awesome read.

And I, too, had a night to remember in the Delta Suites... ;)

(thankfully, I didn't have to sleep on the floor)

wow, I just saw this. And I'm supposed to be doing some fall cleaning at the house... oh well. This is much better.

great writing, gin! :D

Very Styley Gin,
Great pix & excellent narrative.I felt like I was almost there,remembering memories of skiing.Hey wait a minute,my folks hated the cold & always took me to hot places like Florida,Cali,Arizona & Hawaii.Little did they know how hard I would rebel!

A Taste of the Life

In Nelson we were fully immersed in the ski bum culture. Staying with a friend in a home full of Selkirk College students, surrounded by gear, kegs and pot-smoking paraphernalia, it was easy to get a glimpse of the life. Each morning would start with three numbers: the overnight snowfall, the 24hr snowfall, and the temperature at the mountain. The digits would be mulled over and the ski-or-school decision would be made. If a couple of runs on the slopes were called for, a video would be popped into the VCR and images of mountains and powder would be consumed along with breakfast.

For us of course, the choice was clear. With no lack of guides, we headed to Whitewater. The rain on the windshield had us worried, but it was snow that would greet us at the tiny wooded base lodge. It was wet snow, to be sure, but the untouched lines and down-home feel of this throwback resort had us too excited to care. Following the leads through tall trees with bottomless pillows, we’d hoot and holler our way down to the access road where a short walk brought us back to the creaky double.

There was something here, I can remember thinking. Something that Tremblant used to have. Something that lurks in the dark corners of Jay Peak. Something that makes you feel good and at peace without having to dwell on it. Something that makes you smile.

Red Mountain had it too. The trail map had been etched in my mind for years before this trip. The steep tree shots, the 360 degree skiing. It held a strong allure. It also held confusion.

The low cloud cover and lack of trail markers caused constant disorientation. We barely scraped the surface and never really knew where we were, but it hardly mattered. Each run consisted of picking a fresh line through the trees and riding it all the way down to Easy Street (the wonderful catwalk that wound around the mountain, scooping up all manner of skiers popping out of the woods). Our friend, M., led us through some sweet spots where the tight trees would periodically give way to steep, open shots before plunging us back into the darkness of the woods.


http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...367/dred1a.jpg
Taking a breather in the woods of Red.

Her last trek, however, brought us to a rather sketchy section. We came through a portion of glades and found ourselves perched atop of a rather hairy looking 20-foot cliff. There was a fairly large run-out and I’m sure it would have been no big deal for most maggots, but it was more than we were willing to jump on our last run of the day at a hill we barely knew. So the scrambling began. M. went left, T. tried right, and I stayed put (waiting to see who had the better route). M. side-slipped and butt slid around tight trees and past gnarly rocks. Finally I saw her shoot out into the open below me. Her first words were to T.: “You don’t want to be there.”

Fair enough; I’d go her way. I tried to remain graceful as I executed a tree assisted jump turn to a more acceptable location. I looked back to see where T. was.

“T.,” I called, “You really don’t want to be there.”

“I know,” he shot back, “I’m working on it.”

For me, a short straight-run with a small air over some rocks would get me in the clear. No problem I figured as I pointed ‘em.

And it wasn’t really. Except that one of my skis dove a little too deep under the snow and chose to release shortly after my landing. So I barreled down the run-out, cranking a big-ass, speed-dumping turn on one ski. I threw in a somersault just as I passed M. (you know, just for her entertainment).

After gathering myself I looked back up to where T. had managed to make his way a bit further to the right. He figured he had a more feasible line there. It consisted of a slightly-smaller-than-the-original jump into an area which would leave just enough room to get things under control before skiing out. Not a problem since T. just tubbed the landing. He got up laughing and started gathering his equipment so he could ski down to where M. was continuing with her hysterics.

http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...10367/TRed.jpg
Find the skier. T. just before impact.

We made it down the rest of the way with no further events and left the parking lot thoroughly satisfied with the skiing we’d done, but also with a sense that repeat visits would yield so much more. Red Mountain has been filed away as a place I need to get back to.

Whitewater was back on the schedule for our third day in Nelson. A shuttle service was set up and laps of the backside were devoured all day. Every line seemed wide open and allowed for consistent cruising through the fresh powder that had been falling all night. An entirely different type of tree skiing than the gladiator bush-whacking of the East. Fallen trees served as launching pads, steep pitches appeared before us, much air was had and the landings were always pillow soft and sent snow exploding around and over us.

This felt right. The skiing, the hiking, the car dropping and the picking up hitchers just felt right. The whole ride up the lift my mind went back to the ambiguous phrase “this is what it’s all about.”

Up early the next morning for the final leg. Nelson to Castle for a half day and then on to Calgary. A clearing day ahead of us revealed the true majesty of our surroundings. Granite peaks boxed us in as the road wound its way towards our destination.

We arrived at 11:30 and, anxious to hit the slopes, splurged on a full day ticket. The snow had missed Castle, but the potential was evident. Numerous runs took uncompromising paths directly down the steep fall line. The wind was howling and recycled chalk was the order of the day as we sampled runs that left no doubt that we were in Alberta: Desperado, Lone Star, Outlaw, Showdown.

Here the Rockies lived up to the postcard images we all have ingrained in our minds. Powerfully jagged rocks looming before, above and all around seemed to render us insignificant. Yet at the same time, they filled us with a feeling of importance simply for being there surrounded by the grandeur. The very fact that we are there playing in a field of snow with blue sky and grey peaks as the background seemed meaningful.

The trip ended on the 22nd floor of an apartment building in downtown Calgary. Two friends from University played host to night of drinking and board games as we attempted to unwind from the previous days.

On the flight home the next day I started jotting down notes and contemplating what sort of trip this had been. Had it been a ski trip? A road trip? A reunion trip? The answer, of course, was all three. Skiing was the purpose but it was also the means to a much fuller end. It was the best possible excuse to fly across a country, drive across a province, hook up with old friends, and not have any worries greater than what lay beyond that snowy ridge and who was buying the first round of drinks at the end of the day.

I guess I knew it all along, but it’s now been confirmed: skiing was, is, and always will be about so much more than the act itself. It’s about escaping from the ‘real world’ and letting the worries slide off you like the powder off your back.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and getting closer),
d.

Quote:

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Originally posted by gincognito
A Taste of the Life
I guess I knew it all along, but it’s now been confirmed: skiing was, is, and always will be about so much more than the act itself. It’s about escaping from the ‘real world’ and letting the worries slide off you like the powder off your back.

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sick

Quote:

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Originally posted by gincognito
“You really don’t want to be there.”

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The first response to hearing that is usually anxiety; the second (while safely looking back at the previous location) is quite comforting...

sorry for the confusion Basom!

i wasn't there was i? man, my memory is getting shitty like a sailor.

bumpity bump 'cos it's Friday......next installment please:)

Tuckerman Ravine

One cannot deny the mystique. The allure. The aura that surrounds Tuckerman Ravine. It’s a right of passage. It’s a pilgrimage. It’s a ritual.

It’s so much more than skiing. It’s so much more than hiking. It’s a path that spans generations, connects past to present, simplifies and unifies.

Finally I was going to step into the history. Mark my turns in the books. With T. leading, we set out to lay down the finally arcs of the season.

Up the Tuckerman Trail with my knee holding out better than I expected I took the time to take in those surrounding me. This was my first “backcountry” trip, my first venture into the earn-your-turns pantheon and I was doing it in the most contradictory venue imaginable.

Far from the seclusion and oneness-with-nature that dominates the wilderness image, here you share the shrine with hundreds of other like-minded folks. Folks with skis, folks with teles, folks with snowboards, and folks with inner tubes. Shiny gear strapped to the fanciest ergonomic backpacks walk next to skinny neon skis tied with rope and duck tape to aluminum framed Scout packs. Here someone takes a rest for a sip of Gatorade and a handful of trail mix; there someone else cracks open a Bud Light and has a cigarette break.

Fathers lead children and torches of all varieties are passed.

http://www.biglines.com/photos/blpic27601.jpg
Heading towards the bowl.

In the bowl, the study in contrasts continued. A wild setting with icefalls and boulders interspersed among the 50 degree slopes of the headwall. Yawning gaps ready to suck unsuspecting sliders under. Chunks of ice letting loose and careening down the funnel. A spectacular scene not to be trifled with.

And yet people of all shapes marched up the boot-packs like lines of hungry ants. Skiers descended next to them and elicited cheers from the throngs of people sunning themselves on the rocks below. Inner tubers trudged upward to the chants of “Higher, higher!”

A backcountry experienced with 300 of your closest friends. A surreal ordeal that would bring us back for what is now an annual tradition.

http://www.biglines.com/photos/blpic27602.jpg
Heading up the bowl.

I’ve been there five times now. Under sunny skies with everybody and their uncle. In freezing fog with just ourselves to rely on. On buttery corn with sunburned face. Over scratchy ice with frozen digits. Fresh white powder one year. Old brown leftovers another. I’ve driven up with a car packed to bursting with a half-dozen friends. I’ve made the trip solo and waited two hours in the parking lot for basom to show up. When he finally appeared that day, the rain that had been beating down during my phone call had somewhat abated (as had my feelings of guilt for not informing him of the weather). We geared up, headed out and, of course, the rain returned with a vengeance. Cold and wet we continued on, never second-guessing our commitment.

We scored just two runs that day. One ending in ice that had us skittering like nervous chipmunks, the other leading to bushwacking through scrub trees and around water hazards.

It rained all the way back down.

I had a four drive ahead of me.

It was totally worth it.

That’s Tuckerman Ravine.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and hoping to expend my indulgence before the season starts...only a handful of chapters left!),
d.

heh. that hint i droped on pmag worked. http://tetongravity.com/ubb/icons/icon10.gif

nice one d.

Just have to give the mandatory THUMBS UP! :D

The Rest

And then I went to the Chic-Chocs and skied there. And then I skied some more at Jay Peak. And then I skied with some crazy internet people. And then I went back to B.C. with them. And then I became obsessed with this place. And then I went to Tahoe for my second Summit.

I had fun.

I like to ski.

And then, during the wasteland days of summer, I started this long, winding, self-indulgent ski history of mine with the intention of bringing it to the present before the season of 04-05 started. And then I realized I wasn't going to be able to do that so I cheesed out and wrote the above.

SaAaH (and some of the pictures seem to have disappeared - no worries, I moved the whole damn thing here (if I ever really write more, it'll go there as well (despite my evident lack of web skills))),
d.

yeah, whatever you slacker. suck it.

p.s. check the jay peak steeze. you shoulda been out there on sunday. look, not even any grass!

http://jaypeakresort.com/files/JayPe..._06_Nov_04.jpg

It's on. Like a thong on Donkey Kong.

SaAaH (and no longer needing to look to the past to get me through summer),
d.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by gincognito

so I cheesed out and wrote the above.

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boo this man!


we want more!!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by gincognito

And then I realized I wasn't going to be able to do that so I cheesed out and wrote the above.

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Booooo..... Don't make us put your picture in that "Cheese" feature that used to be in Powder.

Gin,

Just wanted to say thanks for the stories and the memories it brought back. A great way to spend the day at work.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mit

Gin,

Just wanted to say thanks for the stories and the memories it brought back. A great way to spend the day at work.

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Hey, hey, look who finally found their way in here. Just bumpin' my self-indulgence to say welcome to the fray.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and might actually get on that Chic-Choc chapter),
d.

is mit t. ?

if so... 'sup jong!

Chic Chocs

From Tuckerman Ravine to the Chic-Choc Mountains in the Gaspe Penisula. Same principle, different worlds.

T. and I headed out for the eight hour drive east along the southern shore of the St. Lawrence Seaway. Ice floes and wind turbines dominated the coastal scenery before we headed inland at Ste-Anne-des-Monts.

I’d never been here before so I did not know what to expect. Terrain, access, recommended equipment – the little information we had was gleaned from various websites, tourist maps, and sketchy trip reports. No worries. We’d booked a hut at the base, not far from the luxurious Gite de Mont Albert, and were committed to three days of whatever would come our way.

Soon enough the mountains came into view. Flat-topped whales with low tree-lines and alpine tundra summits sucked us into their valley. This wasn’t the Rockies, but it sure didn’t feel like Quebec either.

http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...ogs%20Back.jpg
Hog's Back

After a brief recon mission and sorting out of affairs, we headed towards Hog’s Back for our first conquest of the trip. The lot was empty and snow was high. Good signs all around. We donned our rented skins and headed up on skinny skis and leather boots.

Not much more than an hour later, we reached the Summit. Blue skies made for powerful views and we spent our lunch break taking it in and contrasting it to our only other earn-your-turns experience. Skins and solitude made for a much more real backcountry experience.

http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...ChocViewII.jpg
The View from the Summit

We poked around the flat top for a bit, staring down gullies and steering clear of cornices. Not confident in our skills – skiing or snow assessment – we stuck to some low angle fields on the backside of the upper portion of the mountain. We dubbed these runs Back Bacon. About a foot of fresh stood over a thin base and we mined it hard. Wobbly equipment led to humbling first turns, but once the groove was found we floated through the snow and dropped low for a wasit-deep feeling.

http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...ChicChocT2.jpg
Mit Making Some Turns

Four or five laps were done before taking it all the way down and following the Hydro wires back to the car. Bear tracks were spotted and, sub-consciencely or not, we upped the pace to get to our home for the next three nights.

The cabin was luxurious by roughing-it standards. Four bunk-beds tucked into four alcoves in a modern log cabin. A wood stove in the center kept things warm throughout the night – fueled in part by the $30 one of the mates managed to throw in during a temporary brain shut-down. A walk back to the car for supplies revealed a sky exploding with winter-clear stars and a pair of moose curious as to our place in their scene.

The next day we headed back to Hog’s Back and mimicked our turns of the day before. Nothing had changed and, sometimes, that is a good thing. Blue skies and no tracks but our own. Cool, clear, and quiet.

http://www.tetongravity.com/usergall...hocView2II.jpg
View From Back Bacon

Our final day took us down the slopes of Champ-de-Mars. The slog up was longer and us weekend-warrior lift-riders were starting to feel the pain of the previous days. Tired legs and heavy snow led to a very ungraceful decent that required determination to enjoy. Compounding the (slight) misery was confusion on the exit point. A couple false starts and pointless climbs were made before finally getting across the creek and onto the proper trail.

Oh, and T. lost his favourite toque.

So we called it a day after just the one run and chilled in the parking lot for a bit. Made a hot lunch and watched some people rip up the main chute on Hog’s Back. Their hoots and hollers echoed down to our years and we vowed that one year it would be us.

Yes, this was not Tuckerman Ravine. As stated, the principle of getting up under your own power to reap the turns is the same, but the worlds could not be more different. And this is by no means a bad thing, nor is it meant as a knock against the Tuckerman institution. It just serves to drive home the point that many layers exist to this thing we call skiing. And each one is as valid as the next.

Except for snowblading. That’s just stupid.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and making turns this weekend!),
d.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by basom

is mit t. ?

if so... 'sup jong!

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Yup. One and the same. Been meaning to join for awhile but since gin posted the movie the other day I figured I'd better keep an eye on him and make sure I can tell my side of the story...It's interesting how he managed to edit the videoclip to make him look like a superstar the others as "Losers".

Hey, the camera don't lie.

And bump for fixed photos.

SaAaH (and surely you're not implying that I'm not a superstar?),
d.

Gin is a superstar.

it's all in his lack of 'tude, and ability to rip the fall line with no hesitation. gin=smoove.


plus he always wears that "What Trail?" tee shirt every day he skis. if that doesn't scream "SUPERSTAR!" i don't know what does.

Basom = my bodyguard and number one fan. Hugs and kisses.

Sick and ashamed and happy (and the sleeves are just about falling off that shirt, but I'll still be rockin' it most of the season (if that's what it takes to be a star)),
d.