Preparing for Mount Anderson

            Powder doesn’t hurt. Soft falls turn stubble into Santa’s beard. My face is pure white except for my gums and if it weren’t for my smile I might be invisible. Both my skis are gone, buried in the slough. I will have to climb back up and wrench them out. They say if you don’t fall, you’re not trying. I must be trying really, really hard.

            In five days, a few of my closest friends and I will be embarking on a backcountry ski expedition into the heart of the Olympic Mountains. Our goal is to climb Mount Anderson and ski its remote glaciers, a journey that few people have ever attempted and perhaps none have completed. Records of ski descents in the Olympics are inconclusive at best and non-existent at worst. Although I have been unable to find any proof that Mount Anderson has ever been skied, I don’t wish to claim any firsts for myself. The beauty of this expedition lies in the fact that I have lived next to the Olympics for my entire life, yet I have never explored them when the trees are pillowed with snow, when layers of frozen insulation make the ubiquitous silence even quieter. Only in my dreams. Are dreams so far from reality?

            Hazy skies give way to hazier lines cut into mountainsides. We ski half way down and set the skin track half way up so we can finish it on our full-length run. Boughs sway in sun breaks and furtive breezes, peppering the air with weightless crystals. It looks like it’s snowing, but it’s just the trees brushing themselves off. I wonder if skis vibrate roots and push the fresh showers over. If you watch close, you might glimpse a hint of rainbow against the white and green background. There is always at least one rainbow gliding past on the surface of the uncut; that rainbow is me.

            Preparation can be fun. It can also be extremely stressful. Dialing in my ski gear means weeks of practice at Hurricane Ridge, an activity that produces far more joy than stress. Deep powder, hard crust, sunny evenings, misty mornings. The Ridge provides myriad testing and skiing conditions. I have spent almost 20 days there this season and I’m beginning to appreciate every convexity, every cornice. Freya and I have suffered multiple gear failures—she even lost a screw on her binding once—but they have always been excellent reminders, moments of learning that will not go unheeded. This is the type of preparation I don’t mind: ski days with new boots, ski days with different poles, ski days with hot or cold skies. The other type of preparation, the more stressful type, involves shopping carts full of instant food, maps with erased and scribbled pencil marks, credit limits that are close to being exceeded. Unfortunately, this type of preparation is pivotal to the success of our trip and I spend hours and hours working through the details.

            Our home looks like most people’s garages. Half-loaded sleds, grimy duffle bags, skins and beacons hanging to dry. The constant buzz of the food dehydrator makes focusing difficult. I’ll think of this moment when I eat that leathery red sauce with capellini, those gritty hashbrowns. Still, I know I won’t care about the flavor when that moment comes, nor will I care about all this stressful preparation. I’ll be surrounded by winter, miles away from pavement and life; I’ll be clipping into powder-hungry skis and gazing into immaculate fields waiting to be plowed; I’ll be trying really, really hard and falling over a lot; I’ll be laughing and hooting and swearing and screaming with delight. And the best part of all? I’ll be just outside my door, skiing the hills that grow from the ocean, the hills in my backyard.

           

            

Hendrik Coetzee: Consumed

I recently came upon this article in Outside Magazine Online about Hendrik Coetzee, an experienced whitewater kayaker who was tragically killed when he was attacked by a crocodile on a remote river in Africa.

Although the article is written in somewhat melodramatic fashion, it subtly focuses on an important aspect of extreme sports that is often misinterpreted by the media. Those of us who choose to risk our lives for thrills and adventure are aware that staying alive often requires an aspect of luck. Bad luck can strike anyone at any time, even the most experienced people, and when this happens there is usually nothing that can be done about it. No amount of physical or technical training can prevent these mishaps. There is simply no way to explain it, but it continues happening in all realms of extreme sports, and people continue to risk their lives regardless. Instead of grasping at a reason for this tragedy, I think it is important to remember that Hendrik knew the risks and that he died doing something he loved. His passion for exploration and adventure took him to some of the most incredible places in the world and for that I envy him. Occasionally, there are stories, like Hendrik's, that seem imaginary because they are so strange. Even though the story of his death is extremely sad and disturbing, the story of his life is truly inspiring. I suggest you give it a read. 

Splitboarding with Gear Junkies

            

            Whenever us gear junkies acquire a new toy we are always extremely excited to use it. Our eagerness can outweigh such influential factors as weather and commonsense. I once knew a hiker who wore a Patagonia rain jacket while approaching a desert tower in the heat of summer. I’ve known mountaineers who brought their ice axes on a rock climb. I even knew a rock climber who carried his new #5 Camalot on a sport route. These people, myself included, suffer from an obsession that might easily be described as pathetic, but there is actually a very tangible reason for this obsession.

            Freya recently made the most expensive gear purchase of her life in acquiring a Prior Brandywine splitboard. Her justification was valid: she needed the board for a backcountry ski expedition to Mount Anderson. She also reasoned that using the board, as opposed to cumbersome snowshoes, would allow her to carry more camera equipment and move faster on the slopes, thus making it possible to capture better images and further her career as a photographer. It’s hard to argue with that. Still, none of these excuses were sufficient in explaining her overwhelming desire to try out the new board, no matter the conditions.

            The Olympic Mountains had been free of storms for weeks and the thin snow that remained was as hard as tile flooring. Both Freya and I had been watching the weather report like seagulls trailing a fishing boat and we had spotted nothing but too-warm temperatures and annoying rain, so when a cold front dusted the slopes with a few inches of soft stuff Freya loaded the car. The first thing in the trunk was her splitboard.

            We drove on stomachs full of six-grain cereal and dodged retirement homers out for their morning coffee. It was obvious that a storm had passed because the nearby hills were stained white; the snowline was close and low. We stopped at the visitor center in Port Angeles. She asked the rangers about new snow. They said 2”-4” and more falling presently. Our tire tracks were the third set on the winding road. Everyone knew the snow would be terrible today. What were we doing here?

            Maybe we can find some wind-loaded slopes, ski some slabs like we’d never do on a deep day. Maybe we should just practice with our avalanche beacons. Practice digging in the ice. But Freya was already carrying her two short skis to the roadside gauge where the skin track usually starts. There was no skin track though, which meant there was enough new snow to cover a weeks worth of indentations. I test the fresh layer with my pole and quickly strike ice. Maybe it’s deeper at the top.

            “Will you just relax! It’s going to take me a bit longer the first time,” Freya is turning her two short skis into one fat board.

            “I know, I know, but it looks good. I just want to ski it,” I say, peering down the seamless slope.

            “This is why we are here today, remember? So I can get the hang of this board.”

            “Ok…take your time.”

            She scowls affectionately at me and continues with her transition. She is right, of course, and she has touched on a possible answer to the question of why gearheads are so obsessed with trying out their new stuff. It’s because they (we) want to learn how to use it. Before embarking on an epic adventure it’s important to trust your gear and the best way to build trust is to perform tests. Believe it or not, tests can be fun.

            The snow is like a layer of frosting on a frozen cake. My skis dig through the frosting and grind the hard cake, but the frosting is deep enough to be fun. Freya glides effortlessly on the surface, screaming wahoooo! with delight as she twists her back end across a cornice and sends a brilliant roostertail of powder into the sky; it sparkles in the golden light. There will be no beacon practice today. Today we’re going to run test after test after test.

            The only other people we see are people we know: Steve and Kerry from the Wildernest. Aren’t small worlds great! They are snowshoeing, which means the powder lines are for Freya and I alone. We carve the slope like a Thanksgiving turkey. Succulent skin falls away to reveal the moist flesh beneath.

But no matter how much I devour, I’m never satisfied. I guess it’s a good thing. I’ll always want to come back for more. Freya and I return to the parking lot with spent legs and smiles that gleam like the sun setting on the mountains above us.

“Did you like your board?”

“Yeah! I love it!”

“You think it’ll be good for the Anderson trip?”

“Yeah, but I need to run more tests. Can we come back again tomorrow?” she asks, sending a furtive glance at the crystalline facets that glimmer seductively in the twilight.

             

The Pygmy Story Part 2: Bump and Grind

             Have you ever had so many projects going at once that you can’t make progress on any of them? I know, it’s rare for me too, but life occasionally morphs into rush hour on I-5 and when this happens there isn’t an alternative except to go with the flow. Traffic has been constant lately and the kayak construction gradually floated into the rearview mirror. Creation is addictive though, and I knew sooner or later that the smell of fine wood dust would call me back to my parent’s chilly garage where the glued-up panels waited like fine wine. I ached for a fresh taste.

            Sandpaper and files ground angles on edges. Hour after hour of repetitive rubbing with fine grits made my palms sweaty. This was work, there’s no question, but it was calming work and when things went smoothly, like the wood did, it felt like drawing—doodles etched onto a great paper flank.

            I could start to see how the boat might look when finished. I hoped that reality would be as perfect as my imagination. I was sure it wouldn’t be. The key with a project like this is to not get anxious and impatient. I have a tendency to get impatient and hurl my way through without correcting my mistakes. It was tempting to employ that familiar technique given the clutter in my life, but I knew that if I wanted my boat to track straight, I had to proceed with the utmost care. Don’t press too hard with the sandpaper. Don’t bevel the shear seam too steeply. Don’t drill holes in the wrong damn place.

            Cradling the panels in my arms like a Civil War soldier cleaning his gun, I lured straight edges into the wood. Freya grabbed a panel and went to work like a heron devouring a tadpole, a sign that she clearly knew what she was doing. I was a whelp learning the intricacies of the hunt from a veteran mother. I was glad to have her help, although I found myself half resenting the confidence with which she worked. She’s moving too quickly. She’s going to mess something up.

            “Freya, be careful. If this was your boat you’d be more careful.”

            “For the last time, this is the best way to get the wood off. If I hold it the other way it doesn’t work as well.”

            “It’s just making a really scary sound. It’s like your grinding fucking bone.”

            “Well I’m sorry, that’s the sound it makes. What do you want me to do?”

            “Just be more careful. Take your time.”

            “I am being careful.”

            “Just be careful.”

            Freya rarely moves faster than me and perhaps I wasn’t sure how to react to it. Could I admit to myself that she had way more experience at this than me? She’s only been paddling these kayaks since birth. She did take a class a few weeks ago and built a whole boat herself. Her father is John Lockwood. I try to hold my tongue.

            We finished beveling the shear seam and grinding the epoxy from the panel edges. The butt joints looked like sharp pencil lines and the edges were pristine. We had reached a turning point. It was time to start drilling, but it was also time for Christmas.

            Amongst road trips, speaking engagements, writing projects, moving to a new house, and ski trips, Freya and I found little time for the Pygmys. The panels were lonely for weeks until a break in the traffic gave me a clear view of the exit and I motored to the chilly garage to reunite with the wood dust.

            The panels were exactly as I had left them: beveled, edged, smelling exotic and feeling smooth. I purchased a few bits and charged the drill battery. The next step was to pepper this beautiful wood with a series of evenly spaced holes. It was like I was making an extremely long and intricate cribbage board. I felt annoyingly alone without Freya by my side. I read the instruction manual three times before pressing the spinning metal to the wood. I hope I’m doing this right. This is going to be one hell of an ugly boat otherwise.

            After a few hours I couldn’t take it any longer.

            “Will you come up here please? I need your help,” I was talking on the phone.

            “Leif, I have to work on these photos. I really need to get this done.”

            “I really need to get this done too. It was your idea to build these boats and now you’re just abandoning me.”

            “I’m not abandoning you! I told you I couldn’t work on them today.”

            “Fine. How bout’ tomorrow then?”

            “Yeah maybe tomorrow. But I have to go now.”

            “Kay, bye.”

            “Kay, bye.”

            I waited until tomorrow. She thought the holes looked good but I was doing the wiring incorrectly. We yanked out a few wires and replaced them after clamping the bow and stern ends together. I still read the manual twice, even though mother goose was there. The keel pulled together like lips locking for a kiss and the flat panels suddenly became the curved rump of a boat. This is promising.

            Perhaps it’s better that we build these boats in the calm moments between storms. That way, I’ll be forced to take my time; I’ll be forced to reexamine each section before moving on to the next. Also, the hull and deck may just absorb some of that stormy energy so that when we take the finished boats out in enormous waves they will simply frolic like Dolphins catching surf. Anyway, it’s clear that this will not be a quick and simple project. Hell, it wouldn’t be much of an adventure if it were.