Before we left the Zermatt Heli-pad Barrymore gave us our only instructions for the day, "Don't lose a ski". "If you do the day will be lost." As I wait my turn at a run before the camera his words reverberate in my ears. My anxiety about skiing these high glaciers of the Monte Rosa (Europe's second highest, 15,203 ft (4,634 m)) is particularly piqued. I've never traversed in this realm of massive seracs and bottomless crevasses before, and I don't want to screw up now for a number of reasons. Dick and his camera second, Kenny, have positioned themselves out of view around the corner of a huge angular block. My job is simple, blast into sight kicking up snow everywhere for effect, find their location, and ski right at the camera. I get the call and I let 'em rip. As I round the serac I spot the powder stash between us and make the most of it. However, glaciers are ice and a hidden chunk heat-seeks my ski, suddenly launching me sideways. Geez!! In an instant it's chaos! All I can think about is please don't let it end here, as I stare bug-eyed into the black abyss of an impending crevasse. Back pedaling, I hate to admit; I close my eyes and wait for my fate. After what seems like an eternity I open them slowly. Lying on my back in a medium size wind scoop, I stare up at Barrymore and the others in disbelief. Dick shrugs a shoulder and directs me, "Can you do that again, but just don't cut the serac so close" "I lost you in the shot". Yeah, right! At least I didn't lose a ski.
The Idea:
For many riders, including myself, the best time of year to mountain bike on the local trails in Bend, OR, is after the first few rains of early Fall. Cooler weather combined with the added moisture keep the trails firm and tacky, making for the ideal rubber-to-ground contact. Technical climbs become a little easier, confidence brews on fast corners, and riding with friends is simply more fun on dust-free singletrack. The problem is that as the days grow shorter, there is less and less time to ride after the work day. This used to push mountain biking to a weekend activity come Fall-- not anymore.
While night mountain biking might seem like a masochistic, peripheral sporting endeavor, the fact is that with the advent of new generation, affordable, and bright LED bike lights, even beginning-intermediate mountain bikers can enjoy trail riding after dark. The longer days of summer used to be a mountain biker’s best friend—get caught on a trail after dark, and the chances for a hard fall or having to walk your bike back to the trailhead start to rise. Alas, the new, lightweight and fast charge LED mountain bike lights extend the mountain biking season into October and November, and if you’re an avid mountain biker, help alleviate the doldrums of the nine-to-five. I now begin rides in mid-October at 5:30pm during the last hour of daylight and segue seamlessly into an after-hours adventure-- the lights are bright and the fun doesn’t stop until I get back to the trailhead.
The Light:
As Louis L'Amour sings in my ears, "The thing to remember when traveling is that the trail is the thing, not the end of the trail. Travel too fast and you miss all you are traveling for." I pole tap in quick step to keep pace as Lowell takes deceptively long strides. It seems ages since my brother and I have partnered on a mountain adventure together. At one time we were so in tune that each others next move was anticipated, and the mental vibrations were felt on the other end of the rope. As we chat non-stop up the Easy Pass Trail time flies by, and then seemingly we are teleported to one of our favorite Cascade vistas. It never disappoints, and instantly we are engrossed in the spiritual spender of a varied expanse soaked in brilliant color accented by crisp shadows. During our youth every weekend the mountains were our church; filling us up with awe, inspiration, and self learning. Looking out beyond the reaches of Easy Pass towards alluring Mt. Logan, it feels good. Like time has stood still.
Standing on the Col du Chardonnet checking my anxiety, I watch as Jeff repels into the swirling mist. Vaporizing into its depth of uncertainty we've taken a huge leap of faith; for this 55 degree glazed slot is the switching point. Once this bone yard of steeps and spires is crossed there is no turning back. We've laid our cards down on a questionable weather forecast in an attempt to ski from Chamonix, France to Zermatt, Switzerland; some 60 miles across the spine of the European Alps, "The Classic Haute Route".
It's been a late winter this spring, and most aspirers have been turned back or rerouted.
Three day weekends seem to have an air of importance and a sense of urgency. They are long enough to get out on a trip; yet still to short to cover much ground. With a three day weekend quickly approaching plans were laid for a relaxed trip to the Northern California Coast for a sampling of some bouldering on the beach and clipping bolts on beautiful sweeping limestone cliffs. Most climbing trips begin with days of thumbing through guide books, checking weather reports, and compiling a list of climbs you’d like to do.
The start to this excursion was a bit different that a typical climbing trip since we were heading to an area that is not exactly a climbing destination, but more of a if you happen to be in the area type climbing place. Before the trip we flipped through the major climbing rags that had recent articles and looked at the nice glossy photos and got our hands on a copy of the new film “Spray” to get us psyched up for the climbing to come.
Equipped with boulder pads, quickdraws, rope, and a quiver of shoes we made for a quasi-alpine start barreling out of Bend in Drew’s Scubaroo at 7:00 am sharp! Our trip had us starting in the High Desert and took us through snow covered mountain passes, through the jaw dropping Redwoods, and eventually to the boulder strewn California Coast.
With the first laboring strides my mind wanders, as it often does, from thoughts of the sketchy breakfast I had to kick off the day, to work related tasks, to the hordes in the flatlands that have queued up religiously in their daily lives. As I gain access to the open staircase of Silver Star Creek, my mind snaps into focus when Ed's CD player overflows my ears, and the first view of our destination reveals itself. For a moment I'm awe struck, and then overwhelmed again, as I'm stunned in my tracks by the grandeur of this place. I've come here many times over some 30 years, but what stands before me can only be described as the cathedral of backcountry skiing.
There it is, Silver Star in all its glory on a windless blue bird day, with 20 degree temps, and 2 feet of crystal powder. I pinch myself. This is crazy madness. It's the end of March, and we are the only ones here.
Anxious to test the high reaches, Ed and I linger little as we confront the lower headwall, while our eyes make note of the numerous plumb lines beckoning the arc of our skis. They will have to wait, as we have bigger vertical to fry. Swapping leads we relish in the effort, punching a path through a new up-line to a ramp that Ed suggests in order to gain the panoramic north ridge. Like every impression of the day, the route doesn't disappoint. I stagger as my balance is challenged by the landscape, and my constant need to take it all in. The truth is I can't. It's simply so overpowering that we agree to take a lunch break to reorient ourselves. Sitting in a lofty state of appreciation, we see Owen making quick work our up-track. Getting off to a slower start, he's been bird dogging us for hours wondering if he would ever catch up. As we share some of Ed's home grown, home made broccoli soup, the conversation flows to the conditions, and where to ski.
Standing on the lofty wooden scaffold trying to calm my nerves, I stared down the parallel track that ran straight as an arrow like railroad rails off into oblivion. With little conviction, I called "OK" down to the knoll. Back came the response, "Clear", which was received with mixed response. My heart leapt as my spirit said "Go", but my reason said, "What are you doing, this is crazy".
I shuffled forward, and instantly was sucked into an acceleration vortex, chest on the knees, head down, eyes maintaining focus on the end of the known world…the "take off" where the rails abruptly stopped. With a quick snap from the knees I launched, arms tucked back pressing my torso forward toward my ski tips searching for an air pillow of lift. It wasn't a big jump by modern standards, but to me it lasted a life time, and once in flight it was total bliss. Putting on the brakes I made a quick 180 turn, heading back to the up lift for another crack. How much was enough? It was never enough. Watch the video.
The morning of June 24th, 2007 was crystal clear and calm when I awoke around 4:30 am. It was a perfect day for a race and even though it was early, I was ready to go. This was my first Ironman competition. A triathlon consisting of a 2.4 mile open water swim, 112 mile bike ride, and the a full marathon (26.2 miles) run.
I have been a runner and cyclist for years and felt fairly comfortable with those portions of the race. A year earlier I could barely swim a lap in the pool so the swim was a bit more daunting of a task. Arriving at the Couer d'Alene race site it was in a buzz. There were 2,200 athletes getting there last minute preperations ready. We had clothes to drop off, bikes to get the last preperations ready for and wetsuits to get on. Not to mention all the officials, volunteers and spectators there to encourage us along the way. Jsut being there was a adrenaline rush. Upon arriving at the lake it was not hard to notice that our calm morning had disappeared during the drive. The lake a a brisk wind coming off of it and the water was full of 2 foot swells and white caps. Not your ideal swimming conditions, especially for a novice like me. Nonetheless I got my wetsuit on and proceded down to the beach where the mass start takes place. If you have never seen this spectacle, you should, it is amazing to watch the rush of 2000+ athletes run into the water and begin their swim. For us the conditions were so bad that the race director actually gave us the option of not doing the swim and just doing a duathlon. Even though some opted out, I did not spend the previous 6 month training and learning to swim to back out now. So down on the sand we went. Standing down on the sand the adrenaline was pulsing through my veins and my heart was beating like the race already began. The gun went off and people started charging into the water everywhere.
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