Can I ski with you?

[Rasputin]

Hey there barbt

OMG, Dont say youre sorry for jumping in We all need jumper inners

You might have something there with the AH. I tried it on my face when Q board started raving about it. Used it twice, so not for me
But it just might work on the feet Im going to Sallys and see what I can find. Will report back.

Thanks for the info
Lyndasue

Wow Lyndasue, you sure sound like Blurred.

[carpathian]

Skiing in Alaska makes you weak. I have only come to that conclusion after having moved to and become assimilated into the town known as Whistler. I now see why all of the best skiers these days (according to the IFSA) all come from Whistler. It has the most vertical and more varied terrain then anywhere else on the continent. And besides that, the terrain is mean. Rocks, cliffs, trees and inconsistent, if not unpredictable fall lines all add to the overall difficulty of skiing.

Skiing in Alaska is easy. I don’t know if I’d be the first to say it, but all of those shots you see in the movies are generally technically easier then any number of lines through Spanky’s or off Peak Chair. The steep fins with obvious avy start zones and run-outs are conducive to easily skiing at high speed at all times.

When people ask if the skiing in Alaska is really that good I have to say yes. Easy access to steep, clean lines with bottomless powder on geographically smooth terrain all add up to a good time on skis or board alike. I find the mountains in BC in general to be bigger and meaner. Go touring in the Duffy and soon see that any one of those mountains is a full day endeavor with minimum of 5-6000ft to the summit. So when it comes to becoming a better skier or a stronger ski-mountaineer, BC is the place to be. I feel like I cut my teeth in the mountains of AK but I have been humbled by the mountains of BC.

To some degree, I believed the ski media of the last 15 years. Who hasn’t heard the story about the pro from the south, who goes north, gets plopped on some peak in Valdez and promptly shits their bibs? But you soon see the Jim or Bob rip clean big mountain lines top to bottom. After their first run they are in on the secret… skiing in Alaska is easy but the media won’t tell you that part! (chuckle)

That is why my skiing style basically evolved towards speed. If you have this giant, powder covered slope you might as well ski as fast as possible just because you can. Where as skiing these BC mountains I find it much more difficult to maintain, if not attain for that matter, the speed you would enjoy lap after lap on Alyeska. But it is all relative, I guess. You may not be going as fast technically, but because of the technical nature of the terrain, you feel like you are going fast anyway.

So when I say skiing in Alaska makes you weak, I mean it. If I am hiking 2 hours and making 10 turns per 3000ft in AK vs hiking 4 hours and making 100 turns per 3000ft in BC, where am I going to more quickly and efficiently develop strong skiing skills?  BC! And if I have to climb 6 hours and make my way down some super steep, rock pillared, avy prone, off-camber fall line over exposure, I better have put the old thinking cap on.

I have been following the ski industry for years now. I know which mountains the guys with TGR skied around Girdwood and Haines. Some of the biggest lines from Further, Mind the Addiction, The Realm or The Prophecy are all within a 3 hour climb from the highway. So with a little gumption, one can easily ski the ‘big mountains’ the pros are skiing. It is not to say that the mountains in Alaska aren’t dangerous or worthy of a skier’s utmost respect, however. Skilled mountain people die every year because the mountains ARE big and dangerous. I have had close calls, watching friends ride 2000ft to a near death experience but at the time it had little affect on me. Maybe I was too young and hotheaded to appreciate the dangers of the mountains in Alaska.

It wasn’t until I immigrated to Canada 4 years ago at the age of 24 that I realized that it was more luck then anything else. I climbed and skied a lot of lines in my ‘youth’ that I would not go back to repeat. There is only so much experience one can attain by the age of 21 or 22. Maybe that is it? They say that with age, comes wisdom and an appreciation for your time here on earth. As I’m sitting here pushing 29, I sometimes feel like an old man, like I’ve seen it all… but then I go for a day tour up the Duffy last week and experience true apprehension, a true humbling of the senses. Nothing adds perspective like getting in over your head and seeing how your own lack of judgment or experience got you there. I guess you can do that anywhere when it comes down to it.

So in reality, I have not seen shit. I know AK and BC pretty well but am mostly terrified of the south or east of North America and the world beyond.

Do I need to go experience some foreign culture in order to find my self? Why can’t I drive 20km up Route 99 to enjoy the record snow pack and maybe gain some insight into my own intentions? Or better yet, after skiing go to the Village and sit outside Starbucks to just watch the world walk by?

Whistler is a happy place. It is balanced by the natural energy contours of the land. The lack of electro-magnetic pull on the collective conscious in this area (west coast in general) is conducive to ‘change’ and ‘progress.’ People adapt here. If Whistler Mountain is the phallic male and Blackcomb Peak is the volvic female then we are the indigo children blessed with the freedom of choice and the volition to do good.

I see skiing as a meditation with each turn attempting to touch the divine. The better the skier, the higher the meditation, the better the person, the better the environment… There is a lot of talk in the local media these days about how we, the privileged people of Whistler, are in the position to create positive change in the world at large. But there seems to be some confusion as to how to exactly do that. I say go skiing and be happy.

[UTaho']

Carpathian,
I finally registered for this site after lurking for a few years. This thread was the main motivator. Although I have only skimmed through some of your stories, I look forward to reading them thoroughly over the coming months. You my friend, are the real deal! Be safe & live a long life...
Thanks.

[carpathian]

^^^ Thank you! I am just trying to do my best to earn a bunch of stoke points so I can get a sweet hoodie!

[UTaho']

^^ Well if you ever get to Utah, I've got an old hoody you can have. From one Pow junkie to another, I hope you get one here.

[highangle]

Carpy - raisin the rent

moar!

i do, however, think your assessment of BC/AK may be a function of the observer's frame, to wit your newfound appreciation of burlier more technical lines may have more to do with your present access, your crew, and you as a skier moreso than the actual terrain, sola fides

[splat]

How about a sound byte of someone trying to kill a guy when he's high on acid?

[BFD]

I was kind of enjoying your stuff. Pretty good description of what someone growing up in AK. experiences. Having climbed Pioneer Peak 12 times I wsa kind of impressed by the mountain biking segment. I have never been to Whistler and hope to visit soon and I know there is serious mountaineering to be done the area. Maybe I missed the part where you did the trips to the big mountains in Ak. Glad you like Whistler.

[carpathian]

^^^ To be honest I never really got into winter camping for real. When I lived in the Compound with just bug net walls I was kinda cheating by drying me gear in the patrol shack. It is tough putting on those cold boots in the morning. And how am I spossed to get to the 7-11 from way out there for my coffee?

I do need to do Denali, I know. And Carpathian Peak too. I always like to live in a way that it kind of like camping on a big peak. But I am in a warm camper in the parking lot...

You know why mountaineers really want to be all secluded out there on the ice all alone...

Dark side of Oz

We were right on schedule. It was 9:40pm as we had a little smoky-smoke out in Lot 3. The show started at 10 and we wanted to be in the right headspace to appreciate and assimilate the wonder that is the “Dark Side of Oz.” A cult classic, this rendering of the 1936 “Wizard of Oz” and Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” is a must-do for anyone who wants to trip out on the supposed synchronicity displayed between the two disparate pieces of 20th century media.

The audience was in a festive mood, as everyone seemed to hold the same ‘high’ expectations of the night’s entertainment. Once the movie got started, it was entertaining right away. I started to try and figure out the symbolic meaning behind the Floyd lyrics and how it related to the images on the screen. Who is Dorothy? What spiritual odyssey is she conjuring as she seems to ‘call up’ the tornado to take her to the higher dimensions of Oz. (maybe she’s the witch?)

Enter Munchkins… Oh look how the house landed on the evil witch of the East. Maybe that means Communism is dead only leaving the evil of the witch in the West? Are we in some sort of utopia right now? Dorothy seems to represent western Man in general now as she embarks on to the Yellow Brick Road, her path of evolution.

Her first friend she meets is the Scarecrow who immediately struck me as being some sort of Christ figure, being up on his stake and all. Is he Christ? Who is going to play the Buddha and Mohammed? As it turns out the Scarecrow is religion in general as brainless as he may be. He and Dorothy carry on, on shaky legs no less. Soon we meet the Tin Man who I figured to represent man’s industry or ‘result of creativity.’ With just a few dabs of precious oil, the machinery of man’s invention moves smoothly forward.

As the three friends skip into the dark woods they encounter the guy who looks like a lion or something. I guess he is supposed to be ‘primal man’, sent to remind us of where we came from…

People are rustling in their seats. I’m trying to pay attention. Don’t they realize there is a message here?

The party of four has made it to the big green city. Are they at the doors of heaven? Will St Peter let them in? Is Floyd being cynical by relating money to western man’s understanding of heaven?

I have a flash of my own cynicism. What am I doing here watching a silent movie? I think the songs are repeating… does the album repeat songs?

A group of people get up and leave. Why are they leaving? Don’t they want to see how humanity turns out? We have to stick it out. I want some answers.

They are meeting with God now. Scary, punitive. A classic liberal ‘expose’ on religion and the façade put on by the Church/Government/Corporation etc. that are controlling the world. Is it all a sham?!

People are becoming restless. I am trying to remain awake and focused. The scenes seem to keep dragging on. The music is only synchronized, at this point, by the human tendency to bring order out of chaos. I feel silly.

Just then the DVD has a minor glitch. A skip. No way, I think. Keeps going, pause, skip.

God is giving his rewards to the contestants; Brains for religion; a heart for evil industry; and courage for primal man to persevere. Sounds good, what does Dorothy get, our female representative of all humanity now? The DVD skips again and again. Another skip. She’s looking at her shoes… about to go home… “Click”  pause, pause, garble…

Is this it? Man is coming to a premature demise because his own technology let him down in the time of need? The movie finally ground to a halt on Dorothy’s pixilated face. Some people laughed while some groaned in disgust as the lights came on. No closure, no satisfaction in really knowing. What does it all mean? Does it mean there are no answers and man is doomed? No, it means that I get to take a leak now and then drive home.

p.s. I must add that I like the way the snow fell on Dorothy at one point and she found the strength to continue… I really did feel connected to all of the skiers in the room at that point. So if any of you out there have experienced the ‘Dark Side of Oz’ in its entirety, let me know how it and humanity in general turn out.

[carpathian]

Carpy - raisin the rent

moar!

i do, however, think your assessment of BC/AK may be a function of the observer's frame, to wit your newfound appreciation of burlier more technical lines may have more to do with your present access, your crew, and you as a skier moreso than the actual terrain, sola fides

It is true I guess. There is skiing BC style gnar in AK but not as much AK style poof pow spines as in AK. That is why I need to get back to film in AK... stronger then vear before because of BC... I really want to gap spines at high speed or turn inside 270's on spine. But based on what you are saying I could have been stronger skiing having gone anywhere, Utah, CO, Europe. Frame of mind indeed.


On March 31, I finished my 101-Day ski Meditation. My friend Mark and I were to ski out to Tremore, a nice day tour out behind Blackcomb. Mark was one of my successful ‘project skiers.’ Like Hans years ago, Mark had a keen mind and quick reflexes suited for high danger in the mountains. More importantly he was ready to be beaten down in order to grow in the long run.

I had met Mark back in Smithers the previous winter. He was new to the skiers lifestyle, as he had just moved out west from Ontario. At the same time I had also met Tom, who was fresh from Vancouver. He was equally keen but slightly slower upstairs, if you know what I mean. So here I am, this jaded, wannabe pro skier from Alaska, paling around with two rookies. I enjoy being the teacher though and we had fun. We would go out into these super steep, short runs in the trees with the objective to see who had what it took to make the cut. Mark soon proved to be the stronger skier both physically and mentally, as Tom seemed to crack under the pressure, despite his macho posturing.

The season came to a close, Mark went back to Ontario to work and a summer passed. Vesna and I made our way to Whistler where I got a call from Mark back in Smithers in right after I got back from Saskatchewan. He was ready to ski and I told him to get down to Whistler if he wanted to take his skiing to the next level. I was able to find a place for him to rent and two days later he showed up, ready to go.

The tour out to Tremore was a beautiful day. We traversed up and around four smaller peaks on route to our objective. On the summit ridge there is worn path from heavy traffic. We sat on the summit and contemplated the season so far.

Back around Day 80 of my meditation I had an insight. I decided to start building skis for a business and Carpathian Ski Company was born. It was perfect! I already had the film company on the go and I had acquired skills with epoxy and fiberglass construction from back in the day when my dad paid me $3 and hour to do work on his boat while he was at work. I would put two and two together and it made more sense then anything I a long time.

When I told Mark of the idea originally he was pretty keen to be part of it. It was painful but I had to make it clear that I was setting out on that journey solo. I had 20 years of skiing with intention wrapped up I all of it and or paths might have to soon part.

The air was warm and the view was splendid I all directions. We decided to ski. Our line was off the north face and it was very hard ice. Luckily though, the pitch starts out steep but rolls out smooth across the glacier below. I went first and was amazed that despite my skis being turned sideways, I was not slowing down. I kept turning for show as I also kept accelerating until the lower pitch where I could turn them straight and them run. Way down the glacier I turned to see if Mark was following just in time to see him blast past me at about Mach 3 with a flapping coat and wild grin on his face. I turned in pursuit and raced down the mountain as fast as we could. I knew that Mark would be all right and that we would ski again someday.

[carpathian]

As the 2007 Whistler Film festival draws to a close, I sit and reflect on the events of the weekend and watch the snow pile high…

I knew there might be trouble around 9am on Saturday morning en route to Base 2 from our house out on Reid Road, 3km past Mt. Currie. We were just passing Green Lake when my wife’s cell phone went off three consecutive times from random ‘long lost friends in town who wanted to party’. I became concerned when I then realized that I did not bring a change of clothes for an evening in Whistler.

We live far enough out of town such that when you go to town, you bring everything you might need. I was prepared for the mountains not the bar, but I would have to make due.

The skiing was all right. It was clear and cold and I was testing a new pair of skis I had recently constructed myself. I made a few laps on Jersey Cream while diagnosing and critiquing the performance of my new rides. To tell the truth, they kind of sucked. They were too stiff, slight railing in one ski, slight asymmetry in the other etc, etc. They sure looked nice though and I was stoked. It was a beautiful day so I spent a couple of hours hiking around chasing powder.

After skiing we went to Meadow Park to ‘clean up’ and kill time until our first social engagement of the evening. I tell ya, there is nothing better at killing the post-sauna buzz then coming back to your locker and opening the door to be greeted by a rush of damp sickly air poring out. I think it literally fell to the locker room floor and oozed out into the pool only to dye it red like they tell little kids if they pee in the pool. OK, maybe not that bad, but either way the socks were the worse, offering no relief to my thoroughly water logged feet. So I went sockless in wet shoes.

I was complaining loudly now and would have been happy to rush home to warm slippers. I also wanted to avoid any awkward situations that seemed inevitable. But alas, I am but a social recluse for the most part and my wife, who is a growing Whistler socialite, was all too suspicious that I was looking for an easy out. She then pulled out a nice warm pair of socks from deep in the car trunk. So now I had socks and if anything I could stay outside at the bonfire while she partied on to more intimate and enclosed venues.

5 minutes later we are at the RV Park and as it turns out the bonfire thing is cancelled and there goes my last chance to at least borrow a clean shirt when the phone rings and we are off to the GLC! Okay, if I can just keep this beast of a poly pro under a couple of layers everything will be all right. All along I was all too aware of the unspoken social rules followed by the apres ski crowd and people in general.

#1) Wearing ski boots and perhaps aromatic ski gear is accepted if and only if you skied to the bars doorstep. If you have to drive, take your boots off at least. If the bar scene looks like it is going to carry on into the night, don’t stay. Go home, shower, change clothes and then go back. I would say that you can get away with the après ski thing until 6pm at the latest. We were pushing 10pm. The GLC was cool though, no close contact with strangers and some independent short films to watch. I was basically drunk by 11:30pm when the crew decided to hop next door to a ‘lounge/photographer shin dig’ sort of thing. (I think Blake Jorgenson photo auction) Although this event was the most specific of events I wanted avoid for the evening, it seemed it was my fate, nay, My destiny to really see what the night had in store for me as I pushed the limits of proper social behavior.

We slipped in the back patio door right as an auctioneer was calling out numbers on many several beautiful still photos blown up to poster size. Each one was going for a couple of hundred dollars and all proceeds were going to charity. See this is great! The people are stoked, good vibes in the air. I actually felt like we had inadvertently tapped into a vein of this elusive Whistler community only long time locals talk about.

The auction is over, the DJ is pumping out beats and I am feeling good. My wife comes over and introduces me to some guy in along fur coat. I can’t hear is name as he kicks my feet and I realize that he is Feet Banks. Feet is perhaps one of Whistlers most famous (self named?) celebrities. He is well spoken, creative, witty and observant. From what I gather he could be the coolest guy in town and as we talk some drunken politics for less then 1minute he seems to be quite friendly. I was taking mental notes that this might be the closest I would even get to meeting old HS Thompson himself.

Feet gets sucked back into the crowd and I am left with the glow of his presence—no! The presence of Whistler embodied or maybe it was just the Christmas spirit. So we danced. The music was awesome and as I shed inhibitions I also shed some layers. I absorbed the funk and my funk was absorbed into the crowd. I didn’t care though, I figured if I just moved around strategically I could make it seem like it was some other guy. You know, look around in disgust just when you think someone is on to you.

Moments later Feet comes back and he is holding a drink in my direction and yelling into my wife’s ear. I can’t hear anything and as I take the apparent gin and tonic, Feet yells something in my direction and then disappears as I take a swig. It is ice water and it tastes delicious as I yell/ask “What did he say?” My wife, who loves me no matter what, yells back, “He says, YOUSTINK!”

I finish the water quickly in a vain attempt to sober up if not assess the situation. I felt like one of the victim’s of one of Paris Hiltons scathing cut downs in her recent National Lampoon debut. I have to go outside. I get my coat and wish that I had heard what the little bugger had said when he said it. I should have thrown the water in his face and then smashed the glass on his beanie and start one of those bar room brawls you always wish you could be in. I knew I was outnumbered. I figured I could take Feet and Chili Tom together but I knew that the crowd was on his side.

And besides, what he says is true. I pushed the limits and got spanked. As I sat outside looking at the clear night sky I thought about getting a haircut, maybe shaving more then once a week. What do they say? Prior Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance.
I was the dirty dude sitting outside watching the party through the window and even though I wanted to shed a tear I had to laugh! I could not be hurt or confused. I could only marvel at the symmetry by which the universe operates. I guess my stink was to such a frequency that the higher echelons of the social structure had to respond. A call from on high, if you will.

Anyway, I drove home drunk and fast, so as to minimize my time on the roads while I blamed my wife, then the universe, then eventually myself, for allowing the events to transpire thus far. Honestly I never did find myself being mad at Feet. He was just doing his job as a social observer if not a person with a nose. And besides, I got to live through a valuable life lesson and for better or worse Feet Banks knows who I am.

[carpathian]

I just totally remembered that almost exactly a year later, back in Girdwood, I did the same thing in the same shirt. It was the 2008 IFSA end of comp party. Same scenario; go to to ski hill, ski all day, go party... My truck was broke down so I could not easily make the 5k drive back to the house to change. The night was carrying on too quickly.

Splat bought me and the lady dinner at the Pond Cafe, where I used to bus tables with Cody Barnhill (name drop).

So anyway, I was at the party getting jiggy with the beats being pumped out by Jeff Holden on the mic. My friend Abe was there and usually he is the stinkyest one anywhere and I knew that I stunk more.

The basement scene was tight, as in very closely confined. The music was tight too. Jeff Holden knew it was me because Jeff Holden knows everything.
And also the crowd was consistently moving away from me and i could plainly see people making faces of disgust. I had to act quick! I remembered the Jorgenson fiasco so I went with the only option and switched my offending polypro with a less offensive outerlayer fleece.

It was just enough and the people started dancing again and the party was saved. No seriously, Jeff Holden KNOWS everything...

[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JdSKKlNt1nw&feature=channel_page"]YouTube - The 9-Line Cult[/ame]

[carpathian]

Summer time in Whistler is pretty nice. Besides the down hill biking there are hundreds of quality swimming holes and rivers to help you cool off. Whistler can get hot and Pemberton can get even hotter. On a regular basis it broke 40C on our front deck. For weeks at a time it would be over 30C and I had to work in these temperatures. Imagine that going from –40C to +40C in the same year. Overall, running a saw in the cold is easier I figure. You can always put on another layer and keep moving. But in the heat there is nothing you can do once your core temperature reaches a certain point.

In the true heat of the summer we would go on fire hours. Basically be up and working by 5:30am and done by 1pm. I enjoyed that schedule because I would have plenty of time for swimming in the local lakes.

Overall I became stronger by acclimatizing to the heat. I can cope with the cold but the heat was my weakness. I always thought I was prone to dehydration but I figured it is a matter of drinking enough and really using the shade and listening to your body.

Back on Aug 13, 2001 I came closer to death than ever before, and in such an embarrassing way!

Abe, Hans and I climbed the entire length of Penguin Ridge in 6 hours. At that point, I started to feel sick. My legs felt like they did not want to work, like they were seizing up. I felt like I could not drink enough water even though it was not that hot out. Hans chided me to continue for the rest of the proposed trip (another 10 hours). I had to decline as I could feel myself losing control.

I decided to climb down to the house with Abe while Hans continued around California Creek drainage. 1/3 of the way down the 4000ft descent, I started to drift in an out of consciousness. I became delirious from the heat and needed to get home ASAP. I could feel myself losing it as I staggered down the hill, out of control, crashing through the alders, trying to avoid the sun. I was acting like a vampire. I wanted to lay down but I knew I would not rise. I had left Abe in the dust as I made haste through the dense underbrush. I really got scared when I started to get cold. I blundered ahead for what seemed an eternity. I finally made it off the side of the mountain but now had to make it through a 1/4mile of dense forest before I hit the road.

I remember thinking that I did not want to get to the road because it was not sheltered from the sun. Maybe I should just cut through the woods right to the house...? Bad idea. Getting panicky... I remember looking up, thinking the wind was blowing or there was a jet overhead as I peered out the forest to the sky. I looked and looked and then realized that it was a little stream right at my feet. Water! I didn't even think of looking for a stream! I drank and bathed in the tiny stream for a 1/2hour as the flies covered me while I wept. Whoa!

Abe showed up and we made our way out to the road. Once home I was no more then a ghost. I drank about 10 liters of water over the next 5 hours. I had never drifted off that far and it was unnerving. I diagnosed the problem later as a combo of heat, dehydration and the use of Ripped Fuel, an ephedrine based supplement you can get at the store. I nearly did not make it, but I am stronger now.

It took me a full week to recover. I could not walk for the following two days because I had run myself so dry.

Silly indeed. I could not drink coffee for a year after that trip because my system was so fried. It was about a year later when Hans, Todd and I went to ski up on the Alyeska Headwall in late June. It was quite hot out for Alaska standards but there was plenty of snow to be skied.

Hans was circling around the drainage over to the North Face of Max’s and I was going to film from way across the valley. Todd was coming along just for the exercise. He had been on a slow recovery after breaking his back nearly three years prior. He had fallen during one of these extreme ski and snowboard competitions and was almost paralyzed from the waist down.

He was happy to be out in the mountains again. Hans skied his run and Todd started making his way down back to the tram. I had skis and easily zipped across the bowl and waited for Hans. I looked back, and for the life of me, could not see Todd.

I waited for a bit and Hans eventually showed up and we kind of paced around waiting for Todd. I thought he might have kept going down accidentally. Then all of the sudden I saw some movement at the edge of a glide crack. A glide crack is like a crevasse in the snow where the snow partially slides away from the snow above it. There was Todd staggering out of the crack and kind of looking dazed. He made is way to us slowly and recounted what had happened.

He was cruising along and had what he thinks was a heat stroke sort of pass out and he just slid into the hole. While we were waiting, oblivious to the hole being a danger in the first place, he was struggling to gain his bearings and get out of the hole.

If it is not hot then it is cold, what is a mountain man to do? Hit the rivers!

[carpathian]

Winter is coming! What do they do at Blackcomb to prepare for the powder? Bomb it!

[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QVRU5iurztg&feature=channel_page"]YouTube - Tiger Country[/ame]

[carpathian]

The summers in Pemberton Valley are long and hot. I eventually became accustomed to the heat but I really helps to have some nice cold water nearby to take the edge off. Sometimes I feel like Gary D. Commozi, besides the paranoid rants here and there, I sometimes feel stuck in the past. It is hard to be thankful of the present moment when I am always comparing things to how it is in Alaska. In Alaska it never really get too hot, but that never stopped us from getting in the water.

The summer before I discovered DH biking Ryan and I were really into River Boarding. Basically you take a piece of plywood and cut to the size and shape you want and then attach a rope to shore so that you can surf the current. It is pretty fun but when it is pissing rain it can help to wear a wet suit. We would walk up and down Glacier creek looking for new surf waves to try out. We would find a nice section of water, find or construct an anchor and then surf for hours on end. Our kayak friends made fun of us but that was okay.

One summer night I was out by myself looking for waves. It was about 11pm and still light out. I made my way down stream about an hour from my house. I crisscrossed the current and was basically enjoying being out on the water. I decided to start making my way back up stream. As I was going along I saw this little bird on the other side of the river. I stopped and looked at it, it looked at me. I kept walking and noticed that it kept walking too. I stopped and it stopped. I tested it again and started as it started and then stopped, It stopped. It was one of these little sand piper sort of birds and I swear it was looking at me. In my head I was like, “What do you want little bird?”

Just then it cheeped and flew away up stream. I got a feeling in my gut and then took another step. I looked down in the mud and what I saw sent shivers down my spine. I clearly recall coming through the patch of mud on the way downstream because it was the only mud I encountered. As I peered at my own tracks I saw a set of huge brown bear tracks as fresh as fresh could be.

I was on a single path that cut through the 10-12 foot high alder sapling and the river noise drowned out anything else. I knew the bear was in my immediate vicinity. He had to be, I was only hear 10 minutes ago and I had heard stories about how they will stalk around and be right up behind you before you know it. In the same way I felt like I had communicated with the little bird I immediately started sending out vibes to the bear offering peace. My voice probably betrayed my slight panic as I took to yelling “Hey bear!” Just to let him know I was there.

The light was duskish now and the river loud as I kept walking for another half hour. I never saw the bear but I knew he was there the whole time. Up until the helicopter crash I had always assumed that the brown bear was my ‘power animal.’ I had a weird relationship with the beast of the bush. I had spent so many countless hours in direct bear country but never really came face to face with the animal. I always knew he was there though, as I soon believed that he was only just out of sight because we were keeping tabs on each other.

[ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMZP9Xc2VHw&feature=channel_page"]YouTube - Jake Riverboard[/ame]

[carpathian]

Back in Pemberton I was coming to appreciate what the land had to offer. We planned a trip to float the Lilloet River from way up the forest access road. As we got out of the trucks at the Meager Creek Bridge, I could here the roar of the river. According to the Backcountry Map Book, this section should be 8 hours of fast, deep water. It should carry our two canoes 32 kilometers southeast, to the Upper Lillooet Bridge.

We were hoping that the majority of the volume of water would be split up into smaller, braided channels that we could cleanly navigate in open canoes. From the bridge, however, all of the river was one, as we could see several taller standing waves interspersed with consistent smaller waves. We figured that we could just steer around the taller waves and make it around a few corners to where it would hopefully calm down.

Around 11am we launched. Sam, Calita and their dog Cody were in the first canoe. Jamie, my self and my dog Po were in the second canoe. About 10 seconds into our float I had to start bailing. At 20 seconds I had to paddle furiously then at 30 seconds I had to bail again, now at a frenzied pace. At 40 seconds the gunnels started to go under as I watched Po start to swim in my lap. From 45 to 60 seconds I was swimming with one arm, with all of my might as my other hand is gripped around Po’s collar and scruff. We crashed and swam together through a train of standing waves as the whole river made an obvious drop. I could see Sam and Calita already on shore as I struggled the last 10 ft, dog in hand.

At first I was stunned at how quickly things turned sour. Canoe #1 pitch poled off to the horizon as Jamie was still in the water struggling with freeing his dry bag from the submerged cross bar. In the meanwhile Cody the dog was on the other side of the river as we watched him jump back in to join us. I raced 200meters down the boulder-strewn sandbar at pace with the current as I yelled to Jamie “The dog! The dog!” as Cody made it to shore.

Luckily we were only 1 kilometer from the trucks so we sprinted upstream, then drove 5k downstream, parked, ran through the woods and then huge, open sandbar. I could see the tops of waves in the hazy distance. We hit the river and ran downstream another kilometer. There was our boat, pinned upside down on the bottom, on the other side of three deep, fast, cold channels.

I was responsible for the borrowed boat so I had to navigate, claw and swim my way across the river. I got to the boat after some real Navy Seal maneuvering! As I began prying her loose from the suction and weight of the water, I realized that the river had beaten her badly. No seats, no gunnels, no throw-bag, no paddles, just a floppy fiberglass hull. I hiked upstream and pushed into the torrent and free-styled through a wave train that carried me across to the other shore as Jamie tossed me a line made of tie-downs tied together and a stick for weight. The line came up just short as I speed crawled from the intact stern to the fractured bow and into the water with bow in one hand and now the rope in the other as I swung like a pendulum to shore.

For Sammy’s boat we decided to search upstream to where the first shallow braids might catch a canoe. We found it about 2 kilometers upstream from our boat. It was stuck in a similar scenario except with deeper and faster currents.

Jamie took to the lead and committed to powerful forward strokes to get across the main channel. This boat was equally as mangled with gunnels and seats hanging limp and broken. This canoe was constructed out of plastic and it began to ‘taco’ because the gunnels were part of the structure apparently. Because of this ‘taco’ effect and its accompanying extreme instability, Jamie decided to swim across with a line in his hand connected to the canoe trailing downstream from him.

He came whizzing by me and my out reached stick. Sammy again had to use our jimmy rigged safety line and hauled Jamie to the shore. But the boat slipped from his grasp and began running down stream again as I had to sprint along the shore another 100meters and wade out into waist deep water to finally salvage our lost vessel. The time was 4pm.

We made our way to the trucks to sit in the sun, drink a couple of warm beers and reflect on potential lessons learned.

My knee was till sore from our botched Lilloet River expedition. I had banged it pretty good as I crab crawled across the current trying to save the canoe. Not to be beaten though, I decided to try the Birkenhead River with Bougie. Our mode of transportation would be the pack raft.

Imagine a little kiddie raft built for one person. Now imagine that basic design constructed out of reinforced Kevlar with a spray skirt and a carbon fiber paddle. They are pretty nimble and light. I have never really done any kayaking or rafting. I had done mellow canoeing, Lilloet trip aside.

Bougie was optimistic in my abilities and our route. The Birkenhead flowed right past our house just outside Pemberton. He pickled me up in the afternoon and figured that the trip would only take a couple of hours. The lower bit is smooth Class I and the middle section is up to Class III. Bougie had a little guidebook in his lap as we negotiated under the power lines right of ways looking for our access point.

He wanted to catch the very last section of Class IV and was confident that I could do it. I was nervous. The river seemed to be more rock then water. It had about one tenth the volume of the Lilloet River, but from what I could see, this was way steeper. Bougie had two of these little boats and we both squeezed in and pushed from shore. It was actually more of a pulling motion as I gripped on the rocks with my hands and scooted my butt through the super tight channels. I did not even have a chance to practice paddling before the first five foot drop. It was exhilarating! I paddled and dashed from channel to channel barely in control.

Bougie dropped over another cliff and I followed close on his stern. We hit drop after drop as we came around a bend and saw a stairway feature of drops spiraling away to the distance. I was right on Bougie’s tail as we plunged over 1, 2, 3, 4 cliffs in a row. On the fifth drop there was a he log across the river about 2 feet off the surface. Bougie pulled off a smooth ducking motion and cleanly avoided hitting his head. I struggled to do the same maneuver but ended up over leaning and flipped backwards right in the crux of the waterfall. The bottom of the boat hit the log as I dove out and came to the surface,

I attempted in vain to hang onto the one paddle and the boat and swim at the same time. My coat pockets filled with water and I clawed at the cliffs along the waters edge and had to let the boat and paddle go. I climbed up on the boulder like a near drowned rat. As Bougie power stroked downstream to catch my ride I was left barefoot and alone on the wrong side of the river.

I first tried to walk through the woods but that did not work on my soft feet. The boulders along the stream were large and slippery. My only option was to jump back in and swim across to the other side where the road was so I could walk on pavement.
After about 20 minutes we were reunited. I got back in my boat and Bougie reassured me that we had come through the worst of it and it turns out he was right.

The rest of the trip was awesome as we rode over wave after wave for 2 hours straight. Nothing was too scary but it was still challenging.

Right at the last 50 meters of the river before our pull out, there were three young 1st nation guys sitting on the beach. One of them jumped up and ran into the water and dove right in front of Bougie. He stood there drunk and cross-eyed and grabbed Bougie’s boat and told us “No white people here.”

He made a fist menacingly. I thought “yeah right these drunk guys are going to stop after the challenges we already surpassed.” He came to me and I shook his hand and told him that I knew it was his river and I asked permission to go through. He said yes only if I bought him some beer. I agreed and he let us go. We loaded in the car and drove away.

[carpathian]

I started driving at 4am on the morning of February 6, 2008. I drove for 18 hours straight from Pemberton, BC to Prince Rupert, BC. The last 3 hours from Terrace to Rupert were the worse. It was snowing harder then I had seen it snow in a while. With my dog Po as my co-pilot, I was road buzzed from driving solo for so long but was still keeping a good time, though I did almost go off the road in the slush just out side of Rupert. My flat deck truck was loaded to the gills with my snowmobile and my entire ski-building factory. I was going to get on the ferry and ride north to Haines, AK. From there I planned on driving to Anchorage where I would stay at my parents house for three months so I could build and sell Carpathian Skis. Carpathian Peak is the biggest peak in the area so I named my ski company after it. I also was planning on competing in three world championship events on my own gear at Alyeska Resort. It was an epic homecoming and I was excited.

With the first stage of my journey complete, I could relax for a couple of days on the ferry. It is a scenic voyage and I enjoyed the spirit of adventure. It seemed ironic that I was this Alaskan native with so much experience actually in Alaska but here I was no feeling like a green horn, rolling into new territory.

It was cold outside Juneau. Normally on the ocean the temperature is somewhat moderated, even in the winter it never will get too cold. This was different though as it was –25C and blowing hard as we chugged north to Haines. From Haines I would be stepping into the most hazardous stage of the journey. Outside of Haines, Alaska you cross the border back into BC and climb up to Haines Pass. As you descend the other side of the pass you cross another border into the Yukon. You are also going into the interior side of the Coast Range where the temperature drops precipitously. I was nervous as I departed Haines around 7am. I knew I was ‘going deep’ so to speak, but I was up to the challenge.

My main concern was my diesel truck. I had bad experiences in northern Saskatchewan with my work truck gelling up once it hit –40 Celsius. Right now it was –35 in Haines Junction, Yukon. I still had summer fuel in my truck and I knew that in Haines Junction they would sell cold weather diesel. As I descended the pass the temp dropped and my truck started to act up. It sneaks up on you. The gas pedal feels a little sluggish and she kind of stalls out a bit. Soon it stalls more and more then picks up again like there is no problem. I can feel the fear rising in my gut because I am in the middle of nowhere. There are not even people to hitch with on this spur highway and if I don’t get to town before the border closes at the end of the day, I am stuck.

I limped into Haines Junction and found a gas station. Apparently the temperature was dropping and no one was outside as I fiddled with the fuel pump. I could not get it to work. The gas attendant person told me that I was the first customer to use it for the day and that I would have to hold it in front of my idling exhaust pipe to thaw the pump mechanism.

Sure enough, after a few minutes of choking on exhaust, the pump would flow and I thought I was saved. I topped her up and started for the Alaska border some 300 miles north. This stretch is bleak with the mountains on your left and the cold interior plains on your right. It was deceiving though. The sun was out and it looked nice out from the heated confines of my truck cab. But when I stopped to take breaks of the side of the road, it quickly became clear that it was very fucking cold. I sensed that it might be colder then –40 but I was not sure. The truck was driving all right and I was going to make it home that night. Five minutes later the truck starts acting up. She feels sluggish in forth gear so I downshift and keep driving. Soon she is sluggish and stalling in 3rd so I drop to 2nd, then 1st. I am crawling on the side of the empty highway at walking speed and I am still 200 miles from the town of Beaver Creek, located right at the border.

Po is looking at me like he knows we are in trouble and he cowers next to me, slightly shaking. The truck dies. I don’t get out of the truck so as to preserve what tiny amount of heat I have trapped in the cab. I feel like crying at this point. A minute later I start the truck and resume walking speed. The fuel lines run past the engine and they will thaw if giving enough time near the engine heat. She stalls again. I wait five minutes and start crawling again. I know it is futile but like a good captain I do not want to abandon ship.

She stalls again and this time will not start. I have to hitch hike. It was about noon and there is usually a car or truck going by every half an hour. I stick my thumb out and get picked up by the first car. Everyone knows that if anyone needs help out here you had better offer assistance.

We left my truck and drove for two hours to the tiny border town of Beaver Creek. Not really a town but more like a motel, and gas station. I get dropped off near a couple of abandoned looking garages after the gas station person told me this is where the tow truck is. The place is sketchy and looks like it was last renovated in the fifties. I call the number and an old lady answered. She told me that her husband was out on a job but would be back in a couple of hours.

I go back to the gas station/motel and ask for a room. The guy starts lecturing me on why I am driving out there. “Don’t you know it is –55C out there? Not even the locals are driving! Blah, blah, blah.”

I got comfortable with the TV in the weird room I was in and waited for the call.
The next day was Sunday and the guy “would not go out until 10am to get my truck,” he told me. I waited all the next day and walked over to the garage around 4pm. They had my truck but she did not want to start. I guess it got down to –70C the last night, ushering in the coldest spell of the winter. I remember using the old pull start method back in Saskatchewan and sure enough she roared to life, like being resurrected from the dead.
Problem was that the heater did not work because it was frozen or something but I had to go anyway. The guy charged me $500 for the tow truck and bid me farewell. It was the warmest part of the day and oddly enough it felt balmy at –40C.

http://www.youtube.com/carpathianski.../1/qkQSjdrsSKk

[carpathian]

After taking 6 days to get to Anchorage, everything else felt easy. The Telepalooza 1st Annual World Extreme Telemark Championships almost caught me off guard. It was all right though, because with telemark boots these days and these super fat skis I was rocking, I figured that I would just ski the terrain that you could not telemark turn in anyway. I got away with it for the first day. I aimed for the heart of the ‘no fall zone’ as a confident alpine skier.

My first run was a super gnarly first descent and my second run I went bigger then ever before in my life with a 20-80ft double. I ended up in 5th place, as unfortunately the judges did not count Run 2 because some guy hurt himself and the last 10 guys did not get to ski so my score did not count.

In Day 2 of the Tele comp I was confident that I had a secret weapon. Everyone was poking around ‘the Prow’ area as I figured on going over into the ‘Postal Pocket’ area for better snow and longer steep sections. Right at the top of the run I piled into a chest deep fresh snow drift and front flipped right back to my feet and sent the slab rolling down ‘Christmas Chute’. The judges totally saw me roll as I made alpine turns down the lower, mellow terrain. I fell from 5th place to 25th.

Two days later the North Face sponsored Big Mountain Snowboard Masters comp began. It was fun because I could get on the lift and not have to talk to the telemark skiers anymore. Up until this point in my building season, I had constructed 19 pairs of skis. The day before the snowboard comp started I finished my first snowboard. This thing was as stiff as a 2x6 but she had clean lines. I am barely managing to turn this thing and end up in 11th overall at the end of it. Either says something about my riding or something of the state of snowboarding…

By now, according to my plan, I would be so immersed in competition mode that by the time the IFSA event came along I would have a mental advantage over the other guys. At first I was struck by the cult like qualities of the IFSA in general. Or more specifically if felt like a positive ‘spiritual group for athletes’. Compared to the two previous competitions I had just participated in, the IFSA definitely has a longer history, which leads to more ‘unity’, and an over all family feel. In the introduction meeting we were reminded to celebrate life and remember the people who had died doing what we all loved to do, which is rip big mountain lines. Tomorrow would be the one-year anniversary of Neal Valiton’s death in the Tignes World Championship event, so we all wanted to ski safe.

The next day the clouds were in and out but the skies remained mostly sunny. I was 5th from the end of a strong field of 75 male competitors. I had several hours to hike around on the venue to scope lines and watch other skiers. I could also hear the announcers at the bottom so I knew which skiers scored well on which lines. All I can say is that dudes were charging. I cringed a couple of times as there were several close calls coupling speed with exposure. There were a lot of tomahawks and you could tell that that some skiers were probably skiing faster then they ever had before on the long, steep, smooth run-out.

I eventually hiked up to the start right when John Nicoletta was charging into his line. I did not know who he was at the time. A moment later I noticed the group of ski patrollers nearby perking up to their radios in unison. A couple of them skied into the venue quickly then a minute later the rescue sled was dispatched from the top. Word was that they were performing CPR. A helicopter appeared soon thereafter and landed briefly then took off again without loading anyone. That is not good sign, I thought to myself. A few minutes later the organizers called off the event for the day.

John Nicoletta had died soon after sustaining severe head and chest injuries after rag-dolling right in the same spot I had watched those close calls earlier in the day. In the evening we were informed officially of his death. We were also told that the event would continue the next day following an early morning memorial at the top of the venue. I still felt kind of numb. I was not sure how the emotions would set in. I was not sure what to think.

We all hiked slowly and silently up the steep head wall boot-pack. At the top we were greeted by a stunning clear vista of all of the surrounding mountains of the mighty Chugach and the lesser-known Kenai Range to the south. These are my favorite mountains in the world. I grew up hiking from peak to peak trying to forever expand my vision of the area. The views compelled me to do so. As I stood there I realized that I had climbed every single peak that you could see at one time or another over the previous 12 years.

It was not the loving memories of John’s friends that piqued my emotions. It was standing there in the familiar trance that the stunning view evokes. I suddenly felt extreme sadness for John’s family and friends but I felt more sadness for John who would never get to look across these mountains again.

After the memorial everyone who had skied the day before the accident got a free run down to the bottom while the remaining competitors, myself included, had to get back into competition mode. It all seemed silly. The only reason I skied was because I said I was doing all three comps come hell or high water, so I felt I had to.

The snow had changed but I stuck with my line. After an air I skidded a turn, flipped backwards but then managed to regain control in mid flip. I slashed two turns into a nice, long, low air into fresh powder and sunlight. I ended up in 54th place. I retired from 10 years competitive big-mountain skiing at the end of that run.

The week before the competitions started there was fund-raiser for my old friend Fred Bull. As it turns out he had been battling a rare form of brain cancer for several years and was in need of money to complete his third operation. The doctors had been removing chunks of his brain in hopes of stopping its spread. Fred was there and I had not seen him in several years. He was as jovial as ever and about 300 people from the ski community showed up to support one of their own.

He was the one who literally instilled a sense of awe and respect for the Chugach Mountains in general and specifically, Carpathian Peak, the namesake of my company. It struck me as crazy that here I was trying to sell these skis while trying kill myself by skiing huge cliffs and showing off for the judges and here is my old friend dying of cancer. I really believed the surgery was going to work and I was taken in by his contagious lust for life, as I was 10 years ago when I first met him. Fred was so happy to see that I was building skis but he refused the pair I had brought as a gift for him. He preferred that I auctioned them off with the other stuff being auctioned to raise money.

After two weeks of being in ‘competition mode’ I was burnt out. My lovely and supportive wife, Vesna, and I went on a nice sailing trip into Prince William Sound then we made our way over to Valdez for a few snow mobile runs and then eventually back to Haines, where the ferry awaited to take us south to Prince Rupert and Whistler.

Fred and I never did ski Carpathian Peak and I have not to this day. It is kind of like the carrot on the stick but is also a place for gods and men turned to the heavens. Fred’s last goal of his life was to finish building a house for his wife and unborn daughter. They were living in Seattle where Fred was getting treatment and Fred knew he had to finish the house sooner then later. He did finish the house and his daughter was born a month later. Fred died one week after that.

I don't know why these aren't embedding...

http://www.youtube.com/carpathianski.../2/LUiFx1zCpTs


http://www.youtube.com/carpathianski.../3/88IPg-8rnbM

[highangle]

....

Is this it? Man is coming to a premature demise because his own technology let him down in the time of need? The movie finally ground to a halt on Dorothy’s pixilated face. Some people laughed while some groaned in disgust as the lights came on. No closure, no satisfaction in really knowing. What does it all mean? Does it mean there are no answers and man is doomed? No, it means that I get to take a leak now and then drive home.

p.s. I must add that I like the way the snow fell on Dorothy at one point and she found the strength to continue… I really did feel connected to all of the skiers in the room at that point. So if any of you out there have experienced the ‘Dark Side of Oz’ in its entirety, let me know how it and humanity in general turn out.

poppies


the opium of....well....

[JayPowHound]

Just wanted to say I enjoy this thread.

[carpathian]

Spring is long upon us here in Smithers, BC. Vesna is approximately 8 and half months along and we half expect the baby any day. I have been busy for the last month building on our soon to be home. Each day seems to be warmer and warmer as we are also becoming more excited to have this baby and get on with a new chapter in this adventure called life.

Smithers always seems to be a place of reflection for me. A back eddy from the mainstream current pulsing in more high traffic regions. It stands in contrast to the amped up atmosphere of Whistler and the Lower Mainland in general. The interesting thing about Whistler is that even though the area is pumped up from huge cash flow and extreme sport and french canadian transients, there is still some room for the remnants of the spirit world as told through the stories of the local first nation people.

From our lawn, JJ would point up to the bulk of Mt Currie and the connecting horizon line that circles Gravell Creek and connects around to the Bastion, the mountain I had earlier climbed and skied solo. Apparently Mt Currie is a spiritual power place, as it should be, towering 7000feet about Pemberton Valley. The local tribes would send young men up into the drainage to go on their spirit quest because it is a nexus, or intersection between this world and the world of unseen shadows you only half glimpse ducking behind a tree when you turn to look.

Every time I looked around in appreciation of the Pemberton and Whistler area, I was reminded of the helicopter crash and how we immediately moving south to run away. I remember one of the first hot days of the following summer when we went swimming at Lost Lake. I was out a ways from shore and all of the sudden a helicopter flew over the area and I felt a panic start to rise in my gut. I didn’t want to seize up and drown here in this lake that would be silly.

Later when Pete’s wife called and blamed me for his death and relinquished his spirit name from me I did not know what to think. All I knew is that it was ironic that his spirit name was ‘Great Swimming Wolf.’ Was my spirit jarred from my body, leaving me hollow and void of emotion? Or was I finally looking at the world through my own spirit eyes, free of subjective interpretation?

[carpathian]

Bougie and I were up at 5am. We had to get an early start in order to beat the heat as we power climbed straight up the broad treed shoulder of Mt Currie’s NE flank.


At 7:30am we were 4000ft up above the scenic Pemberton Valley. The Lilloet River stretched west and the Birkenhead curved away to the north from our vantage. At tree line we took to dodging the sun in the very last scraps of shade we would see for the day. As it turns out, this would be the hottest day of the year with temperatures breaking 40C in the valley. It seemed like the higher we climbed, the heat followed, licking at our heels as we managed to stay one step ahead. (notice the huge earth slump waiting to obliterate Pemberton...)



We ascended the glacier that spills off Mt Curries North Bowl.



There were a couple of crevasse crossings that made me nervous. We were able to divert on to the adjacent mossy cliffs around the gaping blue holes. We sat and took a breather and I remembered hearing a story from my friend Ryan back in Alaska.



He had gone out on a day trip with the objective of climbing Byron Peak, just south of Girdwood in Portage Valley. The easiest way to get up the mountain is to climb straight up Byron Glacier 2000ft to a obvious col. From there you have another 1500 feet of exposed ridge up to the summit. I had only climbed the peak once but clearly remember a couple of technical moves where you could not fall.

It did not matter because they never made it that far. Ryan and his friend, Ben from back in Maine, were cruising up the glacier with no ropes but using crampons. In the summer you can see all the crevasses so you can at least see where not to go. They were climbing up the last steep pitch when Ben’s crampon got caught up in his pant leg and he started tumbling and he rolled about 100 feet before smacking into a gaping crevasse in which he slid down into some 30 feet. Ryan hurried back down the pitch to see his friend wedged in tightly. He even went so far as to down climb with one foot on each side of the crack and stem his way down to his friend.

Ben was conscious and hurt and he knew it. His head was cracked open and he told Ryan that he knew he was going to die. Ryan tried with all of his might to dislodge Ben but to no avail. He told Ryan to go and run to the parking lot for help and they said their goodbyes. By time the rescue party made it to the scene, he was dead.

Bougie and I had to continue. The day was young and we had a long way to go. We ended up hitting the summit after five and a half hours of speed hiking. It was a spectacular view but we could not dawdle. By my calculations we still had another 10 hours of technical ridge climbing ahead of us to complete the circuit.



The descent off of the peak of Currie was crazy. The ridge narrowed to maybe 2 feet wide with 3000ft sheer drop under our left side and only 1500 feet on the right.


After a few scary moves we were into the heart of the journey. There is point along any treacherous path referred to as ‘the point of no return.’ It is place in space or time where you can only go forward and you can’t deviate, even if you wanted to. 3000ft below us was the sacred headwaters of local lore and here we were climbing above the place of spirits into the realm of the gods.



The ridge broadened into a rolling plateau. It was a desert like landscape with no water, no wind. Only silence and endless vistas as our feet kept moving from stone to stone. (we came from summit of Currie in background)



Occasionally the ridge would narrow and jumble into huge blocky steps as we negotiated each crux with a deep breath or maybe a nervous joke about our escape options, because we knew that we had none. We would have to take what the mountain threw at us.

The thing about technical ridge travel is that there are always more ups and downs then you might expect. After Currie we negotiated ten more sub peaks, each a mountain in its own right. The 7th or 8th peak looked daunting. It rose in a sharp fang with three sides falling away vertical. Luckily there was an odd geomorphic feature that appeared as a chalky colored diagonal slash across one of the near vertical faces. It was our only option and proved barely manageable. Like always we were traveling without ropes so small technical moves can have huge consequences. We nimbly maneuvered across the loose minefield of boulders that were perched, ready to let loose for 2000ft to the valley below.



Every step is life or death and you have to be in a state of relaxed concentration. We made it across the face to only come across another crux. The hard summer snow had held tight to the ridge as we squeezed between it and the wet bedrock. At one point we had to come out of the safety behind the ice to negotiate across precarious placed rocks over full exposure. Or rather 150 feet of super steep summer snow that I could imagine my finger claw marks skidding down and into oblivion.

There was a two-foot section of ice leading to a boulder with a small depression that had melted at its base. The move was this: Stretch with all commitment and lean first hand across to solid boulder then step right foot across and into depression leaving body in full down hill facing position. We then had to step the left foot and hop at the same time to slide into mini depression while clinging to the boulder at same time. Finally there was a three-foot boulder move to climb the rock and scramble back on to the ridge. Not pretty but it worked.

We crested the ridge and promptly saw that we could have easily avoided the death-defying move if we had gone through a previously unseen notch. Such is life! We ran down the summer snow with reckless abandon, careening and cart wheeling all the way. We had three more peaks to go but they were all technically easy considering what we had come through.


By the end of it I was tired. The sole of my shoe was coming unglued as we slipped and skidded through the forest trying to find the cut block and our salvation. As the last rays of the hottest day of the year shined horizontally through the trees in our face we ran the last kilometer to the waiting truck.

[carpathian]

Carpy - raisin the rent

moar!

i do, however, think your assessment of BC/AK may be a function of the observer's frame, to wit your newfound appreciation of burlier more technical lines may have more to do with your present access, your crew, and you as a skier moreso than the actual terrain, sola fides

I dunno, look what happens when my BC skier friends go up to Alaska:


Foraker Camp





Bougie looking stunned at sunrise at base of Archangels.












I mean look at this guy! Low end BC skir goes to AK and tops out on Foraker like nothing else!


Here is Marcus with the Blackcomb Salute:



Sometimes it does not hurt to live vicariously through your friends endeavors. Speaking of which, Bougie! Where are your Carpathians, gosh darn it?!

[carpathian]

I awoke this morning to find Vesna in the early stages of labor. She is walking around the property in a bathrobe and pausing with each contraction. We will wait until the contractions come at 3-minute intervals and last for 45 seconds before we head to the hospital.

I can see life changing, just around the corner and I look forward to the new responsibility of raising a little human. We have always had pets and would joke that they were ‘practice babies.’ To some extent that is true because you do have to feed and love your dog or cat and look out for their wellbeing because they can only do so much for themselves. It is up to you as the parent to keep them out of danger and make proper decisions when it comes to minimizing the hazards, like keeping butcher knifes in the drawer or building a little fence at the top of the stairs.

Long ago I had a girl friend that I lived with in Girdwood. Her name was Katy and we made the move to get a little Australian Shepard puppy and named her Maddie. I took it upon my self to take the dog wherever I could in the mountains. I trained her to climb with me up the steep craggy ridges in the summer and she loved to go skiing almost more then her human counterparts. We would climb to the top of the mountain and she would start into a barking frenzy as we prepared to ski.

Somewhere along the way I broke up with the girlfriend and the dog took the life a child with divorced parents. We each loved the dog and would take turns, swapping her back and forth for a day here or there.

One day in late April I was going skiing with a couple of friends that I had never really skied with before. I was on the side of the highway with Thad, Jared and Maddie preparing to hike and ski Indian House Mountain. Right as we were about to start hiking Katy was driving by and she pulled over to stop and ask where we were going. Maddie ran up and she got a scratch behind the ear before we parted ways and made our way up the mountain.

It was warm out and the route we were climbing was bare, so we hiked in shoes carrying all the ski gear. We climbed the south face and planned on skiing the unknown north face. At the top of the run it was very steep. So steep in fact that to this day I can’t believe we were skiing the line, let alone bringing a dog along. I crept in and made three turns. Even though the day was warm, the snow was almost ice because the sun had just crept around the corner a half hour before. After my three turns I was thinking that “this is steep” and I should be careful. I saw that I was going to have to traverse to my left about 100 feet before I could ski fall line because I was over what appeared to be 500 foot cliffs.

I called Maddie to my side. She was reluctant to depart the safe ridge top but like a well trained, trusting dog, she slid on her rump and skidded to my feet. At this point the first alarm bells were going off. I was now thinking “oh shit, this is steep and icy.”

I knew we would be all right if we made it to the clean line to our left.
I turned and made a kick turn and started to scoot to my left. One second later I saw in my peripheral vision, Maddie skipping down the mountain all stiff legged. She was already reaching top speed before she disappeared over the edge of the cliffs below.

I made the number one error as the rescuer, which was putting myself at risk in the process of trying to save the dog. Without thinking I started skiing full speed down the icy slope in a futile attempt to save the dog. There were mandatory cliffs that I skied off and don’t remember. I saw Maddie rolling in a heap down the lower flanks of the slope and she ended up perched on a chunk of debris. She looked like she was looking at me as I skied up and in my heart I was hoping that she was not alive so I would not be in the position of having to put her out of her misery with a leatherman or something.

I skied up and paused nearby. She was dead and her tongue was hanging out nearly severed. I just sat there in a state of shock trying to realize what had happened because it happened so quickly. I tried to pick her up but she was like a bag of broken pieces. I sat there with tears on my cheeks and watched my two, stunned ski partner cautiously make there way down the mountain.

They made there way to me and only then understood what had happened.
After a few moments of silence I decided I had better try to carry her out of the mountains. I skied with her in my arms as far as I could. Just as my biceps were giving out, we hit the snow line and would have to walk for 2 hours back to the road. I had leave her there. I tucked her in to what I thought was good spot and we departed.

On the highway I was walking like a zombie back towards the car when I saw Katy’s car zip past. She pulled a quick U-turn and stopped to get out. She came walking up the highway immediately asking where Maddie was. I could only say, “go back to the car.” She became more frantic when she started to understand that Maddie was no longer with us and she started sobbing on the side of the road. I took her to her car and she cried while I relayed the story. Thad and Jared took my jeep home and I rode with Katy to her mom’s house to break the bad news.

The next week I got a phone call. I guess I forgot to take Maddie’s collar off and some guy called to say that she was in the middle of the trail. Apparently where I left her the trail made a zig zag under the snow so when the snow melted she was not in a good spot. I power hiked up two hours with Fred. My heart was choked for the whole climb. I got to Maddie and she was sin the middle of the trail with tracks stepping right over her. As quickly as I could I carried her over into the thick bush and laid her to rest with a view of the beautiful Turnagain Arm below.

[carpathian]

The Mt Currie trip proved to be one of the best outings I had while living down south. After I had that under my belt I felt like I had achieved what I had come to do, though I was still not sure what that was. By the end of the summer Vesna and I knew that we had to move back north to Smithers and hopefully Alaska. Smithers was a step in the right direction. Vesna figured out that she was pregnant sometime in September and we knew the clock was ticking. Picking up and moving can be tricky but we had done it in the past and we would do it again. The plan was to be out of JJ’s house by the end of November. I worked up until the day before we were to move and we were ready to go.

A month prior Vesna’s brother Alec and I drove up to Smithers in a blitzkrieg mission to start building our cabin. We purchased a cabin kit from some guy out in Mission Ridge and managed to fit the entire stack of lumber on my truck. We drove 15 hours to Smithers, built nonstop for a week and then power drove back. We ended up finishing the outer shell of the cabin but there was still tons of work to be done.






The next step was for Vesna and I to drive over to our piece of property near Revelstoke and pick up the camper that was sitting on the land. Of course the truck broke down again and to make a long story short, her parents came through in a pinch and I finally diagnosed the issue with truck…

In the meanwhile we negotiated a deal with a coworker of mine who sorely wanted to purchase the Revelstoke land from us and we sealed the deal with a bag of cash on the day before we were to leave town. Good thing because we were short on cash otherwise and it would have been tricky with no gas money.

When Vesna and I were finally ready to make the move we had my truck with a huge camper and trailer loaded to the gills. Vesna was in here car and she was towing a trailer too. It was smooth sailing all the way through the Frazier Canyon and up to Quesnel, where we stayed in a motel for the night. The next morning we woke up to a foot on new snow and the highways were a mess. It was the first snowstorm of the year and everyone was caught off guard.

For whatever reason we pulled out of the safety of the motel parking lot and ventured into the blizzard. We made it about two hours before Vesna’s car started fishtailing. The road was real bumpy from the way the snow compacted and my truck vibrated loudly. We had little radios to communicate along the way. As we pulled through Hixon, we had to slow way down and then right out of town there was a long hill that already had several big rigs and couple of RVs stopped on the side. Vesna was going for it and I could see her back tires skidding out. I radioed for her to stop because I could see that she was not going to make.

We pulled over in the blizzard and hopped to out assess the situation. I turned my truck off and walked back to Vesna. When I got to her car I saw that my truck was sliding backward and I had to run back and get the parking block out.

In the meanwhile a highway patrol person came by and offered to help. We unhooked Vesna’s trailer and attached it to his truck. He started going down the hill and I was going to follow in the car when all of the sudden the trailer became unattached and started running down the hill by itself. I recall actually seeing the kitchen sink tap sticking out of the load as the trailer careened to a stop in the snow bank just as a big rig crawled by with chains in low gear. I had to laugh at this point as I reattached the trailer and followed the guy back to Hixon, about 1km.

I left the car and trailer and returned to Vesna at the truck. The new plan was to drive to Prince George about 50 km up the road to get some chains for the car and then return to retrieve the car. About half way to P.G. we realized that we did not want to drive the car at all in this weather. The problem now was that we had left our important documents in the car. If we were to go to Smithers without the car we would at least not want to leave passports and such in a random parking lot for who knows how long.

My truck still needed to be fueled up so we had to go to P.G. anyway. At the gas station I unhooked the trailer and we ventured back through the eye of the storm to grab the passports. Two hours later we had passports in hand and we were back in P.G. I wanted to reattach my trailer but sometime during the long drive, the heavy contents had shifted backwards and for the life of me, I could not get the trailer tongue back down on the hitch. I had to ask a random guy to help with his body weight and in the process I was pushing somewhere and my hand slipped and I gashed my finger.

Holysmokes! We were back on the road with plans to retrieve the car and trailer at a later date. We just had to get the camper to the property. We made it to Burns Lake and stayed the night. The next morning we rolled into Smithers no worse for wear. Over the following week we got the camper off the truck and started to prepare the mini cabin we would be living in until the real house was complete. Another week later, under the only sunny skies in weeks, we made the 500km one way drive back to Hixon to get the car and trailer and drive back all in one day.

Until the house was done we would be living in this structure for the winter: