tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75848726234714767002024-03-27T18:49:37.827-06:00Enore and Mimi Go SkiWe are two English majors who are lifelong skiers.Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-73031410749245467412024-02-25T19:24:00.000-07:002024-02-25T19:24:02.736-07:00Put a Sagehen On It<div>The landscape is bright and lonely. In the sagebrush steppe, the canopy is only the height of the tallest bush around, which is usually sage or bitterbrush, punctuated by the occasional juniper or hackberry. The snowy ground is smooth and expansive. At lower elevation, bumps caused by bushes scatter the rolling hills. Draws between these hills offer moisture. At lower elevations, they’re clogged with dogwood and willow brambles. At higher elevations, aspen trees run up the ravines, creating ghostly-white groves, their bare, winter branches seemingly reach out to draw you in. The rare skin track and the subsequent turns write a story over the hills, stretching out beyond where you can see. Patches of dry, temperate forest host ponderosa and subalpine fir patches to break up the blankets of snow.</div><div><br /></div><div>It’s a vibe, as the kids say. (Or they did some time ago. I am no longer in-touch with what’s hip with the kids these days. I still think “put a bird on it” is funny.) Eino has a playlist called “sage country snow,” inspired by said vibe. Back when we both drank alcohol, one of our favorite things to do while dinking together was to make playlists. I never listen to Neko Case on my own, which is a real shame because she always has my favorite songs on our playlists. I don’t really miss drinking, but I do kind of miss the creativity that would flow during these sessions, one song inspiring the next, our differing tastes finding compliments in rhythm, lyrics or cheesy key changes. Now, in sobriety, I’m finding more creativity through writing, which, unfortunately has not manifested itself in anything publishable, but, oh well. (Hah! Nothing is manifested except through doing the thing.)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RMJuoq9bilHko1NSAyxnzT2GcBEET6-dTFHxQO4WsQCNs6TmRNCj9Vtu3DnEjiI7zpMmkc5nBTjY5ist_1jPi2h9faefMwXpGGAUjos07-vH0qWJegiNvPm5VZ2390L3V4XbuWBzEfODIvtQFxQjBsgw2DVpRfnJNA0J83mi8DgPKldMBaldG15Lcqo/s4032/sagebrush%20snow%20mood.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RMJuoq9bilHko1NSAyxnzT2GcBEET6-dTFHxQO4WsQCNs6TmRNCj9Vtu3DnEjiI7zpMmkc5nBTjY5ist_1jPi2h9faefMwXpGGAUjos07-vH0qWJegiNvPm5VZ2390L3V4XbuWBzEfODIvtQFxQjBsgw2DVpRfnJNA0J83mi8DgPKldMBaldG15Lcqo/w480-h640/sagebrush%20snow%20mood.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sage country snow. Photo by Eino.</i></div></i><div><br /></div><div>Eino and I celebrated our 14th anniversary on Saturday. The longer we’re together, the more I marvel at how long we’ve been together. Longer than most people are married. If we’d have had a kid in the first few years of our relationship, they might be a teenager by now. We spent our entire 30s together. Moved to three different states together. We’ve lived in this house for 7 years. WTF? I just realized that that is half our relationship. I was talking to my mom the other day about the houses we lived in when I was a kid, and we lived in our first real house for 10 years. In kid time, 10 years is an eternity. We’ve lived in this small, weird mother-in-law rental for almost that long, even though the house has changed hands three times and our rent has doubled. We like it here, so we’re still here. Through that time, I experienced and adjusted to life-altering medical injuries to my brain and body. I guess my point is, I’ve changed. But so has Eino. Thank God we’ve changed in ways that still work together.</div><div><br /></div><div>We skied at Soldier Mountain last weekend. It’s only a two-hour drive from our house, so I was surprised we haven’t been there before. Soldier is totally our jam. A small lodge, built after the old one burned down in 2009,* contains the ticket office, rental shop, food service, bar and boot-up area with cubbies(!), all under one roof. The ski patrol shack sits beside the lodge. It looks like it might have started as a mechanic shop or a barn and has been added onto at least three times. No ski school building to be found, although there is a good-looking beginner carpet just beyond the main lift. We pulled into the parking lot about noon on Sunday and I would’ve guessed it was a Tuesday for the lack of cars. But, it’s Mormon country, so maybe they’re busier on Saturdays. And their school district is down to a 4-day week, so, as Eino discovered the week before, the kids go skiing on Friday. Soldier has two fixed-grip lifts, one painted sage green and pale yellow. The first lift takes you to mid-mountain and the second takes you the rest of the way up. They have cat skiing on the upper and outer ridges. Usually I scoff at cat skiing as a snobby cash grab, intended to create a sense of exclusivity, but in these wide open, rolling hills in the middle of freaking nowhere (between Utah, Boise and Sun Valley), it makes sense.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0yv_cKhNcCWjBABKkSEyaQI3nseeZatUNacE64vXOmndEOk_0GKprUi0QGbGoC8ReMfwo9iPkqM9aC8XRASS7CP8Kk88gxnkjrizZyddUv63JqpdL0tRWC3qwQqbVKssmCcR_c3BbuFSHFbYKkTCqu7vBZNetASn_XXUc8cDBLHJX20J_Vz689_ynL4/s4032/Rolling%20hills%20of%20Soldier.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0yv_cKhNcCWjBABKkSEyaQI3nseeZatUNacE64vXOmndEOk_0GKprUi0QGbGoC8ReMfwo9iPkqM9aC8XRASS7CP8Kk88gxnkjrizZyddUv63JqpdL0tRWC3qwQqbVKssmCcR_c3BbuFSHFbYKkTCqu7vBZNetASn_XXUc8cDBLHJX20J_Vz689_ynL4/w480-h640/Rolling%20hills%20of%20Soldier.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Runs and the spaces between. Photo by Eino.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Most of the runs are swaths of groomed snow between ungroomed, bare stretches. With enough fresh snow, the mountain’s nothing-to-scoff-at 1,150 lift-serviced acres* would open up, and I bet you could ski virtually the entire area. At some point recently, some patrollers bombed some nice-looking off-piste. I’m no expert, but it didn’t look steep enough to me to be avy terrain; I bet they did it just for the fresh turn. Some of the north-facing slopes take you through forested gullies. As it is, most of the runs are about the same pitch, despite what the trail signs might imply. Which was just fine with me, because all I can ski these days is less-than-very-steep groomers, so there was a lot of room to explore for a few hours. The grooming was good: nice and smooth and still there in the late afternoon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Soldier Mountain has changed hands a few times since we moved to Idaho. Bruce Willis owned it for awhile in the 90s, then donated it to a non-profit. A young couple bought it a few years back for a third of the price of a house in our neighborhood. Then they sold it a couple years later, and now, like so many ski areas in the U.S., it’s owned by people who (I assume) don’t ski (some investment group in Utah).* I have to spend some time in nearby Fairfield, ID for work over the next few months. On our drive through town, I spotted the motel, the U of I extension office, and the school, all along the same main road. It’s a small town, in the vast expanses of mountainous Idaho. And, it's easy to pass on your drive to not-too-far-away, bigger, fancier ski areas. I would know. We passed it by for 12 years. If Soldier was located next to a bigger town, it would be a totally legit, locals' hill. As it is, I question its long-term viability. They’ve added mountain bike trails recently, and run the lifts on the weekends in the summer. That’s supposed to be good for business. Maybe if they can actually capture the elite snowcat market, that’ll help. So, maybe. Hopefully.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eino and I met at Crystal Mountain, when we both worked there. We actually met over a year before we started dating. I was working at the ski school sales desk before I became a full-time instructor, and he worked at the tune shop in the next room. I’d say hi to him, but he didn’t say much. He’s quiet is all, and I was dating somebody else and our paths didn’t cross much except briefly in the hallway. My second year at Crystal, some of our mutual friends got it in their heads that we should date. So, we hung out a few times, skied together with our mutual friends a few times. Then, Eino asked me out. I suggested we go skiing together on our day off, to which he responded, “That’s not really a date.” And I said, “But it’s easy.” So, on our first date, we skied together. We had a great ski day, hiked the King and ate lunch at the mid-mountain lodge. Our second date was a “real” date at a cute, little Italian restaurant in town with an over-attentive teenage waiter. Our relationship was built around our love for our sport. We’ve stayed together because we share more than this common interest, but skiing has been central to our relationship. So, when I destroyed my knee 5 years ago, and then developed arthritis despite/because of my diligent rehab, skiing because something we could not share without lots of pain and anxiety. It took me several years to accept that I was never going to get back to where I was. Even if I replace the damn thing, I won’t be able to ski like I did. And I need to put off the replacement as long as possible if I want to be able to walk when I’m 80. I can still ski, but I can only handle not-steep groomers for an hour or two every other week or so. At first, I doubted that I could still find enjoyment in the sport at this lower level. First world problems, yeah, I know. But it’s a part of my identity, so yeah, it matters to me.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYzNwLQhT6JbzLNRVSvap62-hZBPFGYiS2yDV9LsGFjm9gbrGAmUSrx37YjxsqFmMaJUqxpvCK8DTsS3dijejxbt8W9GPl__-8g_-Ep5-jWIY_RK39Xuw5IuZrBCAcBl23pZTriH0hLMcKdddiq0i0IOkcXXMkX68RNVIwgBEYnR7_cdX6ZVKLoSr2d_U/w626-h640/Eino%20at%20Soldier.jpg" /></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eino getting some nice angles. Photo by Amy.</i></div></i><div><br /></div><div>I didn’t feel like skiing this year until about January. But then, one day, I wanted to go. I looked forward to the weekend that Eino and I could go up to the hill and make some turns together. We did, and it was fun. I didn’t over-do it, stopped before my knee started hurting, and made sure to do all the after-care that keeps my knee working okay enough. And I’ve been able to ski several more times since then. I skipped last weekend because my knee was kind of sore, but I’ll probably be able to go next weekend. Eino doesn’t ski as hard or as long as he used to either, due to injuries. But we can still ski together. Last weekend at Soldier, he made a few runs while I taped up my knees and put on my boots in the lodge. We skied about 6 runs together, ate chili in the lodge, then made a few more runs. I quit for the day before he did because I was starting to hurt. I hung out in the lodge, watched the staff and skiing public kick the snow off their boots—ski or cowboy—as they tromped through the lodge. Eino took three more runs, then we stopped at the coffee shop on our way out of town. We don’t ski like we used to, but we can still do it and we can still enjoy it together.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*Wikipedia, y’all</div>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comSoldier Mountain, 1043 Soldier Creek Rd, Fairfield, ID 83327, USA43.485512 -114.8293815.175278163821154 -149.98563000000001 71.795745836178838 -79.67313tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-63281365561569841382023-12-22T21:45:00.001-07:002023-12-22T21:45:43.323-07:00Relatively easy<p>The hike out the King can take anywhere from 12 minutes to 2 hours, depending on your skill, familiarity, and fitness. Mostly your familiarity, as you need to know where to just point it, where you can kick steps as fast as you're able until you almost puke knowing that the line you're sweating for is just past the top of a given pitch. Skill helps, of course, cos those hard corners where you drop a shoulder and glide instead of skidding wide are much faster with the right amount of edge, and the speed'll let you carry up past ten or fifteen side steps other folks have taken, which saves your lungs for those three pitches on the actual peak where you need to kick hard to stay ahead of the Joeys from Bellevue in their bar-mode boots and this year's trendiest goggles.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkJOjQhJ66Hg2Lk1rA8OabFmVr_MTQVcszUsHN98BgmgLt5SfrYM_84i9G5z4HnylZxa0mh_bHTwfTkxj9eMMbU2vzZg03WHQVecMBuctXWXOxDvA-48tcjrQ-2i4n4KEfnyzqLnphOlvQ2-md4n1GY5XkceYB6oqHuL02mlVk5xrgnIfli-wgNuFF4Y/s4032/Throne%20Gate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkJOjQhJ66Hg2Lk1rA8OabFmVr_MTQVcszUsHN98BgmgLt5SfrYM_84i9G5z4HnylZxa0mh_bHTwfTkxj9eMMbU2vzZg03WHQVecMBuctXWXOxDvA-48tcjrQ-2i4n4KEfnyzqLnphOlvQ2-md4n1GY5XkceYB6oqHuL02mlVk5xrgnIfli-wgNuFF4Y/w480-h640/Throne%20Gate.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I swear it's steeper than it looks. First Throne Gate, CM.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>The first time I headed out, I think I was 7. All three of us tagged along with Pa, and I'm fairly certain I was the slowest. My brothers would have been 10 and 12. I obviously didn't know where I could pump a roller for an extra boost, or where I should double up to rest the legs for a half second of airtime. The hike is all about conservation, whether it's momentum or lung power or quadriceps energy, and at 7 I knew about none of that. Somewhere in the middle of the second pitch on the shoulder of the King, we caught up to, or more likely were passed by, a couple around Pa's age. The wife, I'm pretty sure, had a Bota bag of apple juice. I will never forget the taste. I think about it, the Bota bag, the apple juice, the kindly lady I never saw again, every time I'm out South, or sidestepping out to Lower Mores here in the desert, or walking along one of the ridges at The Place That Shall Not Be Named, or skating back to the Lodge on the 20 Road after a quick Rabbit Ears lap at Mt A, when my throat burns cos I'm too <strike>stubborn</strike> lazy to carry water.</p><p>I don't remember which line we skied. Knowing the sort of terrain Pa prefers, it was probly Southeast Right. Wide open and steep, but manageable. Southeast facing, as you'd guess. In my mid-to late-twenties, it was a ramp of much speed and few turns, but in the spring of 1989 it would have seemed endless. I don't remember how many turns it took down to the exit, but it probly felt like a few hundred. Those years in the late aughts tuning skis for Brad, I made a game of how few turns I could make from the top of the King to the bottom of the first pitch on either side. My best was 4.</p><p>-</p><p>Yesterday, I woke up and realised I was 42 years old. My birthday long past, but still, sometimes it sticks. I know this is universal, whether you're 31 or 75 or 103, one day you're minding your own business, checking groceries, pumping gas, bumping chairs, riding bulls, sweeping dirt off your baseball pants from a successful steal of third in the deciding game of the CWS, playing a show in front of 3000, whatever, and the next day you're older, feeling broken, and praying to God the trade-off is one resulting in endless wisdom and old-guy strength. Again, not unique amongst any peer group or novel in the scope of geographic time. Just, well, hard to swallow sometimes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJ11lXcB-Lmb4SQtURFoGL7xp-rvBRLN9xIlSnjpkYvav_v44E5vMKMTF7oHk4FJuZh6v8Pw_W6azXSEu6rzU1QEtDxaOHgwDEnzdn4FxqWIr5fJHZBEfDx2lRjmRYnbQ6g-rAj6c5GoOKRpG6d-FmXHFyuAsVd1ehajgIg7loVsfHziisfDhJ9UOKwk/s4032/toaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJ11lXcB-Lmb4SQtURFoGL7xp-rvBRLN9xIlSnjpkYvav_v44E5vMKMTF7oHk4FJuZh6v8Pw_W6azXSEu6rzU1QEtDxaOHgwDEnzdn4FxqWIr5fJHZBEfDx2lRjmRYnbQ6g-rAj6c5GoOKRpG6d-FmXHFyuAsVd1ehajgIg7loVsfHziisfDhJ9UOKwk/w480-h640/toaster.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This wasn't anywhere as steep in '008. Two Turn Eino? More like Two Hundred Forty-Two Turn Eino.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>That day, the 4 turn day, was a Saturday. It'd puked, then puked some more, and Patrol hadn't opened south all week, not even Friday. (Stina always spat "Baugher's just waiting for Friday cos he hates locals!") I knew it would open, and didn't have a shift in the shop, so I was planning to just head for the gate and wait until somebody dropped it and fight for whatever leftovers I could find. Standing in line for 11, just before opening, the line stretching for two hundred people in front of me, I heard the Number Two Lifts Guy (no clue his name, this far on, but I'll call him Adam, cos why not) yell my name. That year, '008, I was tuning most-time for Brad. I'd got my pass through lifts thinking I'd need two jobs, so when I realised I couldn't swing both, I told Bob I'd help out when necessary and otherwise deal with fewer Greenbacks. He didn't really need me much, and I usually skated by with the last of my tips. That morning, though, they were short enough lifties that they actually needed me. </p><p>Anyway, Adam wanders over and asks me if I can do lunches. Obviously, I can't say no, regardless, but I mumble something about getting one solitary South lap, and he says "Dude! Of Course! Gimme your time card and I'll punch you in. Come back and do lunches, go skiing some more, and clock out at 4." Well, now. To be honest, I don't even know if he ever clocked me in. Or care.</p><p>That knowledge of the hike and traverse out south, it pays off sometimes. There was a line at the False Summit, the second Throne Gate. I kept booting until I was alone at the top of the Throne, only a short ski down the ridge to the A Basin saddle. Everyone waiting in line for the lower gate had to traverse, duck the <i>krummholz</i> firs and pine and spruce at speed. I just had to point it and hope the corners hadn't changed too much with all the snow. I had probly a 5, 6 minute head start on them, and I was faster than all of 'em, too. I hit the bottom of the King knowing nobody could catch me, no matter how many were back there. I had built another 4 or 5 minutes in by the top and could catch my breath, make my decisions, breathe some more, ignore the butterflies and the crowd at the top of 9, and be ready instead of jittery. Brad and his now ex were second and third, surprisingly. He rarely skied, but it was exactly the kinda day that he waited for. High, thin, beautiful overcast, chilly enough to preserve the day-old snow, visibility clear and unlimited. When he poked his head through the last whitebark, I looked quizzically, and asked "How'd you pull this off?" He just shrugged. "How'd you?!" "I'm doing lunches, as you can see. Hard at it." I saw the cloud of ants chasing them up the last pitch, waved, ignored his invitation to ski where he could see me, and dropped off to the northeast. Slid a directional turn on the ridge and dropped into the Hourglass, the easiest line off the top of the King. Some lines just feel right, and I hadn't known it'd be that line until I rolled over and saw nothing but an open ramp. Four turns at speed, whatever radius that is, down to DFF.</p><p>When I was shoveling the ramp at the top of Rex during one of the lunches, a pro patroller slid by and said "Nice turns. I know it was you."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_YmUC5vUtd-4J2tax1E9aRhvk2EdVFRrg-xBKDrGXd21ngYtC0uYrNpecjQhhAFiSxgQlLV82YFdhGezWRfUZ4dwB1q1vdL3DnFzEt34PTdPZSrLZyw_knjXeb5pDOkuP6fnR4hwQShBewwtcxTiX23BLm_G-QzXhZqFAMQCeGIDHvX5bkTCiGilcdw/s4032/Tahoma%20from%20King.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz_YmUC5vUtd-4J2tax1E9aRhvk2EdVFRrg-xBKDrGXd21ngYtC0uYrNpecjQhhAFiSxgQlLV82YFdhGezWRfUZ4dwB1q1vdL3DnFzEt34PTdPZSrLZyw_knjXeb5pDOkuP6fnR4hwQShBewwtcxTiX23BLm_G-QzXhZqFAMQCeGIDHvX5bkTCiGilcdw/w480-h640/Tahoma%20from%20King.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You can't see the forest for the glaciers. Ingraham, Fryingpan, Emmons, Inter, Winthrop, Curtis, and Carbon, NE shoulder of Tahoma. There's more species of conifer in this pic than in all of SW Idaho. Name them all and you get 15 points.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>The knees just don't work the way the should, and certainly not the way they did. I remember one morning at the community college squatting outside Noël's old Acura 5-speed at 7 in the January morning, thinking my knees were done, and how unfair it was that I was only 18 and I was already being sold down the river by creaky joints. I wasn't, though. Through strength training, and, more importantly, telemarking 100 days a year and hiking 3000' vertical peaks all summer, the muscles and joints starting working together. Once I got a bike and stopped with the horror of running, things really clicked and I had a stretch of 15 years with only one single second of true knee pain. Just now, though, I settled weird in my seat to write these exact words and the lateral side of my right knee lit up with that same white flash.</p><p>-</p><p>Alta is known for traverses. The High T is probly the best known, perhaps in the whole damn country. I've never partaken, and to be honest I have no desire whatsoever. I and Alta don't get along. Taos, Bridger, Baker, and the like are known for bootpacks straight up to their respective ridgelines. Mt A for complaining that the Bowl is closed while ignoring the technically-out-of-bounds south and west sides of the peak because the skate back on FR20 is there. Not cos it's hard, because it just isn't. Sun Valley for its glitz and septuagenarians ripping the groomers on the Warm Springs side at Mach Stupid. Mad River Glen for its single chair, co-op structure, and for allegedly being hard AF. Jay, for the waterslides. You get it.</p><p>The Place That Shall Not Be Named, maybe none of those things. They have those gilded bathrooms, the English wool carpet lining all of their countless lodges, the grooming, the 3000' vert of grooming. Nobody talks about the short hikes to the actual reason to ski in Weber County, Utah, which is the same as anywhere else you can think of, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B6Wy5myjhTw&t=141s" target="_blank">even</a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LojCo8-7Nc" target="_blank">the</a> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Driftless_Area" target="_blank">Driftless</a>. Quiet, steep, not-always-safe turns in good, unsettled snow. <a href="https://utahavalanchecenter.org/avalanche/23779" target="_blank">Not all of the lines</a> are worth it. Some, though, it's, well, shoot. There are still some things I miss about Utah. From the top of Strawberry, you boot up a little toward DeMoisy, then skate around the west side. In many years, with some adventurous partners, you could drop Burch Creek all the way to town. You ignore this, ignore the obvious lines back into Middle Bowl, skiers' left of DeMoisy proper, and keep skating and sidestepping and booting until you're on a ridge above a hidden bowl that empties down into the top of Porky. You can't really see it from anywhere, and nobody will know you're there. It's not the steepest spot on the hill, not exposed and terrifying like Mt Ogden, nor obvious like the north face of DeMoisy. It's a ramp with probly 20 or 30 turns, and it's yours if you want it.</p><p>Some of the only truly good memories I have from that glitziest of hills are the handful of turns I made back there and the look some tourist lady gave me when I popped outa the limber pine onto the groomer at the top of Porky. My moustache, drooping every day further below regs, caked in snow when it hadn't snowed in days.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiP5kM61EjEnBs9umyS9CvGggKU1TxCItNADp20nzSMePy6VrQvG4Nqs93PRMryGyxU9Ahtil7jr1w9NBZ9BDgc8aMNVOPMVgwPqG23wOW_G5NigGl8lww-YHHDd9nYjGwtWfjdUiBwaaoJP666d-hDd6CP_EjSDXtdAnsQyNLrbqzXgaBCk2TjM1TIAOU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="800" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiP5kM61EjEnBs9umyS9CvGggKU1TxCItNADp20nzSMePy6VrQvG4Nqs93PRMryGyxU9Ahtil7jr1w9NBZ9BDgc8aMNVOPMVgwPqG23wOW_G5NigGl8lww-YHHDd9nYjGwtWfjdUiBwaaoJP666d-hDd6CP_EjSDXtdAnsQyNLrbqzXgaBCk2TjM1TIAOU=w640-h450" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It's right behind that rock, right there, and there's none of those pesky Joey traverse lines or strange skier people you don't know and yet somehow know you don't like.</i></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>The hard truths that take lifetimes to grasp don't first arrive as welcome rain drops on a light breeze after a three week drought, they hit like a 2 am tornado. Just as convective storms are still hard for the atmospheric science hippies to pin down, these lessons, or insight, whatever you want to call 'em, do what they please, and you have to be paying attention at all times or it'll be years later and you'll sit up with a jolt because there was something to learn from that one moment, way back in 2012 or something, that you can't quite visualise. Scientific understanding has taken millennia for this same reason, that most folks didn't know how to understand what just happened when all they could see is the black of the receding tornado and their belongings scattered hundreds of yards or even miles away.</p><p>-</p><p>By the time I hit the top of the King last winter, I was scraping rime off the gnarled 5-foot <i>Pinus albicaulis</i> to chew on for water and hoping the feeling in my chest would recede. Four years of knee problems and anxiety and the fitness I spent all those years cobbling together is long gone, with the weight my far-northerly genes seem prone to add when I'm out of commission complicating things further, and that easy 15-minute hike took me probably 45, for most of which I was out of breath.</p><p>The view is the same, that slow spin to take it all in, one more time. Maybe that was the last, I don't know. Alterra hasn't made things better up there. They can't significantly alter the landscape. They are trying, though. They are having success pushing out the locals, too, as they are in all of their gathered holdings, legacy and otherwise. <a href="https://www.heatherhansman.com/book" target="_blank">Heather Hansman</a> and <a href="https://www.thriftbooks.com/w/downhill-slide-why-the-corporate-ski-industry-is-bad-for-skiing-ski-towns-and-the-environment_hal-clifford/521517/#edition=3216062&idiq=3261134" target="_blank">Hal Clifford</a> have documented this part of our world better than I can. Maybe it's obvious, maybe not, but when a large portion of a corporation is built on past legal misdoings--think Intrawest and the fraud they or at least stakeholders in the org committed--one has to wonder whether there's ever any goodwill at the heart of things. One can't escape these things, only ignore them, and there's a line I can't cross. It hurts. It feels like I can never go home, and yes, maybe I should read that book. I tried <i>Look Homeward, Angel</i>, but never finished it and I associated Wolfe with Kerouac too much and got bored. I grew up at the exit of the valley, where the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osceola_Mudflow" target="_blank">lahar</a> fill spreads north and west and flattens the land. We didn't leave to be gone, but to try to find greener pastures, and yes, the joke writes itself. Enumclaw averages almost 60 inches of water a year, pretty much all of which falls as rain. Ashland and Ogden get less than 20, and BoyCee many years never receives more than desert-level water.</p><p>From the top of the King, one can see peaks of all shapes, exotic terranes, volcanism old and young, forest, water, and even a little bit of desert. The constant change and illusion of permanence. The Emmons, that murderous and beautiful and terrifying glacier, is the biggest thing. It becomes the whole western sky if you don't look away. It is magnetic, the largest area of any glacier in the lower 48. If I could choose my death, which I don't want to do, part of me hopes it's underneath another lahar, down on the White some cool fall afternoon, oblivious and calm behind a giant redcedar trunk when the ground shakes and I have a few minutes to understand, to take it all in one last time. As I said, I don't want to choose. I hope I'm old and crazy, yelling at all the tourists downtown, some jerk of a business owner calling the cops on me again.</p><p>That run wasn't four turns, or even forty. I was gripped, bordering on scared. Such a strange feeling in a place I'd long felt at home and comfortable at speed. I dropped into the Toaster, the third line skiers' left of the peak itself. I'm sure it's got other names, and I can't even begin to care. The line is steep, with a nice, deep crux, and an immediate exit onto the huge apron. I couldn't open it up, couldn't even get comfortable until I hit the groomed exit, avoiding DFF because I was too tired to make more shaky turns in uneven terrain. Too pissed at the kid at the saddle who said he'd patrolled at Crystal for a year but never returned cos he thought it was boring. I'd wanted that job, more than I've wanted most things. Tried, even. Wasn't cool enough. Baugher ignored the recommendations of his assistant, the Snow Safety guy, the wife of the ski area owner, and several of his most senior patrollers. I never even got a chance, and I will never pretend I'm not still bitter. That anonymous and ungrateful 20-something trustafarian drove that home well and good. I was so pissed at him I ignored the tightness in my chest and the scratch in my lungs, and only really took a break when I could dig my brakes into the chalk on the summit.</p><p>-</p><p>I feel like I am starting to learn, though, as though I can recognise the colour in the clouds and know that hail reflects or refracts light in a way that in mass quantities will turn the sky green. That green sky in turn has showed up before tornadoes, so maybe it's time to head to the basement. I am doing PT, three days a week, grudgingly each time. I know my injuries, now, or at least have some understanding. I know that this is a long, boring stretch and that doing the PT helps, while skipping it will result in not being able to walk and needing crutches just to heat the tortillas.</p><p>-</p><p>I think there's a transceiver gate at the top of Chair 8 now, the start of the hike out The Arm. When I was bumping chairs at the bottom of 5 in '002, there was only a threatening sign with lots of red and firm admonishments. Everyone sorta self-policed, and the winter of '99 was fresh in mind. From the gate, one just starts kicking steps, grateful for any shorter person who went first, pissed at all tall dudes and snowboarders. Tall dudes just step too far, but snowboarders didn't really kick their steps. Something something "my boots are more comfortable than yours" and you all can go</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYhKNS-wK260ow2hbDSEqA2Y15G2YzWJ7Wui8Wgr8AurvzRXfG9F9sFV27Ah5JglG97Oq7oiXRpzNKPDPDcb09_fYUl4-yQpLa9kfw9UoGY8AWfJ-WjQLebjtR28FGm9xz0WAJJvAdWUFTQcOjxVf6FFg92FFM9GggquFRL81UC3rL_hm1F6Pm1YG7xwo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="429" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYhKNS-wK260ow2hbDSEqA2Y15G2YzWJ7Wui8Wgr8AurvzRXfG9F9sFV27Ah5JglG97Oq7oiXRpzNKPDPDcb09_fYUl4-yQpLa9kfw9UoGY8AWfJ-WjQLebjtR28FGm9xz0WAJJvAdWUFTQcOjxVf6FFg92FFM9GggquFRL81UC3rL_hm1F6Pm1YG7xwo=w640-h429" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>The Arm. Dang.</i></div><br /><p></p><p>Anyway, the snowboard steps would slope outward and even with tele boots, the traction would be garbage. Best if it was a short and experienced alpine skier, so the steps sloped inward and were close together. Many steps make light work, something like that.</p><p>There are some steep steps, and the terrain rolls parabolically away such that the only way to really know your line is to follow someone who does, or just guess and check. There's only a few big cliffs. You'll be fine. </p><p>Who am I kidding? The Arm is huge, and consequential. Don't french fry when you should pizza. It's rewarding, too, with long and challenging turns, deep, unsettled snow that can rip out easily in the steeps, but a few lower angle ramps. It's a circus most days that follow big cycles. There was one day out there, I was on that big ol' red Seth Morrison. It was late in the day, the afternoon angling toward shoulda-been-back-to-the-E-Lodge-by-now light, and it hadn't snowed in a week. The wind coming up the Swift Creek drainage over Lake Ann had been slowly depositing grain and feather, and the week-long cold snap and its attendant drying had kept the snow soft. Each convexity would hide a deep turn in the lee, several pillows unevenly spaced all the way down into the creek draw, surprisingly deep. It was quiet that afternoon, just me and a couple other lifties. At the exit we pulled left, silent, followed the traverse over the westerly branch of White Salmon Creek and out onto the bottom of Daytona, and out the cat road from the bottom of Chair 8 as we'd missed last call. Another day, another dollar. So many ghosts back there, real and imagined.<br />- -</p><p><i>I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. But still, this is how my brain tracks.</i></p><p><i>Title from the last track on Jason Isbell's first record after he got sober, the one with the song everybody cheers when he says he swore off that stuff, forever this time. It sounds trite, and instead it's all the feels. And that More Guns Walleye character can take a long tumble off Mt Ogden.</i></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comWhatcom County, WA, USA48.8787167 -121.971865720.568482863821153 -157.1281157 77.188950536178851 -86.8156157tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-20816031048181390162023-10-22T11:52:00.001-06:002023-10-22T11:52:36.315-06:00Wherever you go, it's bound to rain.<p>Everyone knows that when you list skiing, <a href="https://www.enoreandmimigoski.com/2022/10/top-47-skiing.html" target="_blank">Colorado</a> is number 1.</p><p>Everyone knows that when you talk about the best skiing place you have to go to it's Alta. No, it's Jackson. No, it's Japow. No, it's Stowe in a Nor'Easter. No, it's Bridger when the Cloud wait that's Jay, wait, what if they's a hurricane and Sugar and Beech are open in October on like 36 new and, no, it's Mammoth in May, but, no, that's Alpental in May, and</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9djd5CXbAz0ax1QCWM1WSmvDAoMjZFyjIgvYhpKT2doQv6tnKs-px6G42BlmqPO6f_JDlO5D6hQtfYL6fNzr0xKs3puEmqaq8_Y688c9iXXHG5hQAUBRKMaZjAcSd4xEc-qyZ1MHy3WvsKRKMjjjLWyG26CyJv2w361lJ3DHAwJ362yWoBWJmW-I/s4032/rad%20snowman.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9djd5CXbAz0ax1QCWM1WSmvDAoMjZFyjIgvYhpKT2doQv6tnKs-px6G42BlmqPO6f_JDlO5D6hQtfYL6fNzr0xKs3puEmqaq8_Y688c9iXXHG5hQAUBRKMaZjAcSd4xEc-qyZ1MHy3WvsKRKMjjjLWyG26CyJv2w361lJ3DHAwJ362yWoBWJmW-I/w480-h640/rad%20snowman.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A nice snowperson. Silver Queen lot, Bogus Basin, Boise County, ID.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>Sorry. I'll start over. Readers of this blog* will know that we do not choose bests without at least our tongues firmly planted in our respective cheeks, if not outright lies. (Thanks, Richard Russo, I think. Read his stuff, just the same.) If I make a list, I leave spots open on purpose. Or we make a top ten that's like 40 or 7.</p><p>There was one turn, though, one that cannot be beat. It was somewhere near Flush Gap, whether above or below, I cannot remember. It was a Thursday in February, the day my friends in a band I used to be in released an album, with a party in some joint in Tacoma I can see but whose name I've forgot. This particular turn was a left, or a right, it doesn't matter particularly, but it was a turn. I was on the ol' Jaks, that beautiful matte orange beast, maybe the last actual Karhu ski, maybe not, I can't recall when K2 knocked down their door and ruined everything.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbyGqUdZ0fUTSz4lnC5vrAggUyCKojjYEonaa-xmsWFUkw8faeeXlXPJjAWQElh9hFrSBH0zpcbSNcQXhTjHHaWD41dJXAHnYu2RcdqABOjwpp9vPbHN324btFTSmebcvkBZXCMj51Hn8Ws6BfA50zMK81qJx3ugGp-w6QZMpTQnCwLP9xlUYH7Nd/s2400/jak.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="2400" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbyGqUdZ0fUTSz4lnC5vrAggUyCKojjYEonaa-xmsWFUkw8faeeXlXPJjAWQElh9hFrSBH0zpcbSNcQXhTjHHaWD41dJXAHnYu2RcdqABOjwpp9vPbHN324btFTSmebcvkBZXCMj51Hn8Ws6BfA50zMK81qJx3ugGp-w6QZMpTQnCwLP9xlUYH7Nd/w640-h360/jak.webp" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh, dag, I loved this ski. Maybe it was the time in life, like that second Death Cab record. Who knows. Still, armpit deep, man, it's a trip.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can remember many ski days, from all the years. I don't have perfect memory, like I don't have perfect pitch, but there are just some things that stand out. The weather the only time I threw a no-hitter and the way Kellen Hall's Pa accused me of cheating. The second and last homerun I hit, the one that Jewett Gibson argued and argued over until the ump called it a "ground rule triple". Which doesn't exist, but whatever. Who's counting? Who's holding a grudge? I'm not mad, yer mad. I hit that homerun off his younger son, should that matter.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That one run in the Cache Run, February of '99, all alone and, not gonna lie, a little afraid of how things would turn out. So clean, the first time I ever truly understood. The Tatoosh, summer of '008, my knees bruised from wearing knee pads under my Carhartts cos I forgot my bibs, to the point where I had to tell Catherine to look the other way at the bottom and top of a couple laps so I could remove or install the pads on my knees with my pants down. That last run in utterly beautiful summer corn, smooth, unending, ending too soon. A warm and unforgettably satisfying Guinness at the trailhead with my hummus and Tillamook cheddar and grip of spinach pita pocket. A long day with a good friend. That whole pitch, several pitches really, hoping it would never end and I'd somehow simply ski off the edge and never be seen again, like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Td4h2BCc1t0" target="_blank">Bo Jackson in '87</a> after that 91 yard TD and he kept running off the field and to me, six years old, he ran off the earth and to some finer plane, some elevated place where folks like him lived, Usain Bolt, Mikaela Shiffrin, Jimi, Beethoven, Florence Price, that sorta place. I didn't, though, I just pulled up at the bottom, gave Catherine the low-pole, probly (maybe not, but it was My Thing) said "I like skiing," and kicked the skis off.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That one turn, though, near Flush Gap, February of '006, may it reign for eternity. Hand forward, snow to my tricep. Inimitable. Unforgettable. Lee Cohen deep. Like the shot that I could never shake, the one that precipitated our ill-fated move to Utah.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3sEIyqrUdJP8XP66WPtTGkXPOQeJMZBY9C6ycOXTNG2dsyzj4XCbaBUtDOAmKBW_Mt0--Aab1jC5HAX1P_lMXXhR57ig_k4iL5VBRFtPK7Fe3L3vC6DMkGQvN0b5dD02JQOpyBKTmofKu56_DK9BTK7YJLkYjo36qiAEJvsCbVJQW7GEgo5ja8kC/s1200/lee%20cohen%20powder%20utah%20episode.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="798" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3sEIyqrUdJP8XP66WPtTGkXPOQeJMZBY9C6ycOXTNG2dsyzj4XCbaBUtDOAmKBW_Mt0--Aab1jC5HAX1P_lMXXhR57ig_k4iL5VBRFtPK7Fe3L3vC6DMkGQvN0b5dD02JQOpyBKTmofKu56_DK9BTK7YJLkYjo36qiAEJvsCbVJQW7GEgo5ja8kC/w426-h640/lee%20cohen%20powder%20utah%20episode.jpeg" width="426" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i>This one. Shot by Lee Cohen, aka, well, The Best. Powder Magazine, way back when. The Utah Issue, somewhere around the turn of the century. The cover, if I am not mistaken. You will not be surprised that I still wear leather gloves because of this shot. I still prefer race poles, too. Just look at that shadow.</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Chet said he was scared, at the bottom of Lower Northway. He pulled the cord. I can't remember the words, but I was as breathless as he. Two straight runs, deeper than anything else I have ever skied. Deeper than everything else. Impossible, like the first time I heard Interstate Love Song, or Loowit from the top of 6 on a cold January Monday. Chet was the Snow Safety guy at the time, number 3 on Patrol. I bought my second car from him, a red, red GL. That glorious little wagon and I grew up together. Moved to Bellingham, failed at school, skied for two winters of ignorance, bliss, lust, who gives a shit cos the second winter, '002, right after we all lost our innocence, or at least us Gen Xers, was yuge, like an ego or a sophomore crush. One stretch, I skied 20 straight until I couldn't even put the boots on. That day I drove Twig to the doc after he thought he blew up his knee, where I almost hit Amy Howat in downtown Bellingham with 3 feet of rooftop snowpack when the ski rack finally released the last 3 weeks of puke, I mean, what are the chances of nearly hitting the owner's daughter with a pile of snow 60 miles from work? That kinda winter. And still, that day out North, through Flush Gap in armpit-deep, that stood above. I don't remember the bus back to A Lot, but I remember the grader finishing the Northway Lot and the next run, you couldn't tell he'd been there. Eight inches in less than two hours. That Cascade Spring speciality. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwUdnytnmp2mNHiKE6ZhnonwGe4ElCNbIQiCTh1jB_qfhO1oguJXkiDG0CqsaUQSLwEEB35FiXDQzFaAsxmm5KbxsyLtW3BJzFvDllgATQnM8TDLNfjyIPIocjGMjkCDyeTIrq211x6C3HpX2pOeiQ3NAo7UktBxoxBCyNi7TxSffUwSCsqY6GsFq/s4032/snowy%20owl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwUdnytnmp2mNHiKE6ZhnonwGe4ElCNbIQiCTh1jB_qfhO1oguJXkiDG0CqsaUQSLwEEB35FiXDQzFaAsxmm5KbxsyLtW3BJzFvDllgATQnM8TDLNfjyIPIocjGMjkCDyeTIrq211x6C3HpX2pOeiQ3NAo7UktBxoxBCyNi7TxSffUwSCsqY6GsFq/w480-h640/snowy%20owl.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I was probly buried like Snowy Owl the 8 foot rock.</i></div></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I remember now; it was a left turn. Right foot out front, left knee to the ski, that gorgeous Finnish plank. Right hand ready to plant the pole, left foot flexed like a bow. Right tip barely above the snow, left ski buried along with those Bumblebee T1s. Perfection, if that were possible. Appropriately, I'm still paying for that turn all this time later. I can't tele right now, the tendons and ligaments and weak muscles all conspiring against any ambition I may have once held. Anxiety like a block of lead in my chest. It's a joke, really; all those years just ended, like any run does. Reflection Lake and Catherine's green 5-Speed Outback after that long and immeasurable Tatoosh line; the Northway Lot and the bus, Chet frantic on the radio telling Mountaintop to close the gates; the bottom of Ariel on Closing Day of 2013; Sweetzer Summit in a snow flurry, Thanksgiving of 2016; Acme in October of 2000 in the red GL, Katie singing along with Adam Duritz, "gettin right to the heart of matters", knowing, without really knowing when, that something else was next, something different but similar. More yearning, more longing, that very characteristic Gen X nostalgia for something still here and happening, or conversely, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lkq0NysQ_zs" target="_blank">chasing</a> after what is already gone; what was never really there in the first place.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><p><i>Title is the second part of the line from Suzy Boguss' "</i>Like the Weather".<i> I don't know, I just really like that song right now. I even tole Amy last night it was my favourite country song of the moment. Still, Interstate Love Song. There's a reason it's got something like 333 milliones of listeners on the Spotifier.</i></p><p><i>*Joke's on me. There aren't "readers of this blog".</i></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comCrystal Mountain, Washington 98022, USA46.9281666 -121.504534921.630862382016574 -156.66078489999998 72.225470817983421 -86.34828490000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-87923036865235015032023-10-12T20:17:00.003-06:002023-10-12T21:15:30.928-06:00If it's anywhere, you'll find it.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><p>The stretch of US 40 from somewhere east of Duchesne through somewhere west of Vernal could be anywhere. It feels more like the Great Basin to me than anything, probably because I know how that feels more than I know the Rockies. The highway curves around the north end of the Uinta Basin, empty when it's not strewn with those sorts of dreams and garbage that pile up in the unwanted places. It's You-inna, bee tee dubs. Utah. Just nod. This zone is best at speed, just an isolated, dirty section of highway otherwise surrounded by some pretty and interesting country. It's completely unfair to judge Roosevelt for being hard-pressed. Perspective, I guess. Folks live here, have for millennia.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVttHnam18QRBRDirbAghuiCCvIYl3fhCHcEqcijxYdqRxhCyExhhlEilz5m-EdvHa4gdvNGEzW6IjvLJNIbOYG2fp-HY_zBnLWA8-FRoH7c7Mat-PlfYvmMY7MLV4y1OLBeRLbDXYZ6mVM5MKPSTVRn2R46RMmvu97fOfvmzc_NytlXcemBYvnKlz61I/s1047/vernal%20rock.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1047" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVttHnam18QRBRDirbAghuiCCvIYl3fhCHcEqcijxYdqRxhCyExhhlEilz5m-EdvHa4gdvNGEzW6IjvLJNIbOYG2fp-HY_zBnLWA8-FRoH7c7Mat-PlfYvmMY7MLV4y1OLBeRLbDXYZ6mVM5MKPSTVRn2R46RMmvu97fOfvmzc_NytlXcemBYvnKlz61I/w640-h412/vernal%20rock.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Layers and rocks and hoodoo and stuff. Dinosaur, UT/CO</i></div></i><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>To the east is Dinosaur, historically among the lands of the Fremont people. They predated the Ute and Paiute and Navajo. Dinosaur is known for its namesake, but it's a stark, beautiful landscape. Pink rock and meanders in the Green. The Uintas curve around the north side of the basin, protective or ominous, should you be inclined to any specific temperament. There's dinosaurs in them hills, of course. Turned to stone by the epochs. It's the rock that you see, though. From a distance, up close, from the grocery store in Vernal and the Church south of Naples. Ever present.</p><p>It's an empty country, this. Counting the miles, delineators whipping by the passenger window in the dark, pronghorn dancing off in the distance as though they aren't faster than just about any damn thing that isn't made of metal and physics and dreams. Silhouetted against the faded blue of that huge sky stretching from SLC to Denver. As you head east into Colorado at the town of Dinosaur, there's a conspicuous and somewhat mysterious ridgeline curving around you. Snake John Reef. It's a sharp little seam in the valley floor, about 6 miles long. <i>Artemisia</i> and <i>Juniperus</i> and sunbaked earth. The entire region is mostly sedimentary rock, layer upon layer upon layer. Streaks of colour.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiSiA1DyaAG3mCaMV5V1MQPouz7mhmMEkNwGcaqCnSBk7EgrNp7S_yGbC9dBssw_z9JaqET9OtPQ5XCFA1u593jIvbN0jbLjk9TA7m7Loh-tDEbHNDhSaJlf3m5dmmyOYwRvzw8Ro8I1fiFSZFQSlKD4BnmG3m5j1DyrfNpJYLCDLSYlJXfHfPG0GB2ok/s4032/sawatch%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiSiA1DyaAG3mCaMV5V1MQPouz7mhmMEkNwGcaqCnSBk7EgrNp7S_yGbC9dBssw_z9JaqET9OtPQ5XCFA1u593jIvbN0jbLjk9TA7m7Loh-tDEbHNDhSaJlf3m5dmmyOYwRvzw8Ro8I1fiFSZFQSlKD4BnmG3m5j1DyrfNpJYLCDLSYlJXfHfPG0GB2ok/w480-h640/sawatch%204.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You can tell those are aspen because of the way that they are.</i></div></i><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>Eventually, US 40 will drop you off in Steamboat Springs. I'm certain there's skiing there, but I've never stopped for longer than it takes to grab an iced tea and some petrol. You can head south to Wolcott and the Eagle River Valley, or southeast through Kremmling and up the Blue River drainage into that most storied of counties, Lake. You thought I'd say Summit, but if you're headed there, I bet you flew to Denver and hopped in a limo. Or teleported in on the third rail of some business jet.</p><p>Out in the open, the fields roll unevenly to the horizon, sheep and coyote and pronghorn and mule deer. <i>Artemesia</i> and emptiness and every so often, virga from a passing storm. The Yampa off to the south. A story in itself. Empty meanders through a quiet valley, skirting to the south of the archetypal cowtown of Craig. To the west of Maybell, it dives into an incredible canyon, walls a few hundred feet high or more. The canyon walls, the layers of sediment, and the millennia of erosion are reminiscent of the desert Southwest. Surprising clefts; a deep, cool river bottom. Friendly shadows. To the south, it's hill country until the Eagle River, where the Sawatch begin.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKB569r6_oUJP1dVyDjXDvvYP_RxM9jcb-mK9-wcL-FgwvKY8BgzhpJGppuoTeW7kcvMFtRPYklpknXe1OgrJH9nTXWGnIKkoHZZqn8SNJvM5XZ1n7MjHIg8RfO7RKoPhkKKejS8OCVawGvzbOdyqDtZkJxpic-qm7OQUqdOR9aiUlWOQwXwfe6EeGasc/s4032/sawatch%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKB569r6_oUJP1dVyDjXDvvYP_RxM9jcb-mK9-wcL-FgwvKY8BgzhpJGppuoTeW7kcvMFtRPYklpknXe1OgrJH9nTXWGnIKkoHZZqn8SNJvM5XZ1n7MjHIg8RfO7RKoPhkKKejS8OCVawGvzbOdyqDtZkJxpic-qm7OQUqdOR9aiUlWOQwXwfe6EeGasc/w640-h480/sawatch%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Somewhere after the Sawatch began.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>I grew up on the Wet Side, on a lahar plain. The trees come in close, dark and broody and wet. Fires don't happen too often, with the sort of consistently high <a href="https://hdwindex.fs2c.usda.gov/" target="_blank">hot-dry-windy index</a> that plagues the Dry Side being impossible most of the year due to the ocean that's always just out of sight, over your shoulder. The peaks aren't visible from all viewpoints in and around my hometown, a sort of mountains-for-the-hills contradiction made yet more immediate by the forest you can't see through all the conifers.</p><p>The Bogus Basin Road is none of this. It starts out in town, just another city street. Harrison, a historic, boulevarded lane of sixteen blocks. You slide through the stop sign at the Elementary School by the old church, now being drawn and quartered like so much of the Treasure Valley, into expensive domiciles too fancy to be called houses, with tiny lots not much bigger than the building's footprint, and then the road just pitches up. Sixteen miles, with little relent save the half mile or less down into Miller Gulch. Twisting and turning, made more impressive by the consideration of this highway's history.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix3ezlhhQU6jBdEV0KbQRGKOJFMqfZA8IWIw6N5k4YqZC4eOKP7He8BlQ5nHIr0439Aw_g7zNgKWLHws7lSuRF4CkPLbY2kv_P2Bt72I46Zaa4RuGof8gJ1dJKY7A_9S0CVPIxCI3YzABkpQzDRyx8A098KNYPcnn3zfBz-jh7XqGZsdgzW-hnZXqsfM4/s3225/icy%20road.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3225" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix3ezlhhQU6jBdEV0KbQRGKOJFMqfZA8IWIw6N5k4YqZC4eOKP7He8BlQ5nHIr0439Aw_g7zNgKWLHws7lSuRF4CkPLbY2kv_P2Bt72I46Zaa4RuGof8gJ1dJKY7A_9S0CVPIxCI3YzABkpQzDRyx8A098KNYPcnn3zfBz-jh7XqGZsdgzW-hnZXqsfM4/w600-h640/icy%20road.jpg" width="600" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Okay, sue me. Sometimes the trees come in close.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></i><p>Time was, it was dirt, naturally. One lane, up in the morning and down in the evening. Before the houses, before the pavement, it was a muddy slugfest just trying to get up to the hill to ski. It's been paved since '62, after about 25 years of hoping it'd be too cold for mud and that the snow would be crunchy enough for good traction. It still gets a little squirrelly sometimes, especially in the band between five and six grand. I've never truly lost control on the road, and only once of any consequence in almost 30 years of driving. There are some corners, though, to which I give more deference than others.</p><p>Most of the new housing at the bottom of the road has come in the last fifteen years. This is editorialising, I admit, but it is out-of-place, at best, and at worst, a bad idea that should never have been permitted. There are more rooflines in this small little swatch of grasping nouveau wealth than in some entire boroughs in more tasteful locales. At the moment, it thins at the first right hander and ends at the second left hander. There are homes above, and some even ostentatious, but the worst of the ugliness is over, and one can see the foothills and Boise Ridge above it all. There's room for a hawk and a harrier, for a handful of deer and the seasonal sheep drive. Cattle in the spring in the draws, and the flies they bring looking to break the splatter of new-grass manure down before it dries and hardens and desiccates, unavailable until the Monsoon finally makes it this far north in late summer. It's just grass and water, folks, no need to be afraid. These are rangeland cattle, that hippest of beef, the mythical grass-fed flatiron.</p><p>The Bogus Basin Road just goes on, and on, and even if it takes a hundred shifts, it's still better in a manual than any automatic. Better still if you have the fitness to climb it on your road bike. The descent is fast, interesting, challenging, and scenic.</p><p>Up above the Zombie Apocalypse house, there are tandem rock piles that from below look like a big bison and a little bison. Little Bison from above is Face Rock. Past the county line, there's a hard left hander that'll sneak up on a fool if he or she isn't ready, and in midwinter it dives into the shadows. Some weeks it doesn't melt out like the more exposed pavement just above and below. Past the big turnout that overlooks Daniels Creek, the road dives into shadows again, starting the really greazy part of the drive. It stays chilly, the northwesterly aspect not receiving any meaningful sun until March. Not coincidentally, it's here at the Ten Mile that you'll likely catch the slow driver who will not pull over for anyone. In our 100% completely totally scientific polling of a very representative swath of Treasure Valley residents, the driver will likely be in a large-to-huge truck or a very capable Subaru. (Okay, it's me, Amy, some BBSEF coaches she worked with years ago, our paid High School intern at the shop, Parker, Legendary Bear National Team Member CarHams, and Ryan (The Owner).)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXItSfKe-oCjcspImbvqEyMat_52jIGxxgVD34q1yQBhyjgsdg0BGVKtRAC91lI0DzHOX-pr1o0ixRDNGBznDd558SPGstsXFFYi-4iaWvHvjy055iigAfIXVEVl6kUvInIuibfUfGktI_mfNuBFno8gfn8KUsrTBtYmnlf8K7RrSKCwCsYleOmPqkm9o/s4032/face%20rock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXItSfKe-oCjcspImbvqEyMat_52jIGxxgVD34q1yQBhyjgsdg0BGVKtRAC91lI0DzHOX-pr1o0ixRDNGBznDd558SPGstsXFFYi-4iaWvHvjy055iigAfIXVEVl6kUvInIuibfUfGktI_mfNuBFno8gfn8KUsrTBtYmnlf8K7RrSKCwCsYleOmPqkm9o/w480-h640/face%20rock.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Little Bison from above. I swear it's a face. You believe me, right?</i></div></i><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>Some days the snake is ten cars, sometimes thirty. One Sunday last year, it was vintage Puget Sound stop-and-go all the way to the upper lodge, almost two hours. And I still found good snow because heads is trippin and they ain't got that shit on lock. (Sorry, the memory of that drive glitched my software.) I mean to say I skied Chair 5, where most folks never venture, even when that's the exact ticket for which they drove this twisty dervish of a glorious mountain road in the first place.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The last four miles are in the trees, still turning this way and that, dodging shadows and periodically giving a little view of the Sinker Creek drainage to the left and the upper reaches of Boise Ridge, and the ski area itself.</div><p>Heading down, it's always a bit bittersweet. I've never grown out of the desire to just live in the hills. The view is expansive, the drive easy if you take it like a sane person, exciting in the best of ways if you push it and there's a clear view. Sometimes it's second gear, sliding corners every so often, hoping it stayed cold behind you but knowing that somewhere along the line it'll get greazy again, that you'll drop out below the stratus deck, town glowing below in the early night, mist on the windshield, night skiers' headlights moving slowly up toward you, who knows what spirits looking on from the <i>Purshia</i> and hackberry. Just don't forget to let the trolls out at the Troll Gate. Brian Galbreaith tells us that they don't want to go home with you.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmLbvuMAR40Dj6X_yAAWOPI6JuP_1Ow3rzcoYLKm8w6gPS1dTLouX0n-6BNvM78eBYB3i5Mo2t-YpwxBBAZ-XqFLZ786UMhbpp0Zqi6oXgMsI2KdgH9cUXgfCRkyuiLJzCyTJ3CjrXcrPWR1WR4qVuCS9EefECvUatf2tlFqQsyt4hXT_4mtSqqnti3k/s612/orca.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="612" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmLbvuMAR40Dj6X_yAAWOPI6JuP_1Ow3rzcoYLKm8w6gPS1dTLouX0n-6BNvM78eBYB3i5Mo2t-YpwxBBAZ-XqFLZ786UMhbpp0Zqi6oXgMsI2KdgH9cUXgfCRkyuiLJzCyTJ3CjrXcrPWR1WR4qVuCS9EefECvUatf2tlFqQsyt4hXT_4mtSqqnti3k/w640-h528/orca.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Orcinus orca, Salish Sea local, just downstream from the Nooksack.</i></div></i><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>The light isn't cold, not this deep in the North Fork. Doesn't matter if it's snowing, or even if there's snow on the ground. It's Western Washington, and it really doesn't get cold. Nor is it threatening, mysterious, or any other damn thing, except dark. The rain is dark. The trees are dark. The light is dark. The Killing Woods that my buddy Todd talks about are here, of course. Grand fir, red cedar, Devil's club, salal, hemlock, rotting tree trunks and maybe an owl or two, <i>Strix occidentalis</i> and whatnot. There's a moment, every few weeks, where it's been puking and stayed cold behind the front, and the light just jumps. A painting.</p><p>The game was reciting what was ten miles ahead. It kept me awake. Ten miles above the DOT at the North Fork is Artist Point, buried a few months ago under the lower 48's snowfall outlier, that tiny convergence zone that centres on this huge amphitheatre, the Headwaters of the North Fork. The Nooksack doesn't drain massive square footage, but it is wet, all the time. Feet upon feet in a normal winter. Many species of ferns drip into the organic duff that clutters the forest floor. Slugs and centipedes and beetles and passerines.</p><p>The first ten mile was somewhere near Nugent's Corner. Highway 9 heads north to Canada. There's a market, and today a roundabout that wasn't there 22 years ago. The second, I don't know, somewhere south of the North Fork Beer Shrine. A random bend in a highway made of bends, in some trees along a highway buried by trees. I didn't really get interested until Kendall. Or should I say, I stayed awake most times until Kendall, when the dark got darker and the trees closer. Kendall's just about the 23 mile, and Maple Falls, home of Maple Fuels Wash-a-ton, just past the 25 mile. 35 is just past the Snowline, which is just upstream from Glacier, which is the last actual town on 542. Then comes 36, and I could start relaxing. The DOT is at 46, and then it's twisty, windy, steep, and sometimes gripping until the E Lodge just across the lake from Chair 1.</p><p>Just past the DOT, as soon as you cross the North Fork for the last time, there's a 90 degree left. It never gets any sun. My brother John talks about spinning a 360 there with Kelly Jo, who incidentally is both Craig Kelly's ex and one of the better cooks whose food I've had the pleasure of eating. He says she told him to do it again, meanwhile he's tryna get his BP down below 200/150. Another evening, heading up this time, Eli spins out in his old Metro, that green three-cylindered beast. I might be misremembering, but I'd just finished my EMT and I'd swear his heart rate was like 199. I checked.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzziFVOxnGPvH0PXd37e-ILqvEi8bk5fj4za8wF8hJqiK-IzZkI4QlGpdqRp9m7fSxzE-CA3nWSR3aJ-xSzFZE784-NYZ09Iz9yypmXegpfFs5ARfMV3T0F5dyugaeTHr-uwOzXpOvEtQH76-436bxT-iTYujVMHnfmIyoF5RnBM2ePXB6NWK5EJLUsdE/s2272/Shuksan.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzziFVOxnGPvH0PXd37e-ILqvEi8bk5fj4za8wF8hJqiK-IzZkI4QlGpdqRp9m7fSxzE-CA3nWSR3aJ-xSzFZE784-NYZ09Iz9yypmXegpfFs5ARfMV3T0F5dyugaeTHr-uwOzXpOvEtQH76-436bxT-iTYujVMHnfmIyoF5RnBM2ePXB6NWK5EJLUsdE/w640-h480/Shuksan.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Shuksan, Upper North Fork of the Nooksack, basically Canada. Just ask the locals. USGS photo.</i></div></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>Two mornings, same corner. John forgot his license--and I assume wallet, or he just had one of those moments--so he had me drive the Blazer. I didn't know the corner, just a couple weeks into my first winter at Baker. The sleet was tapping on my window on Garden, the streetlights a streaky orange. It was good going until the corner, having dried up out by Barclay, maybe the Haggen. That corner, though, just below the 47 mile, it doesn't melt. Or if it does, it's only so that it may refreeze again, and it was definitely refrozen. It was also snowing again, as evidenced by the DOT plow driver who pulled us out. John said he saw his life in a flash, like in the movies. Fortunately, the snow in the ditch by that massive Doug fir rootwad was rotten, crunchy, non-supportive. We stopped less than a foot from major problems.</p><p>Second morning, late that winter. I hitched up from Bellingham with my roommate and his buddy. They were seniors at one of the high schools down there, not sure which. Roommate's buddy, we'll call him Buddy, had an early-model Tacoma, long before they cost twenty fifty grand for a twenty-two-year-old model with 257 thirty billion million on the spinny thingy. Two doors and a canopy. I'll give him this, he had sand bags against the head of the bed. And a camp chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. The dark rolled past, snow from town, continuously whipping by at 60 or so, his confidence far outreaching his experience or skill, as evidenced by the ridiculously quick 360 he did not mean to turn at the left hander just past the North Fork bridge. The snow was going in the correct direction, toward the back of the canopy, then it slowed up until it was headed the other direction entirely. Without a beat, it stopped and then headed toward the back again, although at a much steeper angle now that he'd slowed down below 35. Buddy trundled the rest of the way to the E Lodge at codger speed, but we made it. Six miles he had to calm down, and he was still white as a Peanuts bedsheet ghost.</p><p>Somewhere on the first mile or two or three of the climb above the DOT, Shuksan appears through the canopy, that matriarchal Orca. The Price, the Hanging, and the White Salmon Glaciers white above the deepest green. October wet, August dry, March sunny break, she's there above the rest. The remainder of the drive is what you'd expect. Breathless anticipation, abject fear at 2 a.m. o'clock in the morning when there's a foot of variable on the highway and all you can do is hope the cat in front of your '87 GL didn't drive over the edge first, ghosts and those cold-day sprites, floating ice crystals no bigger than a flake of black pepper. A scree field that'll swallow a liftie's Jetta like a batter swallowing his chaw after a particularly high insider. It's sub-alpine, already, not even to four grand. Then, depending on the day, it's time to boot up, time to go to sleep, time to walk along the Chain Lakes, eat breakfast after Buddy calms down, or just sit in the September sun and watch the pika make hay, the sky eerily empty on the 12th of September.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugszKAyBva7Gcy9uAadEn9t6ZSx6-pWLrQsUWOT9thW6I9rlZr1ZuPUT_r6mrjqPimoODphIzk9S9Rkbi-tVfgKt1emZDhxc0KP27CnPTfjOA0R3FDbwjrN8pg7c_TUQimQJ2ebt3nVColNZj9e2sUhPSn6XlmBzpcf33yhDyi8gFrCO0qkPQZbcZtVA/s344/Pika%20Hay.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="344" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugszKAyBva7Gcy9uAadEn9t6ZSx6-pWLrQsUWOT9thW6I9rlZr1ZuPUT_r6mrjqPimoODphIzk9S9Rkbi-tVfgKt1emZDhxc0KP27CnPTfjOA0R3FDbwjrN8pg7c_TUQimQJ2ebt3nVColNZj9e2sUhPSn6XlmBzpcf33yhDyi8gFrCO0qkPQZbcZtVA/w640-h640/Pika%20Hay.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I didn't believe Pa when he tole me, but then I seent it up on ol' Table Mountain. NPS photo.</i></div></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Title from Lee Roy Parnell's epic road poem, </i>On the Road<i>. Better than the book, I think. Kerouac was, um, overrated. Fight me. Besides, Kerouac could kinda write, Lee Roy can shred the slide guitar.</i></div><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comNooksack River, Washington, USA48.851957869210928 -122.424526787610920.541724033032082 -157.58077678761089 77.162191705389773 -87.2682767876109tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-38251698266459189802023-10-07T20:38:00.002-06:002023-10-07T20:38:23.104-06:00I love the bass when it's low and mean<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wish I had a picture of the sunburn my calves got the first time I hiked up to Camp Muir. I'd kinda just slurred the sunscreen on quickly, and missed what ended up looking like flames coming out of my socks. Muir isn't a difficult hike, technically, just long. You leave Paradise at around the Or Fight* line and just keep goin until you need real alpinist gear and you're wondering who all these people are, sleeping at six in the evening. The Muir Snowfield tops out a little over ten grand, at the divide between the part of Tahoma where you only worry about getting lost in the fog and the part where she's actively tryna off ya at every turn. Being a snowfield and not a glacier, the Muir is skiable year round, easy in pitch if not in sightline. If you hike without skis, it's a long way down.</div><p>That first hike was with a kid who, to be blunt, was one of those friends you're friends with cos you think your friends are friends with him, only to find out when he's not around that nobody likes him and everyone is friends with him cos they think somebody else is friends with him, but in reality, you're all just kids in your early twenties, unforgiving, and now, looking back, maybe dude wasn't that bad. Kinda annoying in that socially awkward way that a lot of us were in our early twenties, and we just judged him cos we wanted to think we were better. Obviously, if he pulled some Me Too shit or like killed somebody and joined the Proud Boys, then maybe we were right. Who knows where he's at, but we did some good hikes to some cool spots. Can't complain about that.</p><p>Strangely enough, it's Brett (I'm like 75% sure that's his name) who got me my first bike job, and damn near twenty years later, I'm still pretending to be a mechanic, building wheels in between those reveries of afternoon coffee, some sort of Scandihoovian almond pastry, looking out on a montane prairie, covered in snow.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVxvNH5c1YW4sgFpofCq4YsY061KX8zUXpjWnYTWfXwn58c75eHbjXbf4QE2FqfMeGFeb534Df1mNnWSoBCbpp9pZlM_T_ANId9nMLnXsOJ_0xvKAQvalv5VExp1JUb4GiZMyYx_6eme7BOS2Q5ETONzR-Qh8Ql3d0GV6dST-uyTZpWNiB8RKv2SJlbMU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1400" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVxvNH5c1YW4sgFpofCq4YsY061KX8zUXpjWnYTWfXwn58c75eHbjXbf4QE2FqfMeGFeb534Df1mNnWSoBCbpp9pZlM_T_ANId9nMLnXsOJ_0xvKAQvalv5VExp1JUb4GiZMyYx_6eme7BOS2Q5ETONzR-Qh8Ql3d0GV6dST-uyTZpWNiB8RKv2SJlbMU=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Some boring volcanism at Camp Muir.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></i><p></p><p>The first time I actually skied in October was around Halloween, or a little before. One of those heartbreaking fall days you wish would never end. It had snowed a little up at Paradise, not much, but enough to scratch a few turns into some frozen melt-freeze in the blazing but radiationally ineffective sun. Patches of grass.</p><p>It's hard to say the turns were worth the hike, let alone the drive up from Puyallup. But then, if that's the math you're using, nothing is ever worth doing. I try to ignore that sorta logic. That day, let's say it was the 28th, probly '07, I just hiked until I found enough snow on a steep enough pitch, probly up around Pan Point or so. Seven grand, somewhere thereabouts. I say snow, but it wasn't really. I think I didn't even bother dropping the knee for fear I'd make too long a turn radius and be back at the car before I'd had my fill. Joke's on me, though, cos sixteen years later I still ain't found "enough". I get by, yes, but at this point my desire outlasts my ambition. There's always a wisp of yearning hanging in the air like some deep subalpine valley in January where one house has a fire and the capping inversion is visible, just a lazy line of smoke about three hundred feet above the chimney.</p><p>I won't lie and say those turns were good, but they were memorable. Scratchy, challenging, even a little painful on my unprepared feet. When I got back to the old Legacy, I probly shrugged, looked up one last time at Tahoma in the late afternoon sun, and headed back to town. If I'm reading the calendar right, it was the 30th, right after Junior fired me from Bonney Lake Bicycles of Sumner, Washington. The start of the only good month of unemployment I've ever had. The November turns that year outshone the October turns, but it doesn't matter.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJJcqTse_GSxIJKHV5HJh2paiVxlPXyqSmpwRVwYpINXA_9BbFOmWd5ufugHv-YTcVxbPXSj6xocRx8kdu2phrsevnI3DKS5D_QDApnBD22PyvbWkE6xe0rqT0mQz2H5fLiG19u_TdQRSaX-L95UL7hIuOmDskoZdMSZtmdJkUqeIKHNxUipl7XckcXio" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3165" data-original-width="5185" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJJcqTse_GSxIJKHV5HJh2paiVxlPXyqSmpwRVwYpINXA_9BbFOmWd5ufugHv-YTcVxbPXSj6xocRx8kdu2phrsevnI3DKS5D_QDApnBD22PyvbWkE6xe0rqT0mQz2H5fLiG19u_TdQRSaX-L95UL7hIuOmDskoZdMSZtmdJkUqeIKHNxUipl7XckcXio=w640-h390" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The view from Camp Muir could be better.</i></div></i><br /><p></p><p>October of '08, after getting skunked in the summer tryna ski Muir, Catherine was pretty gung ho about getting up there. It snowed early, and quite a bit. We were a day late, or maybe two, somewhere around the 12th. She met me in Puyallup and we headed up in my Legacy. Another one of those days, clear, cool, visibility unlimited. We didn't hit snow until above seven grand, what would be the toe of the Muir if it were a glacier. While swapping to skis and skins, we ran into a pro skier whose name isn't that important here. He was a full bedutchka to us, grunting and acting like we were in his way. No answers to our questions, just an impatient gesture and he was off down to Paradise. Any time I see his name today, I, too, grunt a little and act like he's still in my way.</p><p>The skin up from 7200' or so is long, long, long. Flat, in comparison to the sort of alpine lines most skiers dream about. I joke that the descent was the most exciting beginner run I've ever skied. You don't switch back much, just slorp and glorp your way along until the last few hundred vertical, where consensus holds that it's "steeper". The consensus holds, too, that the Muir Snowfield is only worthwhile for these early fall desperation quests.</p><p>Alas, the cognoscenti are correct. The view from Muir is terrible. You only see a handful of volcanoes, there are cracks in the glaciers above, the rock is interesting only if you like rocks and volcanism. The valleys stretch below you lazily, and the Tatoosh look small at this distance. The sun is benevolent instead of harsh, I mean, who wants that? The snowfield is long, and you'll probly just wanna get it over with cos skiing on a volcano isn't that special, is it?</p><p>You know what? Joke's on them. Camp Muir is incomparable. Millennia of volcanism tower over you, and this early in the water year, the underlying blue of the Cowlitz Glacier just over the divide peeks out from the crevasses, beautiful and ominous. I know what they can do, and yet I can't look away.</p><p>The turns, ah, the turns, you ask. They were, well, challenging. I'd built up excitement for the flat pitch, the long beginner run it would be, and then it was so sticky I had to hold each turn with all the leg muscles I could find. Tibialis posterior? Check. Soleus? Check. Adductor brevis? Check. I don't even know what those are. Tele's hard enough when conditions are ripe, even more so when they are long past. I didn't want it to end, but my legs did. The two-day-old hot pow skied like you'd expect in the direct sun, that exposed southerly aspect. The Muir fades skiers' left away from the Nisqually Glacier. It's so tempting to drift right and find the steeps of the Headwall, but there's no snow there off the glacier until the wet season systems build their snowpack, and it's not 1930 anymore. The glacier no longer runs to the bridge.</p><p>The snow was so sticky, in point of fact, all I could do was a 30 metre turn and catch my breath on the transition, and repeat. Eventually, the turns ended, the muscles could relax a bit. It's still a few miles of dirt to the car from Pan Point, but the hiking shoes felt like slippers and it was mid October and I was twenty seven, in the golden years where you still know everything and your body doesn't yet hate you for seeking it all out. Eyes up, the Tatoosh growing with every step, and then the flat of the paved lot and the bemusement of the late-season tourists. Low sun.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8DgV2ueWmbqHhIXp-VLZPR4kZADCEqmQcdIxrw3xlkfBQ6Lvx03jst-suYF9HZnLtHKP7x7Pvr9VQkR-rEQ4aUXhjwGx65p4DBgY5yuUsctvmCYanQAT856k_BWRYJhY6frpri6_flY1yC3JluJCZO9fpupE5upi_hVjUf7a7FtX5RgqER3eK51rvbOA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="1075" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8DgV2ueWmbqHhIXp-VLZPR4kZADCEqmQcdIxrw3xlkfBQ6Lvx03jst-suYF9HZnLtHKP7x7Pvr9VQkR-rEQ4aUXhjwGx65p4DBgY5yuUsctvmCYanQAT856k_BWRYJhY6frpri6_flY1yC3JluJCZO9fpupE5upi_hVjUf7a7FtX5RgqER3eK51rvbOA=w640-h330" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I guess this is cool if you're into that sort of thing. Nisqually Headwall, skiers' right of the Muir Snowfield.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></i><p></p><p>The third October day was a full moon, '013. It had puked at the hill, surprising for mid October in Jackson County. Mt Ashland is the tallest point, and by most standards it isn't that tall. Seven and a half grand, give or take. The highest point on the Siskiyou Crest, recognisable from a long ways away. The moon was low when I drove home from work in Medford, maybe a day or two before being truly full.</p><p>Amy was surprised at how ambitious I was when I got home. Usually we'd make dinner and mellow out on the porch, a quiet evening above the bike shop, the heat of summer long past and the hippies long gone to warmer climes. Instead, we threw everything in one of the Subies and booted for the hill.</p><p>The lot was empty. The snow was thick, and a bit orange from the town light reflecting off the thickening clouds. A weak warm front passed through while we were there, changing the snow between runs from the first run in high quality settled-but-fluffy to a challenging crispiness. McLaughlin off in the distance to the northeast, Shasta just east of due south. The first run was delicious, the second a passing grade, but barely. The warm air off the ocean was too much for the day old snow, and we called it a night. Halo around the otherwise bright moon, a strange glow emitting from the Cascades to the east and the Bear Creek Valley below.</p><p>That winter never happened. An early December storm dropped a foot in town on a whim. In the following days a burly Rogue Valley inversion set in and the snow just sublimated and the storm track never really returned. The Weather Service called it the Ridiculously Resilient Ridge, to which the late Kim Clark added "Great" so he could just say GRRR. My last turns at Mt A were in March that winter, dodging potholes in what rotten snowpack was around, never once dropping the knee. I could never get a rhythm in anything that winter, and in truth, I haven't really found a good one since.</p><p>My last memory from that night was the ghosts of the Shasta Valley, Black Butte and Cottonwood and Anderson Grade and Black Mountain. Basalt. Dark shapes, distinguishable more through memorisation of place than recognition of shape. Old volcanism, uplift, and desert. Quiet, distant and immediate all at once. Impossible to repeat.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuaRNzHUMFoSenEh7oVidfdxdVMqJ86ua7Kf-8Iggow-Mfzxbi17sfzHWwTdOm9Pnd0x47jZ1pfpHKUotMHI4gPdpitFyGCozoIJxv6UcdCfu5yZnbUcrBhTUGNuDfgBHpQfaxF7Ww3ChcOwqAvMuM1rq_TJ5xGY1FEi42NU98mtkpLW-itOjJWtfl0N4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="605" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuaRNzHUMFoSenEh7oVidfdxdVMqJ86ua7Kf-8Iggow-Mfzxbi17sfzHWwTdOm9Pnd0x47jZ1pfpHKUotMHI4gPdpitFyGCozoIJxv6UcdCfu5yZnbUcrBhTUGNuDfgBHpQfaxF7Ww3ChcOwqAvMuM1rq_TJ5xGY1FEi42NU98mtkpLW-itOjJWtfl0N4=w640-h382" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>From Eagle Point in the daylight rather than Mt A in the full moon, and frankly, just another volcano. See one, you seen em all.</i></div><br /><p></p><p>--</p><p><i>I could have named this after the John Denver classic </i>Some Days are Diamonds, <i>but that would be too easy, no?</i></p><p><i>Title from The Judds' </i>Turn it Loose<i>, which is kind of a nice easygoing country song for folks who don't wanna try all that hard. I mean, yes, I like the song.</i></p><p><i>Eagle Point gets its name from the eagle on McLaughlin that is </i><i>visible in the shot above</i><i>. I wish somewhere around the Sound with a boring name--like Burien or Buckley or Renton or Kent--was instead called Elk Head. That'd be fun.</i></p><p><i>*54-40 or Fight, but you know that.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABQDCBG1Qwyq8e7QYSEjSWJ8t0SDM9PXr3qrg4nLPFYTOIvEsHkD4kA8pGJ0ajM5-zc9XL4vltETrPGCQqHUK3ed_W0mplvZi5DfBao4B0Buc6L7VXdX7RdyuTupQSvARoBNOOxHfTeva9epnHa9oVrL9sdkNv3oL6sVrWy6aLawrvnq97P5n_6jpZPc/s960/Amy%20on%20top%20of%20Mt%20McLaughlin.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABQDCBG1Qwyq8e7QYSEjSWJ8t0SDM9PXr3qrg4nLPFYTOIvEsHkD4kA8pGJ0ajM5-zc9XL4vltETrPGCQqHUK3ed_W0mplvZi5DfBao4B0Buc6L7VXdX7RdyuTupQSvARoBNOOxHfTeva9epnHa9oVrL9sdkNv3oL6sVrWy6aLawrvnq97P5n_6jpZPc/w480-h640/Amy%20on%20top%20of%20Mt%20McLaughlin.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>You can't even see the Eagle from up here.</i></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comMount Rainier, Washington 98304, USA46.852307499999988 -121.760322918.542073663821142 -156.9165729 75.162541336178833 -86.6040729tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-18479591056915692792023-10-04T20:28:00.001-06:002023-10-04T20:32:56.221-06:00If you stay, it'll get better.<p> The last turn I made at Mt Ashland was the most painful single second I have ever experienced. Broken arm, blowed out knee, wisdom teeth, lifelong back trouble, migraines, none of that hit like that moment by the rental shop, the only tele turn I attempted in all of the nearly snowless winter of 2014. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6q2g70hWadFVGhE73K2qg98JnTx9YDar9EVdt6qgAyOXw31LSBithy8Y40mQKpc9A0Cjq_RWLZK4jycX-mrJUt33sRW1aJ5Sal_i1ko1fGqEKzVFzoG_iekniz3K00g1jNfEYNHqckLNsMET1ObtBVnkvUfK1noRU49L82PNmwWkAhSdutizvSY_j" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6q2g70hWadFVGhE73K2qg98JnTx9YDar9EVdt6qgAyOXw31LSBithy8Y40mQKpc9A0Cjq_RWLZK4jycX-mrJUt33sRW1aJ5Sal_i1ko1fGqEKzVFzoG_iekniz3K00g1jNfEYNHqckLNsMET1ObtBVnkvUfK1noRU49L82PNmwWkAhSdutizvSY_j=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Mt Ashland, Siskiyous, State of Jefferson. Not exactly Mecca, but you'd be wrong to omit it from your dossier. Just look at that gorgeous Riblet fan up there! Seriously, get after it. Photo via <a href="http://mtashland.com">mtashland.com</a></i></div></i><br /><p></p><p>The hills above Ashland, Oregon have a pretty diverse plant community. To the northeast of town is oak savannah, right up into a high treeline made by Doug fir and ponderosa. Down low, it's almost barren, reminiscent of the Great Basin. Rangeland, sparse white oak that may have been more prevalent long ago. It's hot, the afternoon sun hitting at right angles in three dimensions on the steep hillside.</p><p>To the south, it's cooler, calmer. Where the heat on the southerly aspects northeast of town make the air feel hectic and the bugs aggressive, the steep, damp, dark mountains south and west of town are quieter, full of shadows. The streams that drain the watershed are small, collecting together as they tumble. The hillsides are heavy with the trees of many species, and the landscape changes with aspect and elevation. The lowest forest is ponderosa and madrone, the soil a combination of slowly decomposing pine duff and even more slowly decomposing granite. Late in the summer, it resembles moon dust on the trails. As you climb the drainage, the ponderosa gives way to Doug fir, and eventually to mountain hemlock and Shasta fir. I love conifers, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel there's a hierarchy among them. Ponderosa is a widespread species, with many subspecies, and the Klamath-Siskiyou variety (<i>ssp benthamiana)</i> is gorgeous. Red, red bark. Tall, imposing, healthy. Cones that won't kill you, not like a sugar pine will. Wet-side Doug fir, too, feels bigger and more, I don't know, anthemic than its Rocky Mountain counterpart. It's the higher-elevation trees toward the Siskiyou Crest, though, that stand tall for me. Mountain hemlock, reminiscent of but stouter than its wetland cousin the Western. The droopy tops more upright, and the profile more suited to shedding snow. Above them all, the Shasta fir. It's a hybrid of some sort or other, depending on your perspective as a lumper or a splitter, of two majestic true firs representing two very different floristic provinces. From the north, the noble fir, and from the south, the red fir.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicVO_3wQP8PgHhJXcM0fX0vbnveC8Uu_kI7cPJjEqWBo6C9HSDSEtSpns9krBhGBldm_h0d0oJo6DoMzgBAMVrgWHgI8EPEEWCB8FO4IzDmlcmE4C5xTNCI4-rE2I6pqoOBdeKdHo4_oTsknnk2eGlgDnVFv-MXPFq2o90NsRT7jIVfa7MYbl6p8mh" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="667" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicVO_3wQP8PgHhJXcM0fX0vbnveC8Uu_kI7cPJjEqWBo6C9HSDSEtSpns9krBhGBldm_h0d0oJo6DoMzgBAMVrgWHgI8EPEEWCB8FO4IzDmlcmE4C5xTNCI4-rE2I6pqoOBdeKdHo4_oTsknnk2eGlgDnVFv-MXPFq2o90NsRT7jIVfa7MYbl6p8mh=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Them's some cones, brati. Abies x shastensis. Pic from the American Conifer Society.</i></div></i><br /><p></p><p>The crest above town is part of a bridge between the Cascades and the Klamath Range. Mt Ashland itself is the tallest peak on the crest, the tallest in the Siskiyou subrange. Before we moved there for Amy's Masters program at Southern Oregon, the Siskiyous for me represented only the Summit on I-5, which frequently closes for weather due to its just-high-enough elevation and the sheer volume of trucks and other travelers who use it, and the Shakespeare Festival. The three years we spent in Ashland showed otherwise, that the land surrounding it is a jumble and a crossroads, old and new piled up and twisted, with deep canyons and ancient species minding their own business. Where here in the desert of southern Idaho I can count on one of Yoda's hands the conifer species, there are places near Ashland with ten or more in a small space. The Miracle Mile due south in the Russian Wilderness has at least 17 different conifers, possibly 18, all within a square mile.</p><p>On a winter day with just the right flow, one can experience a twenty degree drop in temperature from Exit 14 to downtown, around two and a half miles. My friend Rob used to live out by the golf course there, and one day when I woke up above the bike shop we both worked at to fog and freezing temps, he thought he'd ride in to work without a jacket because it was darn near sixty degrees at his house. He walked through the door a little disoriented by the change. This sorta deal isn't unusual under an inversion regimen, but that change is always with elevation, not just heading two and a half miles west. It's that same Summit, the one that bedevils so many OTR truckers each winter, that allows strong southerly downsloping. The warm Central Valley far to the south will be under high pressure, with the Cascades to the north being pummeled by yet another east Pacific low. Wind will shoot the gap between Pilot Rock and Mt A, and drop down to the valley, heating as it compresses. The flow usually isn't strong enough to scour the cold air much north of the bottom of the hill, so just that little Mediterranean pocket lives in blissful ignorance of the damp cold a few feet away.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcR4V9SAbxW95vWa1D4LeOx71HIamXbOSewDcW7t6tPi-RKAiPNCq63pCTc_5acd5JwCBP4SluSVlUGuTaGEN4oWD5NCO0vn5eit4y3x9c5ULW5vh3yM54ByVuNj8GOEO0oweSqYrM_nhQe5u2Rv6nR1yY8FWplAMV_NKE5O2nCPAa2j1RMM2hg_8Z" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="1100" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcR4V9SAbxW95vWa1D4LeOx71HIamXbOSewDcW7t6tPi-RKAiPNCq63pCTc_5acd5JwCBP4SluSVlUGuTaGEN4oWD5NCO0vn5eit4y3x9c5ULW5vh3yM54ByVuNj8GOEO0oweSqYrM_nhQe5u2Rv6nR1yY8FWplAMV_NKE5O2nCPAa2j1RMM2hg_8Z=w640-h416" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Bowl, Mt Ashland. Them shits is right.</i></div></i><p>We moved to Ashland at the end of April in 2011, a couple days after our only nephew was born. It was a long day, leaving Greenwater early and driving mostly straight to Ashland. We got in late in the evening, and my parents helped us carry our lives up the twenty-two stairs to the surprisingly large apartement above the bike shop. When Merrill and Ron tacked the apartment onto the building in order to fill the "owner-occupied" requirement that came along with being a retail spot in the Hysterical District, they were quite ingenious. A spacious kitchen, stairs with storage leading up to a raised living room and one of the bedrooms, a ladder up to two rooms that could be offices, storage, bedrooms, a ganj-grow, whatever the Ashland hippie of the early 80s could desire. It wasn't perfect. The baseboard heating was inadequate to those damp inversion mornings, and the third-floor elevation without a/c or strong circulation meant we spent a goodly sum on fans and the loud window unit that did its best to keep us only somewhat too hot rather than way too hot. The Armory (an historic building, to fit its surroundings) hosted shows sometimes that would keep us up late at night and into the early mornings. We had a spacious attic that was technically shared with the shop, but Merrill hadn't really used it in some time. The location downtown was ideal, walking distance to most things and riding distance to everything else. We drove across town to the Shop'N'Kart by choice, because it had both the best prices and the best selection of any store in the valley, otherwise the cars didn't rack up many miles.</p><p>We left Crystal that year at the waning end of one of the biggest winters I have been a part of. A particularly potent spring pattern coated the entire Cascades in a volatile snowpack. Baker, for instance, got 227" in March. More than an average wet season, for instance, at Bogus, and a number that until this past winter ('023), I thought I wouldn't have the pleasure of skiing again. At Crystal, it started snowing around the 15th of February, and for at least 8 weeks, there was measurable snow each day. Not most days, each day. That could obviously be an inch a day for a week, but many times it was eight or ten or fifteen. Colin Meagher had an ad in one of the bike mags that summer, a photo at Chinook Pass with Keith Rollins standing tall on his road bike, dwarfed by the fifteen-foot snowbanks. Fifteen feet of snow in June, below 5500 feet. It was a hard choice to make, leaving home, leaving that much snow behind. It was at the end of a long run, frustrated, feeling trapped, maybe made a little in haste, but not one I would actually change if I had the choice. We could have simply held on like the old barnacles so many ski area lifers become; crusty, angry, combative, entrenched. Mossbacks. It's easy to romanticise what might have been, but one doesn't really know, now.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4Ly-0VxcEw8PUo_z5G_vAIIzXT_-qnBZ-C_qqBXJWwZc1y9ruglJPTcdEq2lNF0pt2azYRA39yyDymkurkKoQZwHuW9-kWlIYp9S1MeakFuXVGJkX9DZoz7Cgplh9HAgM1QTnDbp6v_58ejggotKAf_ZCGQaDxstJtoDrTMM6gLFu8TYu4PkrW7My" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4Ly-0VxcEw8PUo_z5G_vAIIzXT_-qnBZ-C_qqBXJWwZc1y9ruglJPTcdEq2lNF0pt2azYRA39yyDymkurkKoQZwHuW9-kWlIYp9S1MeakFuXVGJkX9DZoz7Cgplh9HAgM1QTnDbp6v_58ejggotKAf_ZCGQaDxstJtoDrTMM6gLFu8TYu4PkrW7My=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>THE Mossback.</i></div></i><p style="text-align: left;">We missed Closing Day. Crystal moved on without us, got busier, more anonymous, hipper, more 'grammable. I mean, the Silver Creek drainage has the same physiography, but don't tell all the new folks that. They DISCOVERED the place. Mostly gone are our ilk, the Carhartt crowd. LB is flying bush planes in Alaska, and last I heard, pounding nails when he needs to in Greenwater. Abby's raising a family and fighting wildland fire. Lizzie just got her Doctorate at the U in SLC. Liza is in SLC, too, coincidentally, out of contact even though she is likely the fulcrum for Amy and me getting together and staying. I lost patience and said some stuff and now there's just some good memories and a hope that she's doing fine. Curtis and Dawn are long since broken up, Laura off doing stuff and I think she's also got a family, Brad has a Sugar Mama, his words, and a daughter. The base area is a mess, and the community downstream is no longer a part of the day-to-day. The entire goal of the new owners seems to be selling beer to bored tech workers and soliciting proposals from various middle-management. (We watched one of these interactions this past February. It was a scene from Office Space, to be sure.)</p><p>The night before we left, we shared some nachos with Sean Bold in <strike>Rafters</strike> <strike>The Bullwheel</strike> Rafters, hung out in B Lot with the few folks who were left, and then disappeared ourselves. No closure. We woke up, gassed up in Enumclaw, put our respective right feet down, and went to sleep in an entirely different place than either of us really knew.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfNP3PKHUiBbi-NbK6fFxVsfMiDtclS7vwuDe7VSFG7sYnCm1Zb9Y-z033yPqLz2Pa7wxoU_giVgxxPD69ipJLAQiEX1j89zIqw76j4mVyqSPyrPHSublz-IJqRW1P1aP4ag35-mA4xU1VGSxmewI20YkqEJG85XDm7iJRG93btmqezicsGSAipyH/s4032/The%20King%2025%20Feb%2023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfNP3PKHUiBbi-NbK6fFxVsfMiDtclS7vwuDe7VSFG7sYnCm1Zb9Y-z033yPqLz2Pa7wxoU_giVgxxPD69ipJLAQiEX1j89zIqw76j4mVyqSPyrPHSublz-IJqRW1P1aP4ag35-mA4xU1VGSxmewI20YkqEJG85XDm7iJRG93btmqezicsGSAipyH/w480-h640/The%20King%2025%20Feb%2023.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Hurts to leave home when this is home. The King, CM Southback, on Pa's 75th. Shank Chute, Pinball, Pinball Face, the Toaster, Toaster Face, some rocks that probly have nice lichen communities, Samsquanch, A Basin Saddle where Eli lost his ski and made us lose valuable ski time all those years ago sorry Ma said it's best to forgive but Pa said it's more fun to hold a grudge or at least that's what I tell people cos it's funny I mean at least Brad laughed and Patrick guffawed.</i></div><p>Some years, Closing Day is timely, the second or third Sunday in April, with dirt showing through, sun, slush, and a kind of frantic last hour where you realise you are counting down the runs regardless of most skiers' superstitious fear of actually calling "last run". Near panic. Some years, the better and best years, there are a string of closings that last a few weeks, where if you have a thick enough wallet you can ski a handful of Closing Days without ownership, without the bittersweet drive downstream or the sad stumble into the E Lodge for one last night in the hills.</p><p>This year, ours was among the latest of any who don't normally do this sort of thing. We expect that Mammoth will push into the summer each season--they made they 6th of August this year--as will A Basin. Snowbird and Bachelor always aim for Memorial Day Weekend. Timberline usually gets a Sunday or three in August. Bogus, though, is among the crowd of areas closing regardless of snowpack, scheduled in advance, hoping just to make the projected last day. Last year, we melted out in March and April turns were just hopping over dirt on the first Sunday cos, well, we can't close in March, now, can we? Closing '019 was a deep day, 14 April, a bit of a surprise. It'd been warm and dry on Saturday, and even though the forecast was for tenish inches, nobody thought it'd happen, but it was among my deepest days in an already really good year.</p><p>This year, though, was different. Everywhere in the West had a good year, especially south of the 45th. Everyone knows how big the Sierra went, but the Wasatch was at least one pay grade above. Alta hit 900 for the first time on record, a mere 625" above the low set back when we were in Ogden. Bogus--lowly, forgotten by the industry even though they started the affordable pass trend back in the 90s Bogus--hit 360" in mid May, 80% above average. Seven inches shy of Crystal, when in most winters the difference is Crystal 2, Bogus 1. Or more. We stayed open fully until the 16th of April, a respectable closing, then enjoyed three bonus weekends until a slushy, appropriately uncertain finale, the 6th of May. It's the latest I have skied lifts at my home hill since 2002, and even that would require the asterisk of having moved back home after Baker closed. It was bittersweet, of course, and I missed a good few runs waiting out a persnickety morning gut, and I left as unsatisfied as I always do. Not because the turns were anything other than great. They were memorable, and quiet, and mostly in the sun. The corn snow piled up in places, ran smooth in others, rarely sticky, and, well, very much like I want from my May turns. Sloppy, challenging, unappealing to most of the boozehounds who headed up only to find they didn't care enough to really do much. A modest group of us hung out at the top of Chair 1 throwing snowballs until Patrol got impatient and quoted Semisonic quoting the apocryphal "you don't have to go home. . ." I skied the Other Ridge to the Other Bowl at short-swing pace. As many turns as possible, stopping long enough for Patrol to almost catch me before moving on. Then, just like '011, I left unceremoniously. Other folks were boozing in the lot, natch. Honking their horns on the way out, yelling, whooping, doing what privileged white people seem to do in these situations. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03qHgonDzChaO7RZl7Kg7rAHnyBr8tHho89U_kWmRXnsApqHKyQEUNkDMV7MSQTYKDsMgZBWH6rmhWAy9qIkBWWMbaO_4MyDrzi6wVKwUrTYgUoMswG1ih-Sx5f11pqDqCB_htjuwFSXU56KST0f24jKtY-A7RtgWRBRbdeZa3taabm2QZd_U4H31/s4032/one%20last%20shot%20closing%20day%2023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03qHgonDzChaO7RZl7Kg7rAHnyBr8tHho89U_kWmRXnsApqHKyQEUNkDMV7MSQTYKDsMgZBWH6rmhWAy9qIkBWWMbaO_4MyDrzi6wVKwUrTYgUoMswG1ih-Sx5f11pqDqCB_htjuwFSXU56KST0f24jKtY-A7RtgWRBRbdeZa3taabm2QZd_U4H31/w480-h640/one%20last%20shot%20closing%20day%2023.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>6 May 23. Late enough, for once. Of course, nothing is ever enough, now, is it? Hiding from the Eye of Sauron with Closing Day Poles and shadows, Boise National Forest, Boise County, ID.</i></div></i><p>I'd like to think the ebb and flow of what most folks think of as ski season, November to April, has given me some sort of ability to handle endings. I don't know that I handle them well all the time, given that I think ski season should run into July or at least until I just don't have the oomph anymore, but I actually feel good about the season for the first time in a long time, probably since before that white flash of pain by the rental shop at Mt A in 2014. Closing Day in 2013 was fun, a day like the 6th of May this year, a bonus Sunday where I skied with my Closing Day Poles for the first time, Amy and I slopping rather expertly through the moguls under Ariel, oblivious to the fact that it'd be the last time either of us would ride the lifts there. I wasn't satisfied then, of course, but then I can only think of one day in my life where I actually thought "this is enough", and that was 9 July, day 127 on snow in 2002, and I was so exhausted and burnt out that the next year felt like nothing was ever going to be enough again.</p><p>I can still picture one specific run, directly under Ariel. We took turns shooting video of each other, probly lost on a phone Amy doesn't have anymore. We were in progress, just another day in the life, thinking all things would continue onward, and upward. The snow was that rare commodity, true corn snow. Huge grains, easy to push around and yet not all that easy to ski until you know what you are doing and are strong enough to do it. One day among many, and yet like the tall Shasta firs around us, somehow above the rest. Only a handful of days measure up. Cinco de Mayo at Alpental in 2006. Easter, '06, Closing Day at Crystal. Closing Day at Snowbird in '016. Opening Day, 4 November 2005, Crystal. Veteran's Day, Crystal, '06. Closing Day, Baker, 2001. All of June, 2008, Central WA Cascades. There's a theme here. Not many beginnings, and a blur in the middle, and then panic. Postpone the inevitable for one satisfyingly unsatisfying day.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqhr6rKzI8LdG9j_7rQxCSPTR3xnhefw3aKBlwbQh0XiLZjFtOBbNYMnRfmov1CJ985eXYfs9qkj4a9PbNvc9wkou0j3hgB9G1TacsbH-wkxjsszASUCYmMteSWX5vWcQQAo6MiVLBHx2WIEf93j6VGD2PYZlShlHnUQXhjHurVqAPmXaS7GF8U1cZ/s4032/daffodils%20before%20closing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqhr6rKzI8LdG9j_7rQxCSPTR3xnhefw3aKBlwbQh0XiLZjFtOBbNYMnRfmov1CJ985eXYfs9qkj4a9PbNvc9wkou0j3hgB9G1TacsbH-wkxjsszASUCYmMteSWX5vWcQQAo6MiVLBHx2WIEf93j6VGD2PYZlShlHnUQXhjHurVqAPmXaS7GF8U1cZ/w480-h640/daffodils%20before%20closing.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Daffodils before Closing, just the way it should always be. "Historic" North End, BoyCee, ID.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- -</div><p><i>Title from a song Suzy Boguss wrote with her husband, Doug Crider, </i>Just Like the Weather<i>. It was released as a single off her 1993 record </i>Something Up My Sleeve<i>. Lotta good records that year, from all over the dial. School of Fish's </i>Human Cannonball<i>, for example and for contrast. It's on the internet, kids. Find out.</i></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-4886456340929300022023-09-16T21:35:00.002-06:002023-09-16T21:38:47.350-06:00Ski Area Naming Department<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiNfY_HJVRZONC3mqKB4WcWI2JsjjZMo_DOwlvZ5L_cDOabemavHvPWF8nL4Yxg__yYPD5gQkGk-EFYayXC8ON27jfU1X8GKn5rtlKbRvYqRvH29NVRZi_XiYn0EQ00IZ2sMRJVxq6TRUzj41RZoBkDif177zvhcIwfXkolfREOHk-tGWeOqL7bNkfmGY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiNfY_HJVRZONC3mqKB4WcWI2JsjjZMo_DOwlvZ5L_cDOabemavHvPWF8nL4Yxg__yYPD5gQkGk-EFYayXC8ON27jfU1X8GKn5rtlKbRvYqRvH29NVRZi_XiYn0EQ00IZ2sMRJVxq6TRUzj41RZoBkDif177zvhcIwfXkolfREOHk-tGWeOqL7bNkfmGY=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Nakiska, near Kaninaskis. Say that 48 times fast.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>They's some mighty boring names out there. Mt Snow. I mean, come on, people. Beaver Creek? Copper Mountain? Winterplace? I live in Sleepeatplace, then. Willamette Pass? Is that, by chance, in Montana, near some random place? Nope. It's on. . . . .wait for it. . . . . .Willamette Pass. Good job guys. I know nobody gave (or gives) a toss about whether some stocky, bald, angry 40 something is going to smile ever so slightly at the lyricism of a given place name, or run name, but still. Thankfully, not everybody went on break.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUrudLNxEtjSBaDFry0JIRAEycp1h3WQGFYqJ6eR8s9VsmtWP_isEKcZhqrZ5Ht3cWKTxwDXfzU99oFS42AwsyHH-Pm1IF3EKOldXYKW1t0j1uWkUayNw8fHn-o-kRKxsJE_TvLlwk0jaTtAn_69UiqcAcFwNv4osuhzxy2n7spK6aCdPdEWA9t3BZfEw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1280" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUrudLNxEtjSBaDFry0JIRAEycp1h3WQGFYqJ6eR8s9VsmtWP_isEKcZhqrZ5Ht3cWKTxwDXfzU99oFS42AwsyHH-Pm1IF3EKOldXYKW1t0j1uWkUayNw8fHn-o-kRKxsJE_TvLlwk0jaTtAn_69UiqcAcFwNv4osuhzxy2n7spK6aCdPdEWA9t3BZfEw=w640-h430" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Where is it at? Mt Washington? Let's call it Mt Washington. I'm goin on break.</i></div></i><br /><p></p><p>Herewith, some best ski area names. Fun, lyrical, weird, or otherwise interesting for one reason or other.</p><p>Nub's Nob, MI. Yawgoo Valley, RI. Frost Fire, ND. Hoodoo, OR. Mt Cheeseman, NZ, not cos it's original, as it's on Mt Cheeseman, but, dag. Good call just the same. Whakapapa. Talk about lyrics. That's right out of a late 50s rock song.</p><p>Bogus Basin, ID. You can't call us biased, cos there's a few conspicuous names not here. Mt Ashland, for one. It's not bad, but, well, just a name. Crystal Mountain, Mt Baker, Buck Hill, all solid places, with great memories. Mt Bachelor, Copper, Welch Village, all of em. Timberline, while accurate, not interesting. Bogus, though, is fun.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtThfoMAo2LC2dJJFMqrnzrjze2M03oJ3NVzZ8scMy42UdtHuNj8WSX1HsWEXPgyXTT1Cx3rgnfLs1VTyYKEjPMa3LZcNfLm7TGvLXVAtqmfxWQvmSbmu0V-RFHVb8QHbcclnzo1Xk9w8PRY0FDEf0bl2HZK3ILOePbGuvdNo36e8U8YhsU5Peenxinvk/s4032/bogus%20road%20work.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtThfoMAo2LC2dJJFMqrnzrjze2M03oJ3NVzZ8scMy42UdtHuNj8WSX1HsWEXPgyXTT1Cx3rgnfLs1VTyYKEjPMa3LZcNfLm7TGvLXVAtqmfxWQvmSbmu0V-RFHVb8QHbcclnzo1Xk9w8PRY0FDEf0bl2HZK3ILOePbGuvdNo36e8U8YhsU5Peenxinvk/w480-h640/bogus%20road%20work.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>How else can I make the joke about wanting real road work?</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><p>There's Trollhaugen, WI. Of course. Craigleith, Craigieburn, and Cairngorms. Doesn't matter where they are, they sound legit. Granlibakken, Tawatinaw Valley, Rotarun, Skaneateles, Quoggy Jo, Cataloochee, Nakiska, Calabogie, Boogie Mountain, all just sound fun. Neither of us cares that Rotarun is a platter on the side of a small hill near Hailey, ID,</p><div>Some names just ring true, like SkiLand, or represent in a simple way, like Smuggler's Notch. Others are just fun, like Wild Mountain--Amy disagrees--Troll, Snow Snake, Mt Ski Gull, or Sky Tavern.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some, however, make you wonder. What is a Revelstoke? A Catamount? I learned recently that it's a real thing, just like a bearcat is real. It's a cougar, if you are wondering. Although it could be a lynx. Or a chupacabra. Taos, you ask? I don't know either. Nor can Amy and I agree on how to actually pronounce it in the first place. But it's memorable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Many of these words and names are Indigenous words or names, some of which likely mean "Snowy Mountain". That's fine. They sound nice, enticing, descriptive, many things. Certainly better than naming a giant 4300 metre volcano after Boring Admiral Peter or a ridgeline with great views and conspicuously skiable pitches after a prostitute's profile. (Thanks, Targhee.)</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCrkqTk8530YC2qzHRDZmMMtxY_8P9lAd3dprJ0i3UmfcO-B0J1G2928OaEpv__jxpVSE1h0rbIDGjD-9eCOWeML5jyhS2SpEoXubSLpvi_TG13xiBOBbL96ox6HGXTEm7ccYVMv_HYS5_hb8ydhYWp-0sgcZiMwFW5HFFEJApWXeyKyZc7qK5DzkMGhk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCrkqTk8530YC2qzHRDZmMMtxY_8P9lAd3dprJ0i3UmfcO-B0J1G2928OaEpv__jxpVSE1h0rbIDGjD-9eCOWeML5jyhS2SpEoXubSLpvi_TG13xiBOBbL96ox6HGXTEm7ccYVMv_HYS5_hb8ydhYWp-0sgcZiMwFW5HFFEJApWXeyKyZc7qK5DzkMGhk=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Can't ski on a nighthawk, but it's a rad bird just the same, and a good name, too, also</i></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Nighthawk, Skeetawk, Kicking Horse, Steeplechase, and Hogadon, they just roll off the tongue. Or Loup Loup and Batawa, which is not near Matawa, WA. Or Skamakowa, WA for that matter. Saskadena Six is a rename, but a historic name, too, much better than the interloper, Suicide Six. Even without the comparison, I wanna go just hearing the name. Same with Massanutten, although the joke writes itself with this one. I'm pretty sure there's a there there, although it could be a mass of nothing. Some day we'll find out. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mt Eyak and Hyak. Speaking of poorly renamed places, there's the dreamy Moon Valley, which is now known as a mostly boring Titus Mountain. Hyak, if you don't know, is now "Summit East", being east of Snoqualmie Summit. Sheesh. No, Boyne, it just isn't. IT'S F(*&#$)(*& HYAK AND Y'ALL CAN TAKE A LONG WALK OFF A DIVING BOARD INTO A HOT VAT OF ACID BAT TURDS.</div><div><br /></div><div>Beartown, Owl's Head, Attitash, or as it was once, Attitash Bear, I don't know, there's just something about the words. Jiminy Peak, Chicopea, Treble Cone. I like ambition, too, like The Remarkables, or Big Snow American Dream. Anyway, some food for thought.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBt8L5gEg73Gk5NyAspHlqbXcBhV5kzTvkztjgU-c8IgT4NUrptB8oEMBOxcVk_MqveLyDwTPuPbAhuobZskgFpdunznwUhLJB9C6-RQnYoYfHdNTpmAJJCc2gV0TvqvokVmLxaAN0MnIVDnzdPR0ETWWpjorAV3l4WydYAqdqj-K1IM4asMEGi9oR0ic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="800" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBt8L5gEg73Gk5NyAspHlqbXcBhV5kzTvkztjgU-c8IgT4NUrptB8oEMBOxcVk_MqveLyDwTPuPbAhuobZskgFpdunznwUhLJB9C6-RQnYoYfHdNTpmAJJCc2gV0TvqvokVmLxaAN0MnIVDnzdPR0ETWWpjorAV3l4WydYAqdqj-K1IM4asMEGi9oR0ic=w640-h428" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Stone Ham, QC. Not just a pretty face. Also hungry-making. Like Mt Packing Ham.</i></div></i><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>- -</div><div><br /></div><div><i>- Joke's on you. I know it's Stoneham. And Pakenham. Feigned ignorance is one of the best ways to push buttons. I'm the youngest, so that's my job. Pushing buttons, I mean. Feigned ignorance is just a bonus.</i></div><div><i>- If you don't know Mitch, then you need to. Appliance Naming Department. Look it up, kids. It, too, is on the internet.</i></div>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comSkeetawk, 13500 N. Skeetawk Circle, Palmer, AK 99645, USA61.7431411 -149.233856233.432907263821157 175.6098938 90 -114.07760619999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-44513154749833768082023-09-10T17:01:00.005-06:002024-03-24T15:14:50.094-06:00Annual Resort Guide Brought to You by the 80s Audi Quattro and Their Oh-So-Reliable 5 Cylinder It's THE Ski Vehicle Don't Look at That Oil Puddle It's Fine<p> With all "relevant"* ski rags gone, somebody's gotta take up the slack. Challenge accepted.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikJmSzCRuwx7nvNRt2jkhRkzKDwYHGr9AE_o4hGEUD8ngBQABy1yf49Y_hV8tl3mAzNEIvBGFzmL6Y84tk-7VV-_Mf_7hdX2svDpmcz65igN-m6C1J4TMtRJZ3_g8E-3a92BnQy7bynziso5SdGKylGNv7YSK4XFSM_FiF06OTZBfuYMVqQyvAVHISOy4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikJmSzCRuwx7nvNRt2jkhRkzKDwYHGr9AE_o4hGEUD8ngBQABy1yf49Y_hV8tl3mAzNEIvBGFzmL6Y84tk-7VV-_Mf_7hdX2svDpmcz65igN-m6C1J4TMtRJZ3_g8E-3a92BnQy7bynziso5SdGKylGNv7YSK4XFSM_FiF06OTZBfuYMVqQyvAVHISOy4=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Hayrick Butte is a tuya. Tuyas are formed when there's a volcanic blorp right up into an ice sheet or a glacier's business, such that that lava blorp cools quickly into this sorta flattop shape that's rad and if you'll notice, there's skiing right in front of you in this pic, which is not even a little coincidentally at Hoodoo.</i></div><br /><p></p><p>Best of the West</p><p>1) Hoodoo. I mean, really. Volcanoes, volcanoes, volcanoes, volcanoes, volcanoes. Did I mention the tuya? Have you SEEN a tuya?! Rad. Oh, the skiing also happens to be really good. Well, not "happens", it just is. Steep, deep, closer to the Valley than Bachelor, Cascady in all the ways, you got it. No excuses. Also, still got them Riblets, natch. They didn't open in the Bad Year, but you could kayak up to the chairs a few times.</p><p>2) Brighton. Yeah, sure, whatever, Big Bad Boyne, we don't care. It's like Crystal in the 80s. Dank basements, funky chair alignments, and frickin awesome fall line schred monster skiing. Seriously. Milly is, like, Big Sky except you don't gots ta deal with somebody correcting you on how to say BIG Sky. BIG Sky, not Big Sky. Grr. Brighton is just, well, weird. And that's how we like it. Did I mention they got four hundred pow days last winter? No? They did. Plus nights, so that's like ten hundred pow days.</p><p>3) Discovery. You don't know where it is, and you don't know how big it is. It's big, and it's in the middle of nowhere. Plus, skiing is rad, and also, it's big and in the middle of nowhere and trees and lotsa skiing and no detaches and maybe a little or a medium lot weird and GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL</p><p>4) Beaver. Amy says it's number one, and she's right, but I already put Hoodoo there and I don't know how to work this thing. Anyway, Beaver is magical. Marge Seeholzer is (from experience) a well-spoken, kind, observant woman. The best sort of folk whom you always want to meet at a ski joint. And her family has been running it since the beginning, with Marge's son Travis nominally at the helm, though they still say Marge is the boss. The skiing is good, too, long cruisers, steep trees, legendary Utah pow, views of the Bear River Range, moguls when you want em, but it is simply being there that makes it. There isn't any adequate description, and I think that's a pretty high compliment. When you think Utah, think Beaver. Seriously. You will punch me for not telling you sooner.</p><p>5) Mt Baldy. Not that one, the other one. No, not in Canada, in LA. Seriously. You think I'm joking, but you forget that a) skiing is rad wherever you do it and b) MOUNT FRICKIN SAN FRICKIN ANTONIO. IT'S TEN MILLION FEET TALL. There's old lifts, weird terrain, funky locale, and the obvious advantage of being somewhere no one will believe you've skied. There's interesting conifers, incredible views, funk, the sheer madness of skiing thirteen feet from your front door in Ontario, don't miss it.</p><p>6) Snow King. There's a really good Korean restaurant, the best just about anywhere, and they have these rice triangles that are wrapped in seaweed and you can get either vejies or spicy tuna and they're the perfect after skiing snack and there's like a playground and a hockey rink and the sun doesn't rise until April so you know it's steep AF and the runs are narrow and</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PlXwzt1i9KnNeXjW8p0C53mIvgDlkxwFY_lPRKfkLpAp77siBV2qk13X3BlPE2FJ2cYyKUZGjepNVvEaFipAKEM7T0g0BqtXtQfUFRns9zwNb55lK6XTgJZZjjLx0LKK16UQ9gliiUlEORzcnewf_6anAVqmnAuOkD_AlDtKpwi7sOdU8i5-dKcbLA0/s4028/amy%20at%20magic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2689" data-original-width="4028" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PlXwzt1i9KnNeXjW8p0C53mIvgDlkxwFY_lPRKfkLpAp77siBV2qk13X3BlPE2FJ2cYyKUZGjepNVvEaFipAKEM7T0g0BqtXtQfUFRns9zwNb55lK6XTgJZZjjLx0LKK16UQ9gliiUlEORzcnewf_6anAVqmnAuOkD_AlDtKpwi7sOdU8i5-dKcbLA0/w640-h428/amy%20at%20magic.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Amy at the magickest joint in all of Idaho. Nevada, Washington, Texas, too. Any state or region except Vermont. Then we fightin.</i></div></i><p>Not the West</p><p>1) Buck Hill. Just cos I grew up there. And that's why. And I have many fond memories. Yeah, I mean, Lindsey Vonn, Paula Moltzan, Kristina Koznick. It's close to the Burnsville Mall, and you can watch ice fishing from all the runs. It's just across the street. And there are fireflies, which Eino doesn't believe in cos he never seent em. Amy claims "they aren't there in winter," which makes Eino even more suspicious.</p><p>2) Mont Ripley. It's in the UP, which is the Napa of the Midwest, if Napa were actually a cool place and if it were cold and got hit with up to 400 inches in the best years and you go places on snowmachines as much as possible, and there's Michigan Tech, and Ripley is pretty darn steep, when it comes down to it. Also, pasty. Did you know there's a <a href="https://www.visitkeweenaw.com/things-to-do/restaurants/keweenaw-pasty-trail/" target="_blank">pasty trail</a>? It's like a beer trail, except, you know, not boring. And good. Pasty is good. Mont Ripley is good. I seent it once. Gramma Linnea grew up just north of there. Lake Laurium, Calumet, somewhere thereabouts. By the Trap Rock. Also LAKE EFFECT IT DON'T GET NO HIPPER THAN LAKE EFFECT YEEEAAAAAAAHHHH SUCK ON IT REED TIMMER.</p><p>3) Trollhaugen. They do it right in Wisco. Or as they say it Utah, WESconsin. It's cold when it's not not cold, except in summer, when it's always not cold. At least Amy says so. It's right near the river, not far from Wild Mountain. You can turn both ways and stop there, and like we said earlier, skiing is better than not skiing. The separation is like if you live in Florida, that's not skiing, and if you went to Wisconsin, that's skiing. That's how much better skiing is that not skiing, and Trollhaugen IS skiing. Right to the core, don't ask questions, just go. In fact, why aren't you already there? You do know they are one of the only 100% Borvig-lineage mountains that isn't Bluewood, don't you? </p><p>4) Wild Mountain. They are sometimes the first open in October. Before A Basin, Kidneystones, The Beast, whatever. Just upstream and across the La Croix River, that storied, bubbly, tasty, refreshing river that raises in the wilds of North Wisco, which Amy canoed on back in the day, into which she fell, possibly, which Louis Hennepin is said to have said they called le Rîvięrë Tombeaux, which is Frenchist for Le River Tombeaux. Hennepin was Belgianist, so who knows. Anyway, Wild Mountain is tucked away nicely upcountry from the Cities, on the west bank of the the La Croix, naturally essenced by the trees and at a slower pace. Not all that coincidentally, as recently as last year, Wild was a 100% Borvig mountain, too, but they're building a new Skytrac, so, not quite as cool as they could be. I still root for em every October. Giver, Wild! Rip that manmade! Skiing here is better than not skiing, and to be honest, give me the choice of Vail or Wild for the rest of my turns, you know which I'll choose. Vail can take a flying leap at a rolling nuclear doughnut.</p><p>5) Perfect North. They batted 1.000 when it came to Riblets, until this summer. A quick drive from Cincinatti, they're almost Appalachian and almost midwest, and I dig me some edge-of-the-world bordertown shit. They are at the moment a well-run org, with at least one other small area in their portfolio, which sounds like a weird thing to put in a best-of list except that they are among the only independent joints in the Eastern Midwest, so I say GIVE EM HELL, MR PERFECT. Also, they have snow, and snow is fun, and skiing on snow is fun, and lifts are fun, and if you live nearby, then ring up an afternoon of turns and Riblets and you will never be disappointed.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF7PtokI-vrbM33ZWJ3IUDjl_yH7uvDUJz_yUmSZbM54F60AVeeFVsaLjgGBQ8-9uFK3TDQMrqXs_QLTEAfmDN6rq_u9IhBNt2gLhRryX7QvIwM1iiCUjuMelZ_9vwbklBlQu_m1VfaAYKL3yXufRurmZHBP6776-X0VxpQ2bNU681ZB6CEDuUIUDHN7o/s4032/turkey.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF7PtokI-vrbM33ZWJ3IUDjl_yH7uvDUJz_yUmSZbM54F60AVeeFVsaLjgGBQ8-9uFK3TDQMrqXs_QLTEAfmDN6rq_u9IhBNt2gLhRryX7QvIwM1iiCUjuMelZ_9vwbklBlQu_m1VfaAYKL3yXufRurmZHBP6776-X0VxpQ2bNU681ZB6CEDuUIUDHN7o/w480-h640/turkey.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This is a turkey. Right down the street from the house in Historic North End BoyCee, Idaho.</i></div></i><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p>East of the Beast</p><p>1) Sugar. I mean, really. There's turns, there's lifts, there's a big college with some rad <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2007_Appalachian_State_vs._Michigan_football_game" target="_blank">football history</a>, and one of the ugliest buildings in any mountains which you can hate and complain about or actually do something positive about, like firebombing. Anyway, the skiing does get steep, and I totally know a guy who skied there in college. The summit is higher than any skiing in Vermont. Which makes me laugh. Everybody's like "skiing? When you <a href="https://www.enoreandmimigoski.com/2022/10/top-47-skiing.html" target="_blank">list skiing</a>, Vermont is like top ten." But yeah, Sugar's higher than Mansfield and all of Vermont--which literally means Green Mountain, so like Vermont the Green Mountain State is like Boise, City of trees, which is Trees, City of Trees--and within spittin elevation of Marcy and Katahdin, otherwise known as the tallest hills in Maine and New York, or something like that. Anyway, back in 2002, me and Brian Terwilliger of App State and Sugar Mountain agreed on a race cos he banged gates and I was a ski bum and he thought he'd be faster. I tole im I'd race on any ski, and he could also choose the race, and he told me to grab whatever I thought was faster and we'd tuck from the top of 5 to the bottom; in good Baker fashion, we were turning for directional purposes only. I've weighed north of 200 my entire adult life, and I had a pair of 197 Igneous givin er skis, and he was on his 165 cm slalom sticks, all 145 pounds with gear. Somehow, I won. Musta been skill. Not physics, nope, not at all.</p><p>2) Yawgoons. You just gotta. If you don't this year, you'll be one year older when you do. And if you can ski here, you can ski anywhere. Also, there's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cra4QF8DS_4" target="_blank">some snowboarders</a> there who done got some creativity like no other. And a questionable obsession with corrugated pipe. Rhode Island, man, it's the future.</p><p>3) Saddleback. It's frickin gorgeous, and it's frickin independent. And big, imposing, steep, varied, everything us snobby Westerners claim we are. They get all the Mainer weathers, the peak is exposed, and they ain't nut'n like it. I'd be more effusive, but it's unnecessary. When you think Beast Coast, if Saddleback isn't on your radar, you're wrong, and I don't know you. You probly drink apple juice that isn't from Washington and think Crystal Pepsi was a genius idear that just needed the right marketing touch.</p><p>4) Owl's Head. It's named after a guy who looked like an owl. Not that the hill looks like an owl. It's in the Cantons de l'Est, which is Canadian Frenchist for Cantons de the East. Picture yourself in France around the time of the Revolution. Heads are rolling in the streets, there's barricades, Jean Valjean is singing to Penelope Cruz, things is happening. Anne Hathaway just got a haircut, and Jean Reno is driving a Renault. Y'know? Anyway, say you're on the Left Bank of the Seine, selling loose joints to tourists. These tourists don't know French Fries from French Toast, nor why those terms are both incorrect. Now, within this hallucination, sit down at a cafë, that one right there. Close your eyes, and imagine all of this is gone and you're in the countryside, with spotty but impressive hills surrounding you at distances, and snow on the ground, and skiing. Now you're feelin it. There's Jack Chirac over there, in a sweater and cap, Gauloise hanging jauntily from his lower lip like Andy Capp, skis slung over his shoulder. In the distance you can see Sylvain Soudan and Tessa Worley and Johan Clarey rippin the grooms under the Panorama quad, just layin them tracks like they was Leland Stanford scamming the US taxpayers. Something like that.</p><p>5) The Jay Waterpark. Nothing says skiing like not skiing.</p><p>6) Titus. This one is real. I mean, I'd rather it was still called Moon Valley, but I ain't the one owning it. Titus is upstate, basically in the Eastern Townships of QC, but not really cos it isn't l'Est enough. Situated kinda like a farm where one farmer stitches together pasture from a few different plots and makes do with walking his cows across the street every so often cos that's just what you gotta do sometimes. Spread across three knolls--with a gravel pit at one end å łã Number 4 in The Rockies Tee Em Terry Peak and the Wharf Mine--it takes a little imagination and perseverance to ski everything in one fell swoop. It gets cold up north on the Salmon River, which, by the way, unlike that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVyUo08COyE" target="_blank">one out west</a>, doesn't have sharks, and that's what skiing is for. Titus isn't huge, 200 acres, give or take, but they have 1200 or so vertical and a good variety of tree-lined runs, both cruising and gettin after it. Lastly, and probly like third most importantly, there's an Owl's Head nearby. That counts for something here in BoyCee, as does the maple syrup operation that serves up 5000 gallons every year, according to <a href="https://nyskiblog.com/directory/ny-ski-areas/adirondacks/titus-mountain/" target="_blank">NY Ski Blog</a>. Pancakes, man. The best way to eat syrup. Unless you count waffles. Maybe doughnuts. Anyway, get some.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_D1JeglCEe3eRjnADeGhAH1jG6Mqp9_SZDqoVnRWJqrCtTiWfBFkrPEbFZ96JnzByM6EQ-wZon_bgSwwgI4D0Q2mois4iwe4LYZi7-Pcn_pDV5P0RhvOhHPEAsOmuDlEABkKjp84Bs9Zovn6NuJ-gkoVj3LgC3mJM1xTHwRuYl3vPp71GL7A1pKwGL8/s4032/bogus%20rock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_D1JeglCEe3eRjnADeGhAH1jG6Mqp9_SZDqoVnRWJqrCtTiWfBFkrPEbFZ96JnzByM6EQ-wZon_bgSwwgI4D0Q2mois4iwe4LYZi7-Pcn_pDV5P0RhvOhHPEAsOmuDlEABkKjp84Bs9Zovn6NuJ-gkoVj3LgC3mJM1xTHwRuYl3vPp71GL7A1pKwGL8/w480-h640/bogus%20rock.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Not skiing doesn't get you here.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><p>The Lower Left</p><p>1) Somehow, people don't consider California to be the Southwest, even though they are the southest and westiest. So this'll be the "American Southwest", or, like, whatever we say it is.</p><p>2) Spider Mountain. There's no skiing here, but there's a used Poma quad that came from the degens upcountry in Taos. You slap them berms on yer 180mm schredd sledd. The chair spacing is stupid close together, so you can, I don't know, toast yer buds.</p><p>3) Mt Lemmon. They have a stuffed bear secured to a chair that the internet mistook for a real bear. Also, the southern-most lift-served in the Lower 48. Also named after a delicious summer beverage that is best when accompanied by raspberries.</p><p>4) Lee Canyon. It's basically in downtown Vegas, except you'd never know it cos there's ridiculous cool mountains and big canyons and it's steep and it snows and unfortunately, <a href="https://liftblog.com/2023/08/24/following-storm-lee-canyon-closes-for-the-season/" target="_blank">it gets hit by hurricanes</a> from time to time. I think Kimberly-Clark would call that "<a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-66621028" target="_blank">unique complexities</a>", but then, real skiers aren't corporate asshats who take their kleenex and leave the entire country of Canada to rub snot off on their sleeves. If you are a corporate asshat and also happen to ski, then you probly aren't who acquaintance of the blog and powder pontiff (powntiff?!) <a href="https://realskiers.com/" target="_blank">Jackson Hogan</a> is speaking to. Next time you're thinking of <strike>throwing your money away</strike> gambling, plan it for winter, bring yer gear, and forget the slots. Once again, skiing in one of the least likely places to ski is worth its weight in kruppsu.</p><p>5) Cloudcroft. Named after a local town, the name of which I can't remember, it's a joint <a href="https://liftblog.com/" target="_blank">Peter Landsman</a> calls "small but mighty". It's the southernmost ski area in the Lower 48 that isn't Mt Lemmon, it's got a single, steep Von Roll double, and it's near White Sands, which is, like, a Mad River Glen for crazies. Cloudcroft is pretty high, and also it's up there in elevation. (Huh huh. That's a joke, cos like, hippie lettuce is legal in NM.) There's some pine, some aspen, which you can tell because of the way that it is, and meadows that look like they'd make nice pasture land for Angus and Hereford. Just remember, if you can ski here, you can ski anywhere.</p><p>6) Brian Head. The name strikes fear into paranoiacs and LSD lifers alike. I mean, what is a Brian Head? Is it a human dude? Does he work for the NSA?! HOW DO I GET AWAY FROM THE MICROWAVES!!!! There's some rad skiing, not as close to Vegas as Lee Charleston, but a doable day trip. Giant Steps should attract them mythical "experts", with its complex references to Coltrane and Sting when they were on Apollo 11 with Michael Collins.</p><p>7) Hesperus. It's the Smallest Skiing in ColoRADo tee em. Unless somewhere else is, like maybe Kendall. You can see it from the highway into Durango when your Subaru is Death Rattling its way along, sounding like a fireplace poker in a steel tube, which, not coincidentally, is basically what is actually going on. Built to Last will slam a new engine in there for you if you ask nicely, but it'll cost a bunch. Plus, you'll probly need a clutch, cos that's buried between the engine and the transmission (go figure, right?) in an inaccessible way such that no matter what, you gots to yank one or the other to get to it, and like, your "warranty" won't cover it cos you changed your own oil, and you'll just be stuck in town, too scared to ask the neighbourhood bike joints if you can build bikes for cash so you don't have to take the Greyhound home, which, just so we're clear, takes about 34 hours and is super boring, and there's ex-cons in some of the seats but they got good stories and seem harmless which hopefully they are, and one rodeo cowboy from Ontario, and when you switch busses in Stanfield, near the melon places, it ain't in some fancy bus stop like it was in Salt Lake, it's literally the side lot of a Pilot next to Interstate 84, comfortable as a burnt sticky bun in a Finnish sauna, and the only seat is yer backpack, and there's STILL eight or nine hours to go.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQyubs-Y3jOw5webi-qKlFG06gXWdLLcxQ5gnDVfTuMJGw2GVUt1DY4WsCRcW8i51DLBvxSNXLEelC3h88VY2QRXiBevRfh7dd2GyHiz5_m8z83bChj3YexBNN2ISNw8qFxHI2vGNTQ9wor1uTBegSaCVLz0tVKDpJPp7y1Lb7qrgkuPX43EpLPWMHd4/s4032/small%20pumpkin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQyubs-Y3jOw5webi-qKlFG06gXWdLLcxQ5gnDVfTuMJGw2GVUt1DY4WsCRcW8i51DLBvxSNXLEelC3h88VY2QRXiBevRfh7dd2GyHiz5_m8z83bChj3YexBNN2ISNw8qFxHI2vGNTQ9wor1uTBegSaCVLz0tVKDpJPp7y1Lb7qrgkuPX43EpLPWMHd4/w480-h640/small%20pumpkin.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Large pumpkin the size of a small pumpkin. </i><i>Some pumpkin farmers in Enumclaw and Sumner would like a word.</i></div><p><br /></p><p>The Best Ones We Didn't Put Elsewhere</p><p>1) Mauna Kea. You know you dream of flying to the subtropics on a whim to hitchhike with Science Hippies up to the Observatory to get thirteen mediocre turns before the snow melts. Wait. That is exactly what I want right the heck now, more than just about anything besides kruppsu with lingonberry and gravlax on the side. Bring on the tradewinds!!!!</p><p>2) Hilltop. It's in Anchorage, which is like, almost BC, so get to it. You fly into Ted Stevens--don't ask me how, cos he's dead, but that's what they claim; Alaskans are weird--and then start yelling YO WHERE HILLTOP AT and eventually you'll be skiing in a nice urban park. There are huge mountains in Alaska, and tons of snow, and Hilltop is skiing on neither of those, but it's skiing and we all know that skiing is absolutely frickin worth it, every time.</p><p>3) Sundown Mountain, Iowa. Like many good Midwesty ski houses, there's an ambitious name, some fun groomers, a little history, trees, and it's situated on a big river bank. In this case, it's the Little Maquoketa River. Bring your slalom sticks, and make lots of turns. They'll be fun, you'll be skiing, and you'll probly more than a little smug about it.</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWX2KYrHQ3shWoc4y3mLJ2PNgA4rOTx7KF0e7FkCIb71hwndhsYYvOncunJaWnytZTfv5nHq6Peer7A1nDbUm6refu236O8Kub-LwhVtpGNJGj2UclItUwHVj7M9noUH9S87Bdf9dRS4DY9SPHhWkxGky-4iGbNyB43oDMqKU1426TblGmd6f2VjLMppw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWX2KYrHQ3shWoc4y3mLJ2PNgA4rOTx7KF0e7FkCIb71hwndhsYYvOncunJaWnytZTfv5nHq6Peer7A1nDbUm6refu236O8Kub-LwhVtpGNJGj2UclItUwHVj7M9noUH9S87Bdf9dRS4DY9SPHhWkxGky-4iGbNyB43oDMqKU1426TblGmd6f2VjLMppw" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Y<i>ou probly like weird sports, too.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>* <a href="https://www.theskijournal.com/issue/16-4/" target="_blank">Ski Journal </a>is still around, still doing good stuff, at least as of {checks the Instabox} 31W ago. It's just not as popular as Ski/Skiing or Powder were.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>The turkey stared me down, got me to back up and take another street. Urban wild turkeys got no fs to give, man, I swear to Tyler Childers.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNGg3Qb6YLdBu1UlrU0ukZDGflWzQpWjNbMu0bcIDz2Gi_CRWl7fEVU4SUfYc0VRtJIbSEQLgdCDz1S_FOzKDKkAn-b3Q0Zoym6-CBh9oi0XAjRO_rcjE82sv4h2FtWKuu-BX3KQing2czP9F8tAuF2INHp4YdKgU-L-bCCH7Ydhfmn-461mOqVNP-PI/s615/andy%20capp.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="615" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNGg3Qb6YLdBu1UlrU0ukZDGflWzQpWjNbMu0bcIDz2Gi_CRWl7fEVU4SUfYc0VRtJIbSEQLgdCDz1S_FOzKDKkAn-b3Q0Zoym6-CBh9oi0XAjRO_rcjE82sv4h2FtWKuu-BX3KQing2czP9F8tAuF2INHp4YdKgU-L-bCCH7Ydhfmn-461mOqVNP-PI/w200-h133/andy%20capp.webp" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJek1BvK76F7tP21qET8e6G1nFbTPtasjDzM_vJ3jjYTD3QUcO0owjI1y8SQ3CUgynxHW_8y0QX0FuVBUgEAu2o5OXVzxGcdI3eLB_jAC7OumUZ8a0Hn1Am8H8WJPmYL2GIVou-gN39LZkL_5DZbMwcQhjtyTvIu1J8Wh6yZML_jWJQLd4xvceY7Vkqw/s1854/pamplemousse.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1854" data-original-width="1004" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOJek1BvK76F7tP21qET8e6G1nFbTPtasjDzM_vJ3jjYTD3QUcO0owjI1y8SQ3CUgynxHW_8y0QX0FuVBUgEAu2o5OXVzxGcdI3eLB_jAC7OumUZ8a0Hn1Am8H8WJPmYL2GIVou-gN39LZkL_5DZbMwcQhjtyTvIu1J8Wh6yZML_jWJQLd4xvceY7Vkqw/w108-h200/pamplemousse.jpeg" width="108" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></i></div><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comHilo, HI 96720, USA19.7216023 -155.084887-8.5886315361788448 169.758863 48.031836136178846 -119.92863700000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-52560908712567729332023-09-02T22:14:00.001-06:002023-09-02T22:19:43.882-06:00I know you were probly just acting polite.<p>Dwight Yoakam tells a story about mayonnaise, that ends with him offending his aunt. It's harmless, and best told by Dwight himself, who is a master storyteller if you can follow his tangents. He has a show on the satellite radio thingie in my car. I'm sure it's archived somewhere on the magic internet rectangle, should you want to find it. The gist is that he grew up thinking Miracle Whip was mayonnaise, and when he finally had actual mayonnaise, he got uppity like little kids do and may or may not have spit it out in disgust.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpMPDAoIy249KV9yGrbVidsijtgvy2VnQ8ZtX2iqG-EqZ7kqQm8nwJRypUGLc0CEbjSJc1UeLprTxsDCbF2nBfxm6zlstqgcecy2AQvPlAeSADtPFwUL59WBuMzQMQONexT6Lw9USZqmjN_7Y_PYgaayAcVEwn8Ai8f1oCiD4FqeGbJVktFdxE4d6a6lw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpMPDAoIy249KV9yGrbVidsijtgvy2VnQ8ZtX2iqG-EqZ7kqQm8nwJRypUGLc0CEbjSJc1UeLprTxsDCbF2nBfxm6zlstqgcecy2AQvPlAeSADtPFwUL59WBuMzQMQONexT6Lw9USZqmjN_7Y_PYgaayAcVEwn8Ai8f1oCiD4FqeGbJVktFdxE4d6a6lw=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Supposedly yer not skiin' if yer not draggin yer hands and stuff. Credit Daniele Molineris, Storyteller Labs.</i></div><br /><p></p><p>A parallel story would be about my uncle Eddie. (I have two Uncle Eds, one of whom was married to my oldest aunt, Jerrilyn. Sadly, we lost him a couple years ago. This is about Eddie, who may have some day wanted to be called Ed, but he likely could not make that choice cos he is 19 years younger than Jerrilyn, enough that by the time he was in school, give or take, she was already married to Ed, and a logger in his 20s with a big beard and a patch of land and a truck ain't changin his name for a 1st grader.) Anyway, when Eddie was young, his ma, my grandmother, would cut the crust of his pasty. Or rather, scoop the guts out of the pastry shell. Now, pasty--rhymes with past and ee, not paste and ee--is a Cornish meat pie that miners would take to work. Allegedly, it was a nice size to heat on a shovel over a coal fire. If this is true, one hopes fervently that they were not in an underground shaft while sitting around this mythical coal fire, or any fire, at the time. At any rate, while I don't know the exact travel of the pasty recipe from Cornish miners in the UP to my grandmother in Puget Sound, I do know that like any good Lutheran, when she made pasty it was in a casserole dish and was not a small hand pie. Coincidentally, my paternal grandmother did grow up in the UP, and she likely had contact with Suomalainen miners who knew the Cornish miners, but this is my other grandma we're talking about.</p><p><i>Anyway</i>, you got me distracted. So, one day, Eddie is at some other family's house and they're servin mad pasty, and when he gets his plate, he gets all pouty and looks at my grandmother and says "THIS AIN'T PASTY" cos the crust is still on. Cut to now, and gosh darn if I don't want me some real Cornish pasty, the hand pie sort. I don't need that coal fire or a shovel for authenticity, but neither do I want Beef Wellington "pan gravy" like our old neighbour Christine used to make. I want a Cornish pasty. Ketchup, Heinz 57, Tobasco, whatever is at hand. Must be dinner time.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaP_YmEzMVTrnxExwVwIoa3NPjcc3pmP8XZE_FT53JBiW2FPCtcpIqefjl3WsnbgULm1rK6A8dD9_cykTmss9dj99JEQ2xClFAuuCP1w89hHt56vHhPDOufTGRfHmVCUwrMJY5gChVH-V3k210Jfd_ClsrC_Qw32h543Lxqv10vW4AW0T289ts3FlzJEM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="227" data-original-width="340" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaP_YmEzMVTrnxExwVwIoa3NPjcc3pmP8XZE_FT53JBiW2FPCtcpIqefjl3WsnbgULm1rK6A8dD9_cykTmss9dj99JEQ2xClFAuuCP1w89hHt56vHhPDOufTGRfHmVCUwrMJY5gChVH-V3k210Jfd_ClsrC_Qw32h543Lxqv10vW4AW0T289ts3FlzJEM=w640-h428" width="640" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i>YEAH BUT DO THEY GOTS TOIVO AND EINO'S?!</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So, you're probly wondering, "just what in the heck does this have to do with skiing?" I'll tell you in a minute. One further important thing, though, is that pasty is, in what I believe to be its purest form, a dense, but flaky pastry shell stuffed with leftover hamburger, potatoes, and whatever root vegetables you have on hand. Ma always used carrots, but one could in theory throw in a rutabaga, or celery root, or parsnip, whatever's in the crisper. Since we're talkin roots, some folks get confused about potatoes since the food part is underground and sort of <i>on</i> a root, but science hippies argue that they aren't roots at all; they're tubers. Like, I've heard that some folks call a potato a modified stem, but really, it doesn't matter. It's a tomato, which is a fruit, and that's that. Or an eggplant. Kinda like Joshua trees are asparagus. The science hippies said so, so it must be true. At any rate, it's hearty, mild, easily digestible, and an absolutely gorgeous receptacle for sauces. Pasty, I mean.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Alright, I'll tell you what. Perspective, that's what. I'm always goin on and on and on about how people don't have enough. Too many little bubbles, like this silly city we live in, and especially the people who grew up here. They think that whatever experience they have is all there is to, um, experience. Truth is, and I'll quote the legendary Satchel Pooch here, things mean different things to different people. What one person, say, a racer, thinks of as an "all-mountain ski", is to another, say, a marketing elf for a ski publication, a skinny ski that's probly only good at banging gates and looking cute in PSIA photo shoots. They're both wrong, of course, and I brought them up to be diametrically opposed for illustrational purposes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ja1hvmfX5qSoyyU6oXjDY4_VSEEmsElucGRCUXD6WwAk1SxYV0zKccspRohGWkRRIq1bRGcQMaunfd5DfzFEMZmHnmFmQUvbHhADMMWToxFejuTd8GnCQqV8ymKV0APiC4RFPVVfSqFi8qWUlo38fSa0uymMMombD_Z3Hb47Ahq_Y0T7nwfeh7VV-eo/s4032/HRC%20V1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ja1hvmfX5qSoyyU6oXjDY4_VSEEmsElucGRCUXD6WwAk1SxYV0zKccspRohGWkRRIq1bRGcQMaunfd5DfzFEMZmHnmFmQUvbHhADMMWToxFejuTd8GnCQqV8ymKV0APiC4RFPVVfSqFi8qWUlo38fSa0uymMMombD_Z3Hb47Ahq_Y0T7nwfeh7VV-eo/w480-h640/HRC%20V1.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The ski in question. Closing Day Poles for scale.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I saved money for over a year to buy the Blizzard Firebird HRC. It's funny to say it that way, cos in another way, the ski was a whim. A very expensive whim, the most expensive ski and binding combo I have ever owned, but a whim nonetheless. <a href="https://www.enoreandmimigoski.com/2022/03/top-3-best-skis-ever.html" target="_blank">Spoiler alert</a>, it's rad. My perspective, as a not-racer-not-freeride-jerk? It's a very skilled, very skinny all-mountain ski.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There's always argument in all sciences about everything. The pertinent argument here is whether words mean what the dictionary and/or what some past word person said, or if they mean what is illustrated through usage alone. Further along this line, if a given phrase can be defined prescriptively or descriptively. Such as, does "all-mountain" mean what the word pairing suggests, that one can ski this ski all over the mountain, or what the marketing elves say, which is whatever they want at a given moment, or, like 95-115mm underfoot exactly cos "that's what it means!"? Over the years, I have slid toward a more ecumenical, descriptive view of language. As such, since folks who aren't industry folks tend to see "all-mountain" as a literalist term, simply a ski one can ski wherever on the hill one can ski it, well, then, so do I. Which for me is damn near everywhere in many conditions. I do not, say, have the skill to ski this thing on those legendary AK pitches, but then again, I don't really have the skill or stones to ski most of that stuff on any ski. Still, I love me some <a href="https://www.blueridgeoutdoors.com/go-outside/zen-and-the-art-of-underbiking/" target="_blank">underbiking</a>, and also some underski-ing. As such, like many a PSIA nerd, I will ski this thing in as many conditions on as many slopes as I am able. I believe somewhat firmly in horses for courses, and then ignore it all and just jump on this very orange ski as often as possible. Chalk moguls, slush days, hardpan, smooth and mythical groomers, steep, shallow, Riblet double or Leitner-Poma 8-place. Well, I've never seen the latter, but still.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-ge6GzgTxcNQg3XhPqqvdn71H-Hwj_TKShoSeN0VMVdKIxP3lY6peF-NXl8hXRnLWiWYQZlfu0Xm1-WHyXeDnAoLvUIbtAPCzSIZLBJWnsFTBPCoh2sxS8sXeNjooBbqYsTTDc8gD8F9oMYHON6f-57kYEvIF_x0xW1R90GYtcbHljQXvnC3wj-_33s/s926/chair%202%20flood.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="926" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-ge6GzgTxcNQg3XhPqqvdn71H-Hwj_TKShoSeN0VMVdKIxP3lY6peF-NXl8hXRnLWiWYQZlfu0Xm1-WHyXeDnAoLvUIbtAPCzSIZLBJWnsFTBPCoh2sxS8sXeNjooBbqYsTTDc8gD8F9oMYHON6f-57kYEvIF_x0xW1R90GYtcbHljQXvnC3wj-_33s/w518-h640/chair%202%20flood.jpg" width="518" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-style: italic;">Okay, maybe not </i>all<i style="font-style: italic;"> the mountain.</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now, forthwith, heretofore, Important Details you probly stopped caring to look for: the Blizzard Firebird HRC is like 75 or whatever underfoot, and mad fast. 17 metre beer-league radius at 182 cms, with the requisite metal base sheet and binding sheet. (I'd be fine if it was just two full metal sheets; more on that later.) It's offered in other lengths, but I didn't bother to demo any so I don't know how the length changes the ski. Also, I weigh pounds and that means 182 for me. It's got that good box section sandwich construction, the classic shape. Much camber, many oomph. Blizzard offers it with two binding plates, one a demo whatever that's stupid cos I said so and one that is--I think, I didn't mount em, which is pretty embarrassing--pre-drilled for the old Comp pattern. Don't waste time on the demo plate. Get the real one, it's got a piston, which is like, hashtag Marker History Tee Em. Also, you can snag a 16 or 18 or 20 din XComp binding if you don't have a classic Comp 18.0, which is nice cos otherwise you'd be Markering out all over the mountain. All my anti-Marker hubris to the side, the Comp race binding they've made in a couple iterations over the decades is actually damn solid once you get up into the nosebleed dins like 18 or 45.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The base slides like it's some sorta race-room material, and the edges are a claimed somewhere around 1 by 2 degrees. This is not super important, cos obvs you should get em ground flat when it's time for your first tune and hand file em to hashtag half by four and moonstone that shit to a polish. I imagine you'll be waxing them, but I forgot this year and the base burn didn't hold me back none. Don't hate.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I read a bunch of misguided hype before buying this ski, most of which ran to line of "you better have your will updated cos this ski kicks mortal a$$." Or "get on board the train." Or Jeff over at Greenwood's more subtle "yeah, with the Piston Plate, it's just. . .more." I'll admit that I got behind the ski a little on the first day, but once I got my mass settled into the centre of the ski's balance, aka WHERE YOU SHOULD ALWAYS BE, then things just kinda worked out. All the reasonable platitudes apply here, carves like a gelada baboon, rebounds like a turkey on acid, changes edges quicker than a ground squirrel, has a smoother ride than a pika's hay in March in the back of the den when the only plants left in the larder are the toxic ones and hopefully Ma and Pa laid em in early enough last summer so the toxins leached. You get it. Ask it to make you a sandwich, and it'll eat your breakfast. Tell it to make you a sandwich, and it'll be the best dang thing you ever et.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBILDoo7kg271bvxxOjhfy5vFtxq_h2b2QuGeX-bNE7lw-PHJS9fLhtimHMao4FP1CNpJPTbd-UILKQqh2-i2cbtqPP9P_Y-pSFA3f0Zj0VI_5UcxcP2PuHWM4HqgEm5uauISNS3FDWv7W-CrmCKyqLzvbzRKQiBNUn6_eRclsrGyDP4o2pRqjJLkIO5c/s4032/parallel%20tracks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBILDoo7kg271bvxxOjhfy5vFtxq_h2b2QuGeX-bNE7lw-PHJS9fLhtimHMao4FP1CNpJPTbd-UILKQqh2-i2cbtqPP9P_Y-pSFA3f0Zj0VI_5UcxcP2PuHWM4HqgEm5uauISNS3FDWv7W-CrmCKyqLzvbzRKQiBNUn6_eRclsrGyDP4o2pRqjJLkIO5c/w480-h640/parallel%20tracks.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And it can do this!! (It's like one a them eye puzzles. Stare long enough, you'll see it. Yeah, I'm pretty good.)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Any good race or frontside ski should hold an edge from exactly the moment you set it, and release it only when you start your transition. The HRC does this, with aplomb, at speed, as though there is no other calling. Some folks won't care. If you are them, just walk on by, don't wait on the corner. I am most definitely them, and every time I roll up on edge, wherever that may be, I smirk just a little. Folks say a good ski should do some of the work for you, and that's true, but a great ski will reward you for doing as much work as you are able. That same great ski may not forgive you for getting it wrong. You should not expect it to. Being tossed about in the back seat on a really great ski is not a knock on the ski, nor should you take it as anything other than not-so-gentle encouragement to git that centre of mass over yer base of support. It's okay to need to be on your game, cos when you are, holy shieldbacks, you can get after it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">If I have a gripe, and I'm paid to*, it's that there's not enough orange and not quite enough metal, and that the binding plates are not blank for mounting not-Markers. I mean, orange is fast, and metal is fast, so more is faster?! This is the first ski I have ever skied where the carbon--in the form of "C-Spine" (two vertically lain sheets in the core's horizontal laminate) and "C-Armour" (a horizontal plate under the binding plate)--doesn't even announce itself, let alone throw its weight around. If you told me it was a schredmetal ski in the vein of an old 90s Atomic DH sled, I'd be like, "bruh, no shit!" and anyway, did I say it's orange? All that taken as a given, I still think this ski would be 15% better without the carbon and with the second full sheet of metal. Other skis with carbon tend to feel a little or a lot undamped, so my theory is this could be even smoother. I could be wrong, but there's no avenue of comparison since they don't offer an old-school version. I'm sure some ogre in the engineering basement would push his glasses up his nose and say "well, then you'd lose the rebound," in a nasally Jeremy Clarkson voice and I'd be like "shut up, nerd, moar metal."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjCr3kFAS_thFfcVDmdWnXtW7F8oU4oBfRVicFR9Eza1nSVDFY7tzpxNnI26ytoAZwYZ0EEeVB9uFO0rzqGVC2pjTFs3TLHA6Ew1p9esQitghZuGnzz41a17OWiVysAAlfGemJswnbLpuxQ2DPhORaUpS_3bHzmv5oSQUS61oLLHSkOST7hNy4zkQesM/s4032/hrc%20v2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjCr3kFAS_thFfcVDmdWnXtW7F8oU4oBfRVicFR9Eza1nSVDFY7tzpxNnI26ytoAZwYZ0EEeVB9uFO0rzqGVC2pjTFs3TLHA6Ew1p9esQitghZuGnzz41a17OWiVysAAlfGemJswnbLpuxQ2DPhORaUpS_3bHzmv5oSQUS61oLLHSkOST7hNy4zkQesM/w480-h640/hrc%20v2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A moving portrait with a stunning background.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Important deets, TL;DR:</div><div style="text-align: left;">2022 Blizzard Firebird HRC</div><div style="text-align: left;">- Skier: Eino, not of the Toivo and Eino jokes, 42 years old at time of publication, 119 kgs, 175 cms, knees on the mend some of the time, but not all.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">- Length, 182 cm.</div><div style="text-align: left;">- Skied the Piston Plate with the XComp 16 binding.</div><div style="text-align: left;">- Tested at Bogus, Bogus, Bogus, and Bogus. Maybe Tamarack, but I don't remember.</div><div style="text-align: left;">- Retail was like eleventythirteen thousands. **</div><div style="text-align: left;">- By all-mountain, I mean I literally skied as much of Bogus' claimed acreage as possible, even Coach's Twelve Foot Bunny Hill and Chair 7 Extreme. Groomers, of course, but also much steep and chalky off-piste even though this is marketed as a race ski. Everything that isn't the more adventurey bits that tourists think aren't skiable but I think are.</div><div style="text-align: left;">- Two full seasons, likely 40 days. I woulda got more days last winter but it was too big to let friends ski groomers.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You're welcome.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">- - </div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i>Liner notes.</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i>The new one isn't really orange. It's black and gray. That's a travesty. We all know orange is the new black and gray.</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Somebody at Bogus took the pic of Hiding from the Eye of Sauron near Lake Chair 2 back in May. If I knew who, I'd credit them.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Title from Dwight Yoakam's </i>Sorry You Asked?,<i> from back in the day. People who know me will be surprised when I say you should check out the video, but you should. It's kinda funny. Conceptual, even.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>*HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW no I'm not.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>** The internet says $1410, or not.</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgDRR1Gr6aDc5bpUreUvfdQTYOjUKok6m2agroeY60x-1VdoOmTC46rMVtdHoA9KJ6W9Js4mpYOy-GjVJl6GXBF04u0FvaANdIP35uAsbo807D1ct1pAJ2zE3nwKURexaVXqv6xPoL75VJnoEDVxILBqcryeHEruriuH8-ElSWEA6Db2h-bmybq1ahI7M" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="688" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgDRR1Gr6aDc5bpUreUvfdQTYOjUKok6m2agroeY60x-1VdoOmTC46rMVtdHoA9KJ6W9Js4mpYOy-GjVJl6GXBF04u0FvaANdIP35uAsbo807D1ct1pAJ2zE3nwKURexaVXqv6xPoL75VJnoEDVxILBqcryeHEruriuH8-ElSWEA6Db2h-bmybq1ahI7M=w640-h384" width="640" /></a></div>Thanks, Eben.<br /><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbDmjyBSFzdjIHbt94KGAFxdGjAhs2qZWElSPifoXHMlvR63-Ic0JF7TZJHO1JoFb0ca6SiFrl3fIM-QIgG6TJH7mc5JZygREUSvYQjro2aPBGgRNUzvB3VhxG5ceBioiAWZFQUHTp8Sco8v1iGRbGSsIczMMNkT_Rl4qR3QBN2ova_Azj09L45JtYdSM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="216" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbDmjyBSFzdjIHbt94KGAFxdGjAhs2qZWElSPifoXHMlvR63-Ic0JF7TZJHO1JoFb0ca6SiFrl3fIM-QIgG6TJH7mc5JZygREUSvYQjro2aPBGgRNUzvB3VhxG5ceBioiAWZFQUHTp8Sco8v1iGRbGSsIczMMNkT_Rl4qR3QBN2ova_Azj09L45JtYdSM" width="240" /></a></div>Told ya.</i></div><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comMittersill, Austria47.2794472 12.479261533.29771927905427 -5.0988635 61.26117512094573 30.0573865tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-42940051681045893032023-08-28T22:35:00.001-06:002023-09-02T22:17:35.544-06:00I guess you just know<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgL3iBbdhaTEzK4TKYvLdGkltm7_iLmnZCXIowuMADGJZmiY13M1XWJXt4yEpBqoR340Hbt-nz6UJh7OOkqktiqUVXF3JPm9bubBjHdpzJVsRYgiKS1OTEMQowOQXxKU6eh_kTGw-2nlQIHfnufuHZ7NGHxO42NIEXo0EmfrmUWjuE8OEI8VTcCVSR_Cg/s2320/Screen%20Shot%202023-07-16%20at%209.18.16%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1345" data-original-width="2320" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgL3iBbdhaTEzK4TKYvLdGkltm7_iLmnZCXIowuMADGJZmiY13M1XWJXt4yEpBqoR340Hbt-nz6UJh7OOkqktiqUVXF3JPm9bubBjHdpzJVsRYgiKS1OTEMQowOQXxKU6eh_kTGw-2nlQIHfnufuHZ7NGHxO42NIEXo0EmfrmUWjuE8OEI8VTcCVSR_Cg/w640-h372/Screen%20Shot%202023-07-16%20at%209.18.16%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lowest maxima is 94 degrees American. And it's 100 degrees at 9.20pm, by the way. AND WE DON'T LIVE IN !!@*!!(U(&#$ ARIZONA ARRRRRGGGGHHH.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyway. Time was I'd count the short weeks until the gear guides started filling up whatever random slots on the magazine rack the magazine lady chose that year. I can still see her form, her ghost. Mags aren't around anymore. I'd say we're worse off, but there's so much waste in this world that it's a small price to pay for less landfill. I doubt I was alone in this. I'd memorise sidecut dimensions, topsheets, who'd stopped making a good ski in favour of a less good ski. I catalogued as much as I could, and never skied anything in the pages unless I could scam a demo out of one of the hillside shops, which was rare. Sometimes I'd pony up for a paid day, with whatever was left that week from the third (very part time) job at the gas station before Jeff closed it, or with what should have been overtime except the State ain't care if your OT is overage at two jobs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNnG9MY_1scXv4hPl_ukQSQdc2W7LjNSOLqLDDOw0txnJR-P49PywyqPcllFvH3SF-RownXMnhSg4_y7VS-FHpA3G_HHnzm869odcazLIOjfQXBRRm5l4oXGRk2td1zxF6coC6f5zcVg-myljEA6S0G4iYmPbXauzceohTufsReQj4LXxhQTc96kxZv8/s4032/opening%20day%20skis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNnG9MY_1scXv4hPl_ukQSQdc2W7LjNSOLqLDDOw0txnJR-P49PywyqPcllFvH3SF-RownXMnhSg4_y7VS-FHpA3G_HHnzm869odcazLIOjfQXBRRm5l4oXGRk2td1zxF6coC6f5zcVg-myljEA6S0G4iYmPbXauzceohTufsReQj4LXxhQTc96kxZv8/w480-h640/opening%20day%20skis.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Opening Day skis. A long way from today.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The King County Fair ran for a few days in July. Some years, it was pretty good. Saw the Kentucky Headhunters there. Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. Pam Tillis, although I admit that was more cos it was some lady on the radio than a show I actually wanted to see. Then, in what was usually the hottest time of year, The Highland Games. I never knew what went on in there, growing up. By the time I was in high school, we got recruited to march around in front of the Gathering of the Clans. If you are wondering, it's not a scary race war cult, it's big Sottish families, going back to the old country. Lots of tartan, kilts, double-snared drums, sooooo many pipes. Piper John McBride, if I remember correctly, would tune up during the Massed Bands, before our tiny drum and bugle and flute band would lead the clans. I think his sister was some muckity muck with the Games or like knew Secretary of State Ralph Munro, so he was like a really big deal. And no, he was not in tune. Not once. I mean, bagpipes. That's pretty much their thing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">One year, I borrowed a kilt from my friend Peter, who was much taller, plus I got them short Sámi femurs, so I had to hitch all 8 yards of Shetland wool way above the traditional just-higher-than-normal-trousers waistline in order to not be wearing a dowdy old lady skirt. Wool is hot, even if there's an opening for the breeze that never comes. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The first time I marched with that scrappy little band of teenaged nerds, I was between 8th and 9th grades. I played the bass drum that year, and Judy the Director brought along the big one. Holy crap, I couldn't even see over it. I went from being the starting varsity centre the previous October to tripping over a Doug fir root by the fairgrounds admin office. Good thing Peter hadn't loaned me the kilt that year.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The last time I marched around in front of all the clans, I was helping my older brother Eli. He somehow got saddled with directing the band even though he didn't have credentials or a degree or whatever it is you need to walk in a rectangle with 20 or so fellow nerds following you. I'd skipped work at the hill, to my boss' eternal dismay. Seriously, I bet he hadn't forgiven me when he got fired by Alterra whenever that was. He had probly forgot long ago, but still hadn't forgiven. He and I never got along, which, well, who knows how that shit goes. I know I had a big hand in that, but he was a terrible boss, irresponsible, lazy, drunk, the works. Any time somebody defends him, I remind myself of stepping into the work chair at the top of 4, first day I ever did line work. He gestured toward a lanyard--not that I knew what it was--thrown down on the ramp, and said "There's a lanyard if you want." No harness, no instruction, not even so much as a smartass "Hopefully your belt loop will hold you." I was a 19 year old kid, scared as shit, wondering just how much it hurts to fall off an angled Riblet tower from 30 feet up. I got real competent at holding myself up with my right foot hooked behind my left, my thighs squeezing the cross arm. I'm still surprised I didn't end up with a broken back in the grass on Quicksilver.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyway, Eli'd asked if I could march with the snare, not a double, unfortunately, just the same beat-up high school drum I played Junior and Senior year after Mercer graduated and I got the good snare. The boss claimed they were rigging for a resplice on new Chair 3. Supposedly it was all hands on deck, which should have included Peter Case, who was one of the hill's only halfway decent big machine operators. When I saw Peter at the Games, he just said "we were never gonna get that done this weekend." The boss fired me, and that was that. Maybe I didn't need to follow my brother John into that career, but I still haven't forgiven him. I have never since been able to stay in the mountains long-term, and he had a direct hand in that. He kept me from getting a Patrol job, kept me from any sort of year-round work at the hill. 22 years later, I'm still bitter about that. I still don't like working inside, don't like working in town.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9h0U5uRsiRBxF7dQQfdytaR5wUUkkHZREJDND9t9xY0r9jt4VxpiErWWlSGafHAdZ6CcJnTi35lucRoh7nqZWQ7fAgB6xbY-Jb6AvCJdQdwDiQMKHlEpPQYjThagoHDXDVRXOiDjKEnXw_dSlmfQX8hbZzTWVXqGQvz9ePOG130AF1wAhDYmvfG_omA/s4032/that%20time%20of%20year.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9h0U5uRsiRBxF7dQQfdytaR5wUUkkHZREJDND9t9xY0r9jt4VxpiErWWlSGafHAdZ6CcJnTi35lucRoh7nqZWQ7fAgB6xbY-Jb6AvCJdQdwDiQMKHlEpPQYjThagoHDXDVRXOiDjKEnXw_dSlmfQX8hbZzTWVXqGQvz9ePOG130AF1wAhDYmvfG_omA/w480-h640/that%20time%20of%20year.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It's that time of year, now, isn't it?</i></div></i><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Back in them days, y'know, with the magazines, I don't know, I had fun arguing with the resort guides. Still do. I mean, the pages had to stand in during these arguments for the writers, those privileged jerks who got paid to ski at this joint or that, who lived in exotic places like Jay or Truckee or, like, Ogden. They always seemed to hold the keys to the kingdom, and they got it wrong every time. I mean, Vail?! Really? Vail sucks. As does Sun Valley. The skiing's aight, I guess, but weren't they always arguing that skiing was only part of the equation? If that's the case, then Vail sucks. The town is a pile of corporate-owned schlock. There's no there there. You want a nice place, try Bethel, Maine. Gibbonsville, Idaho. Duluth. Calumet. Banner Elk. You know the places; not really accessible in any real sense, not somewhere you could live, and yet, just maybe. An actual dream, rather than uniformity and upwardly mobile bullshit. You can argue all you want that the value is at a place like Deer Valley, where the beer flows like wine. Or Aspen, where skiers flock like carp to an electric boat. The vertical, the detaches, the groomers, the, well, the wine and cheese and allegedly-Norwegian sweaters. I can't be clear enough, though. They are flat wrong.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRR7rILZt3FNbzw0_aDyevOoDHvd_nRojD21Gp672uNUG6u54BFX5dOd1P33joVU5DNdp37ig0ywNcuk7REC4sfmam3sDfvXfqeQyYjpQYggTUSoIRk6n9Tx3DmMk1Zr9E3_YX_srSQ2V2ZpgNSXoVZ-OHLGuGv5bcXkA2IdV0fVgrhTrQrjIUYpFusaI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1394" data-original-width="2560" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRR7rILZt3FNbzw0_aDyevOoDHvd_nRojD21Gp672uNUG6u54BFX5dOd1P33joVU5DNdp37ig0ywNcuk7REC4sfmam3sDfvXfqeQyYjpQYggTUSoIRk6n9Tx3DmMk1Zr9E3_YX_srSQ2V2ZpgNSXoVZ-OHLGuGv5bcXkA2IdV0fVgrhTrQrjIUYpFusaI=w640-h348" width="640" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i>Not Beaver Creek, not Whistler, not Stowe, not Big Sky. And if you turn around, there's a giant stratovolcano looking on.</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Those resort guides, with their hackneyed pseudoscientific rankings and pretty people schussing for the camera. The same rankings every year. For some, even the ever hallowed Alta would rank like 45th in the Rockies, and that high only because of something ephemeral like "history" or the Goldminer's Daughter. I'd sit there at the kitchen table, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Labour Day sales, wondering what the heck these turd farmers were getting paid for. Not journalism, not really. I'd say "how can you miss Maverick?" Or "What do you mean Stowe is empirically better than Smuggs?"</div><div style="text-align: left;">None of these things matter, of course, and it was an exercise in internalising futility. And, if I am completely honest, given a stack of cash and a guaranteed byline, I, too, would probly find a way to talk about how The Place That Shall Not Be Named is a good value cos, I don't know, no hotels? The Shoot'n Star? It never ceased to get me going, the Resort Guide. Didn't matter what rag, whose byline, what shimmering imagery. I'd get riled up, think about how I knew better even when I hadn't yet traveled far or wide even. I'd get so wound up, it'd be 2 in the mornin' and I'd be firing off letters in my head to Rob Story or Jackson Hogen (I met that guy once, crazy, interesting, a little weird, and above all, a phenomenal skier I could not keep up with, his age be damned) or whoever it was.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJpq4yPOj4JS_54ZUz6-TRnODIo7nqjvPIcrFAE2IqHylYH2umV1FqwdpxZkAsYyJAbiF00GD0SF7IKPB2Uoh0VNDGeR7hQY5aU7TYCo29nf7sur3ud2PRR8cHzzuu4PlR-rHH5-lFwAGqjEJOtsb0rJ4EpAuWg2-n6EWICUTK4ir0sceUH05vEpvleGE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1195" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJpq4yPOj4JS_54ZUz6-TRnODIo7nqjvPIcrFAE2IqHylYH2umV1FqwdpxZkAsYyJAbiF00GD0SF7IKPB2Uoh0VNDGeR7hQY5aU7TYCo29nf7sur3ud2PRR8cHzzuu4PlR-rHH5-lFwAGqjEJOtsb0rJ4EpAuWg2-n6EWICUTK4ir0sceUH05vEpvleGE=w640-h478" width="640" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i>The legendariest burger in all the land: Star Burger, Shoot'n Star, Huntsville, Utah. Take off, all you hosers who ruined Utah for us. This is what I miss the most. Certainly more than the Greatestest Snow On All Of The Earth Tee Em. That, in particular, was a disappointment on the order of Californication, or, I don't know, Atomic shrinking the Big Daddy.</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's an easy and silly thought experiment, this. It's August, the Resort Guides of yore long lost to the dustbins of corporate earnings reports and ad revenue charts. There's nobody to argue with. Leslie Anthony is probly off throwing rocks at telewhackers. The Shoot'n Star is still there, but so are many folks I want nothing to do with. The Elk sold to some hipster hotel magnate. Skiing is far off, both in time and in space. I could hoof it off to T-line, or hope there's still a strip up some northeasterly coulee in the Sawteeth. Neither is really possible with my split weekend and minimal ambition. Everything is hypothetical.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's here that I'd usually fire off some utterly off-the-cuff list of esoteric joints with explanations of why they--say, Magic Mountain down south of Twin, or Beaver out east of Logan, or Giant's Ridge up northwest of Duluth--were the pinnacle. Anthony Lakes on a sunny Friday after a midweek dump, cos, y'know, they're only open weekends. You know the drill, though. Nothing's really new, and that's totally fine. Good, even. I crave routine, even if I feel trapped by it. I enjoy a new song by a familiar artist, and a new turn on a familiar pitch.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwhMORxLw25KI2hOxKsriA3WjKkwZeZXe8pdtDIKttd0vAe2DrFx4beVvSemOpfAeRco8IGbV2ZEag9i8gfY_5N6ZX6i25jUnmCZOo-1TvPBPgwMwCXZ4cZO0IILpfYYuCQqUTp1UwhU-mP9W0lmg7LURz0U_lLQL2CzHPuP-JeKnJs46327k83hPR2l0/s4032/showcase%20'19.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwhMORxLw25KI2hOxKsriA3WjKkwZeZXe8pdtDIKttd0vAe2DrFx4beVvSemOpfAeRco8IGbV2ZEag9i8gfY_5N6ZX6i25jUnmCZOo-1TvPBPgwMwCXZ4cZO0IILpfYYuCQqUTp1UwhU-mP9W0lmg7LURz0U_lLQL2CzHPuP-JeKnJs46327k83hPR2l0/w640-h480/showcase%20'19.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Familiar places, familiar faces. Huh huh. That's funny cos the pitch facing us (HA!) is called The Face.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">For a couple summers, I can't think now how many, but too many, I worked in the Enumclaw Safeway. I pushed carts for way longer than I should have. When I finally got a checker job, it was temporary, cos by winter they'd scaled me back to one four hour shift a week. When I got the promotion, I dove in head first. Memorised like fortyleven produce codes. Got my average items per bag up to like eleventeen. When I was in the express lane, my line would never get past three people. It didn't matter. Winter comes for us all, for good and ill. Mostly good. Here' hoping the next one is above average.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVZsXDkKOoWH5gBKgBlnMy5lQ2L_5LrrKGyy1wFcW6ZhKboH5Wk1eyBLRtqZtzHXho6_T4q6YVK4hLrFJh4WUZo9r8WoOZYCvllxAHnNJx2_2puFFWlD_Kd5YOjZzS_0ee4fRuRmUIJe1AlJwX6mByhNuTecYroeoZ4L1ukEjj1ieFibZuRLcQ_6LbQh0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="640" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVZsXDkKOoWH5gBKgBlnMy5lQ2L_5LrrKGyy1wFcW6ZhKboH5Wk1eyBLRtqZtzHXho6_T4q6YVK4hLrFJh4WUZo9r8WoOZYCvllxAHnNJx2_2puFFWlD_Kd5YOjZzS_0ee4fRuRmUIJe1AlJwX6mByhNuTecYroeoZ4L1ukEjj1ieFibZuRLcQ_6LbQh0=w640-h338" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Saddleback, Maine. Seriously. How can you not?!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>- -</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Indulge me here:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Tyler Mahan Coe has an incredible podcast about country music. Find it <a href="https://cocaineandrhinestones.com/" target="_blank">here</a>. Don't recognise his name? I bet you do if you think hard enough. I bring this up because he likes to add liner notes, named after all the stuff artists or labels or management types would add to albums in order to enhance the experience, or educate you, or simply (Radiohead and Tool, here's to you) confuse the shit out of you. Following are some of my own.</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>- Powder Magazine isn't fully gone, but having a website and emailing ad copy does not a magazine make. Time was, it was the best. It was specifically Powder I'd wait for, right at the beginning of August. I don't remember if the first episode always came out then, but close to it. Maybe the 10th or the 15th. It didn't matter, cos I would go by the Safeway every chance I got to see if the Magazine Lady had updated her display. Seriously, there's only so much Orange-Carrot Sobe one can buy before folks get suspicious.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>- Some of the magazines, </i>Ski<i> in particular, really did get it all wrong. Those pseudo-scientific listicles I mentioned were sheer dreck. "Customer driven", or somesuch corporate nonsense, they called it. They'd survey folks </i>at<i> the ski areas, then use the results to rank the contenders. You can bet they didn't sit outside the Pioneer Lodge at Bogus asking Emmett lokes whether Brundage or Soldier was better if graded on scales regarding the quality of cutlery in the cafeteria or the symmetry of the tiller courds on the groomers. They really added nothing to the conversation, just a circular handshake where Deer Valley would pay for copious ad space and </i>Ski<i> would use that money to go survey every single clueless New Yorker with money in the Stein Erickson Lodge and of course they'd say Deer Valley was the best cos they literally only skied at DV and wanted to use the platform to justify their expenditure, and besides, </i><i>had no clue what else was out there</i><i>, even in their own state, which has such incredible places as Titus, Plattekill, Gore, and Whiteface. Not to mention the other twelveteen million ski areas in the state. Seriously. New York has the most ski areas of any state in the Union. Suck on </i>that<i>, Colorado. Deer Valley could then say in their ads "</i>RANKED NUMBER ONE BY SKI MAGAZINE," and<i> clueless tourists with money would keep flocking there like the Salmon of Capistrano</i>.<i> Vomit emoji. Poop emoji.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>- Thing is, although I don't like to admit it, the skiing at DV and SV is real good. Like, uff da. Long, clean fall line, well planned, lifts where you hope they'd be, it's just, I don't know, still not enough. If I'm tryna fall asleep at night, it ain't the new Cold Springs lift I'm thinking of. It's Chair 1 at Loveland. Or Chair 1 at Baker. Chair 1 at Lookout, Mt Spokane, Lost Trail, Bogus, Dodge Ridge, Donner Ski Ranch. Chair 1 at Hyak or White, if you wanna go that far back. Mission. Silver. 49 North. You get the drill.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>- Herewith, just cos, a bunch of rad joints. If there's a big name in a state, I offer these as counterpoints. If there is not, then by all means, ski here or anywhere there:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>- Eaglecrest. Mt Spokane. Kelly's. Hoodoo. Sky Tavern. Bear Valley. Sunrise Park. Nordic Valley. Snowy Range. Blacktail. Huff Hills. Terry Peak. Powderhorn. Pajarito. Mt Crescent. Mt Kato. Trollhaugen. Caberfae. Chestnut. Perfect North. Gatlinburg. Sugar. Wintergreen. Canaan. Snow Trails. Bear Creek. Kissing Bridge. Southington. Yawgoo Valley. Jiminy Peak. Saskadena. Cranmore. Bigrock. There's no option in Missouri cos Vail owns both joints. How that's not a monopoly, I do not know.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>- Title from James McMurtry's </i>Bad Enough<i>. It sounds good this time of year. Most of his music does.</i></div></div></div><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comEnumclaw, WA 98022, USA47.2042681 -121.991500321.906963882016576 -157.14775029999998 72.501572317983431 -86.835250300000013tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-88150270037721447282023-06-26T22:43:00.000-06:002023-06-26T22:43:02.384-06:00Perspective<p> Everyone was complaining. Even skiers, which, I, I just, can't even, wut, shut up f(*&#$)(&*^$#(</p><p>-</p><p>Anyway. 350, give or take, just isn't that much. Here in the desert, it is absolutely awesome, and I'm here for it, and I am grateful for it. Maybe approaching as grateful as I was in '002 for that 800" winter. I hit 56 days on snow, one of the only years I've been able to get 50 without actually cheating and working at the hill. My timing was way off, with most of the surprisingly common deep days falling on a Thursday, or a Monday, or like, the only Wednesdays I worked, but there was a Thursday--of course--where Ryan (the Owner) texted me in the middle of the night okay it was 6 thirty am and said GO SKIING IT RAD WHEEEEEEEEE or something. Boise folks were shittin their britches, but all I could think, the entire time, was how mundane that day would have felt in the Washington Cascades. Welcome, certainly. Good, or even great, absolutely. And also just another Thursday.</p><p>I say this not in an attempt to elicit pity for my current station, or envy of my past, I just find the absolute mind-loss of some locals funny. This winter was incredible, and it didn't end until May. I will always enjoy any warm sun that closes out the lift-access portion of a particular Cool Season, but it isn't necessary.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIv4WiCxo2Kh2QovWQQJ7U4IbsOxECv4Hxs2h4tFT6mnbpJw_RUnPMJk7AJhJcTXAwO0GJek9U_IdjZWzgvALbPlf_lmQBB3psVY-gmYdXlzrNYs_VWm35e4-t2Gj0-wrp1KzXycnZ16QgXAs0S9cufM7RfENU6w-nXWCCSx5Tf04JeLeo3rOtQa92h0/s984/some%20snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIv4WiCxo2Kh2QovWQQJ7U4IbsOxECv4Hxs2h4tFT6mnbpJw_RUnPMJk7AJhJcTXAwO0GJek9U_IdjZWzgvALbPlf_lmQBB3psVY-gmYdXlzrNYs_VWm35e4-t2Gj0-wrp1KzXycnZ16QgXAs0S9cufM7RfENU6w-nXWCCSx5Tf04JeLeo3rOtQa92h0/w488-h640/some%20snow.jpg" width="488" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>6 am. Good.</i></div><p><br /></p><p>17 May '002, Baker. I was waiting for a ride home, back to Enumclaw, cos the GL still wouldn't start. It was a Subaru, natch, but for some reason it developed an aversion to starting when it was cold and damp. If you've lived in WWA, you know that's basically September to July, more if you are in the hills, more still if those hills happen to be home to a ski-area-advertised 663 inches of snowfall each year. (NOAA has allegedly verified Baker's snowfall since 1991, the year of School of Fish's eponymous and quite enjoyable first record.) Anyway, it was the Friday after Mother's Day, and it was snowing heavily. No surprises there. What had been a bit surprising was Mother's Day hit 86 degrees American at my Aunt's house in Clearview, and that Friday, one of the Cannuck stations was reporting snow at the water in Vancouver. This is unusual even to me, and I pretend no weather is unusual. I'd gotten a ride to town the previous week, and rode to Enumclaw with somebody, I assume my brother John, but he may have already headed to Copper. Such is memory. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn53zNFqaPvm3NfPSvz_6EASFph60w2ErKxDJjKzj_63R45couwg2dcO3dIyi60FyjtoZ_5Iqj-V2odOtOdDs6ZzmPt8jh5IdVFSK3ZfDV1QM0xrEM2cvRHMBcsUrwN82MDX2ghIljQDJkBf7blp90h7axffX7XNq1cqRc2nc9AT0PovG24rHuhjRvxyA/s1334/more%20snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn53zNFqaPvm3NfPSvz_6EASFph60w2ErKxDJjKzj_63R45couwg2dcO3dIyi60FyjtoZ_5Iqj-V2odOtOdDs6ZzmPt8jh5IdVFSK3ZfDV1QM0xrEM2cvRHMBcsUrwN82MDX2ghIljQDJkBf7blp90h7axffX7XNq1cqRc2nc9AT0PovG24rHuhjRvxyA/w360-h640/more%20snow.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>9.22 am. Gooder.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>We'd left Clearview fairly late, and when Ma dropped me off at the E Lodge, the GL was gone. Like, disappeared. Had it been daylight when we got there, we'd have been treated to a pretty fun sight, the car twenty feet down the hill from the E Lodge lot, nose buried in a huge bank. I'd taken to leaving it unlocked, out of gear, so Jeff or whoever was in the loader could yank it out of place to plow and then shove it back in. Apparently the last time we'd pushed it into the bank and I'd forgot to check why it was stationary. When the bank pulled off the lot and down the hill, as giant, ridiculously heavy snowbanks are wont to do this late in the year, the GL had simply been pulled along with it. A dude named Andy helped me pull it back up the hill with the loader after work one warm day that week, and by then it was another five or six feet further down. I clamboured down with a bunch of 2-buh-6 to smooth the ride, hooked a chain on a tow loop, and Andy backed up slow and steady with the loader. Easy as pie. I think. </p><p>Looking out the window in the kitchen, it looked like mid-March more than mid-May. When Chris showed up, we threw all my junk in the Escort's trunk, and that was that. Baker was no more for me. 800 inches that year, 127 days on snow by 9 July, but my last breath at Baker was ignoring my poor little red GL wagon and just never looking back. Thing is, my neighbour had a tow truck and hulk hauler, and offered to drive up from Enumclaw to grab the car, saying he and the Shari needed a good drive. When he got to my parents', he asked if I'd rather drive off the hulk hauler or let him lower it with his winch. Apparently it'd dried out enough to just start when someone turned the key. There's a short story in there somewhere.</p><p><br /></p><p>350 inches is a lot of snow to a lot of people. If you are in, say, Tucson AZ, it is dang near unfathomable. St Paul, in what is known as a very wintry state, averages somewhere along the lines of 40 or 50. The somewhat ambitiously named Mt Snow, VT, gets around 150 or 160. And so on.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRqEB5aHwJErKbvlNTl8RpRWHXde7bW5Oek8eFDoFWNR7FteSF69klaJOLchKXtPlTFFlMpO1kNPBZM1uiXJXIcOQAgxyN5ud1thEG0XzeMjDZwVnLJq4yx71JcdVZGCgq4Q5u8zkQWv84-O3kecg4g4R9JJoyUm5VQ29OdiYOkOh4Fvh3hN7rvFv6-A/s1334/most%20snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRqEB5aHwJErKbvlNTl8RpRWHXde7bW5Oek8eFDoFWNR7FteSF69klaJOLchKXtPlTFFlMpO1kNPBZM1uiXJXIcOQAgxyN5ud1thEG0XzeMjDZwVnLJq4yx71JcdVZGCgq4Q5u8zkQWv84-O3kecg4g4R9JJoyUm5VQ29OdiYOkOh4Fvh3hN7rvFv6-A/w360-h640/most%20snow.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Noonish. Goodest.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>Silver Lake, Colorado, is home to some sort of 24 hour record for snowfall. I assume it's not midnight to 11.59, or Bridger Bowl wouldn't claim they have the one-day record that they stole under shady circumstances from my home hill of Crystal at 68 inches. Silver Lake claims 76 inches in 24, Bridger 68, and Crystal 64. I was there for Crystal's record. Well, not there, but in town, sledding on blackberry bushes cos there was so much snow even in town. I skied the day before, Wednesday, 23 Feb 94. Auspicious. Stuffed my head in some snow and didn't realise I wasn't buried. Panic, times like 30. Some dude yelled down from the chair "just lift yer head up, Kid!" and then I was fine. Well, my heart and lungs would argue, but I didn't die.</p><p>Shasta with their 189 inches in a week. Sheesh.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-YChbvFQKIG1MTwjilLDoMq6uaPn060n_UYC-suVn3f1He-ySbrqVqJYEBN83F6wBKZrIpoCHSyFMuPg3jjBRaxgHeoY11xObFWQR4PS7A_NxImyZQxSjpNIhTluU9J3-dC2fUyN4atRPG0Od7HkjP3pabcGZkinp5dIkOhp7IxeTTl5EdC0kEh-2/s640/july%20is%20coming.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="640" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-YChbvFQKIG1MTwjilLDoMq6uaPn060n_UYC-suVn3f1He-ySbrqVqJYEBN83F6wBKZrIpoCHSyFMuPg3jjBRaxgHeoY11xObFWQR4PS7A_NxImyZQxSjpNIhTluU9J3-dC2fUyN4atRPG0Od7HkjP3pabcGZkinp5dIkOhp7IxeTTl5EdC0kEh-2/w640-h334/july%20is%20coming.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of <a href="https://wasatchweatherweenies.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Jim Steenburgh</a>.</div><p><br /></p><p>Alta got over 900, Tahoe up near 700. Pomerelle got 482. The list goes on. Brighton, 857. Mammoth, 705 at the base, 885 at the summit. That 350 inches we had here? A good helping; to reiterate, one I am grateful for. This year was one of the best in 40 years of skiing. But don't think for one second that it is "a lot" or "too much" or worse, that we needed it to go away quickly. July comes, with seething inevitability. It will be hot, nearly unbearable. None of us will be able to sleep. This winter, all that snow that fell, the flooding that has been and will be, we don't control it. We don't even matter. It isn't "good" or "bad", it just is. It would be here without us, and probably better for it. Our reactions, our perceptions, they do not matter. Not one bit.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYDM-r7yC-rUq2_a2oBTFSIqnO5_ti1y4p95N-eJga6ehx6fZ6cQUiyDWlrI-xuGIsYDDFChdLCwk2f-_aWIdX75NOeQvjKYMzBzfkyFPcQeCNEq5F7diotBWn0CZspO1thMAEP4GiHFL8MMUMiPfRHBi-igmbTWpP4o2P-9Iujg2_XBJ8ApmL_kb2Ek/s1047/7-Day%20Forecast%2043.6N%20116.18W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="745" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdYDM-r7yC-rUq2_a2oBTFSIqnO5_ti1y4p95N-eJga6ehx6fZ6cQUiyDWlrI-xuGIsYDDFChdLCwk2f-_aWIdX75NOeQvjKYMzBzfkyFPcQeCNEq5F7diotBWn0CZspO1thMAEP4GiHFL8MMUMiPfRHBi-igmbTWpP4o2P-9Iujg2_XBJ8ApmL_kb2Ek/w456-h640/7-Day%20Forecast%2043.6N%20116.18W.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>He's right.</i></div>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-11128096008659794372023-05-18T21:46:00.000-06:002023-05-18T21:46:10.701-06:00Best I Ever Had<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirz5BT8b6kn4qrDqy0fJYtJjHlSqXBrya6FbFR0W5vtro9BqwKZyZKH6-X5tJlQY1__G1efk98t9rzcJz4ceA-OeYPczr40ZinA4Q-zQBlOpCC31Ci8l4R-UGBKy-niPqtrA0kn-zSkRnZMDrxAXFOPOz8NjieJjTaJCN-eHrNvjfdv8G52KG-kUuy/s4032/chair%207%20extreeeem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirz5BT8b6kn4qrDqy0fJYtJjHlSqXBrya6FbFR0W5vtro9BqwKZyZKH6-X5tJlQY1__G1efk98t9rzcJz4ceA-OeYPczr40ZinA4Q-zQBlOpCC31Ci8l4R-UGBKy-niPqtrA0kn-zSkRnZMDrxAXFOPOz8NjieJjTaJCN-eHrNvjfdv8G52KG-kUuy/w480-h640/chair%207%20extreeeem.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Epic Friday pre-work turns on the most epic beginner hill this side of Mt Baker. Chair 7 Extreme, Bogus Basin, ID. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Did I mention it was late April? </i><span style="text-align: left;">BURL SICK GNAR CORE BRO.</span></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p></p><p><a href="https://unofficialnetworks.com/2023/05/18/top-ski-resort-destination-for-powder-seekers/" target="_blank">Unofficial Networks</a> must be bored. They have a list of places with some good powder skiing, pasted up there like some sorta divine revelation. Real shocking list. Japan, Revy, Japan, Alta. I hope whoever done writ that shit made them big bills. I mean, the journalism required. Staggering. Or if it's AI I hope they give up turn the whole shebang over to the robots.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHp62tYbOUCED4HZXtBdkYnP6bb9rNRw7OXOcIPYNGBcTaovERFbJ5fZEKG2gi7_B0O7iBeZDeX_yU81bPKMnlpzPUZ9GLa0aDmiyl1DesRhfvDBxty1pB4HeyQK_WE0d-ClRw7jTqbNH-qlcyVj0-7EKAshutMPYO9psX95hU6oramu2pANzs5M7/s4032/snowboard%20museum%20guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMHp62tYbOUCED4HZXtBdkYnP6bb9rNRw7OXOcIPYNGBcTaovERFbJ5fZEKG2gi7_B0O7iBeZDeX_yU81bPKMnlpzPUZ9GLa0aDmiyl1DesRhfvDBxty1pB4HeyQK_WE0d-ClRw7jTqbNH-qlcyVj0-7EKAshutMPYO9psX95hU6oramu2pANzs5M7/w480-h640/snowboard%20museum%20guy.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I think this is what the kids useta call "powpow"? I mean, like, Snowboard Museum Guy's contrail is billowy and stuff. </i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>With little further ado, here's our list:</p><p>ANYWHERE THEY IS GOOD SNOW WHEN YOU SKIING IN THAT PLACE WITH THE GOOD GOOD POWDER SNOW THAT YOU ARE SKIING ON THAT MIGHT AT OTHER TIMES NOT BE GOOD BUT HEY RIGHT NOW ITS F@*()&$)*(&ńŻ(#(*%))(* YEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAW</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFqz6PJhWfLnh4E_uuBioLXxNx7wZ9q4pT5Aar5J-Ttx4qnagZn7a7zpvu4z3rOLciB5yiAddX4iICTjR07ceoTH4xvIboZszP41s9TwMXdDVODBqOnUIP_DR1Wje-DNyzQxIFQqxXc0ozqPsbPp-IndSj037xVsGFeCRcHJmQxAQTwTcCcO8CInl/s1334/Snow%20stake%20deep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFqz6PJhWfLnh4E_uuBioLXxNx7wZ9q4pT5Aar5J-Ttx4qnagZn7a7zpvu4z3rOLciB5yiAddX4iICTjR07ceoTH4xvIboZszP41s9TwMXdDVODBqOnUIP_DR1Wje-DNyzQxIFQqxXc0ozqPsbPp-IndSj037xVsGFeCRcHJmQxAQTwTcCcO8CInl/w360-h640/Snow%20stake%20deep.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>That's what I'm talkin abote. Suck it, <a href="https://www.enoreandmimigoski.com/2021/12/best-day-ever.html" target="_blank">Copper</a>.</i></div></i><p style="text-align: left;">Just remember, if you don't do it this year, you'll be one year older when you do. And if you can ski here, you can ski anywhere.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSA8FSLmpVItp8BIdQdHRXedXGfhqLvM44gk9w9wQ5o9U9ZkSJLAXZB8VP72TMYXuKXdeDcLosoXx0Ws5C4hP3pS052G5ih_k5EDiUgCZWrsC-JF9bWQfk34bNxAe3ZrVcO1frQ6e4BHCC3ia3vhuf_tDjaXdVUhij5cfvLK_OfHknMlQJO-ysNr4G/s4032/stellar's%20jay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSA8FSLmpVItp8BIdQdHRXedXGfhqLvM44gk9w9wQ5o9U9ZkSJLAXZB8VP72TMYXuKXdeDcLosoXx0Ws5C4hP3pS052G5ih_k5EDiUgCZWrsC-JF9bWQfk34bNxAe3ZrVcO1frQ6e4BHCC3ia3vhuf_tDjaXdVUhij5cfvLK_OfHknMlQJO-ysNr4G/w480-h640/stellar's%20jay.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This cat knows.</i></div></i><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Title from a song Gary Allan had a hit with in 2005 that was originally recorded by the late-90s epic AI-rock band </i>Vertical Horizon. <i>Don't think too too hard abote it. It wasn't that good.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: left;">Shoot. I just realised that back in the day I made the same number of turns on the King on teles that I did on Chair 7 Extreme. Anybody got a time machine?</p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comBoise, ID, USA43.6150186 -116.2023137-5.1871083916556842 173.4851863 90 -45.889813700000005tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-20735599775014764412023-03-11T21:53:00.005-07:002023-03-11T21:54:05.704-07:0087<p> Mikaela Shiffrin is officially the G.O.A.T.!</p><p>Today in a slalom race in Åre, Sweden, she won her 87th world cup race, making her the winningnest alpine skier of all time.</p><p>She is rad.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlvbJ3HCXuvX2fHGIJMRw0hRnbCaVl_arCSuI1BurNtAxNssYOsCAp9FtyOrwJe12HYamDMfO-fXqjI8gVZo9Eev7Dr8j79YBQDjydcKis1Yhmr-ye7op2KwEH814ds1cuFT5Z1FsaowLYMpBRRyjYGAjYWh8vmp-89WY5WfDChZ2DbsEFyxN_BCu/s1360/Mikaela%20is%20the%20goat.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1360" height="538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlvbJ3HCXuvX2fHGIJMRw0hRnbCaVl_arCSuI1BurNtAxNssYOsCAp9FtyOrwJe12HYamDMfO-fXqjI8gVZo9Eev7Dr8j79YBQDjydcKis1Yhmr-ye7op2KwEH814ds1cuFT5Z1FsaowLYMpBRRyjYGAjYWh8vmp-89WY5WfDChZ2DbsEFyxN_BCu/w640-h538/Mikaela%20is%20the%20goat.jpeg" width="640" /></a></p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.com837 52 Åre, Sweden63.3990428 13.081505919.645612805163694 -57.230994100000004 90 83.3940059tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-30034981898095339332023-01-22T21:20:00.001-07:002023-01-22T21:24:04.224-07:00The pilgrimage has gained momentum.<p>By Eino Holm</p><p>Unofficial Networks, aka the Bestest Ski Blog Site in the Whole Woild, has a <a href="https://unofficialnetworks.com/2023/01/13/five-pilgrimages-skiers/" target="_blank">thumbtacked post</a>, or whatever, on their blog currently. Something about a hajj or, like, what y'alls is sposeta do as major skier broskis. It's funny. Like, who are you to tell ME what to do, Matt?! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!?!?! I AM THE BEST SKIER ON THE MOUNTAIN.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9SXwXhZVu8WYjgxVUMazi3_5oVpQaLSdCsRwBjHCZQthRjFDRIDU4kXnEynoZg-YTX_2l7KPcyk75S3A4hEPIf7abvZCYbkCdwL3AecfZImHz-twoz0ELVvDxFiX-dkVHGyWIpw_TQS23XxlQpr--39B2PV6rsKwk9ral0x0leB_IKzofU-nkyjZp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9SXwXhZVu8WYjgxVUMazi3_5oVpQaLSdCsRwBjHCZQthRjFDRIDU4kXnEynoZg-YTX_2l7KPcyk75S3A4hEPIf7abvZCYbkCdwL3AecfZImHz-twoz0ELVvDxFiX-dkVHGyWIpw_TQS23XxlQpr--39B2PV6rsKwk9ral0x0leB_IKzofU-nkyjZp=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I check all the cornices.</i></div></i><br /><p></p><p>Anyway, what makes me laugh about all of these listicles, along with the twin facts that some jackass made up a cutesy and annoying term for them and that they still somehow exist, is the confidence with which folks post them. #1 is Corbet's, natch, cos, y'know, intermediate-skier folks should book a trip, waste thousands, just to stare down into a very steep, incredibly challenging chute with a SORRY I KNOW IT'S A COOOL-WAHR mandatory air and realise they were lied to. That skiing just isn't that easy, and that maybe, just maybe, some <strike>dud</strike> dude on the internet isn't really all that knowledgeable.</p><p>The list continues, with some random chair out east, a junk show in Tahoe, my least favourite ski area in Utah, and Alyeska. Honourable Mention is Baker, which, well, maybe? But also maybe not, for the same reasons as Corbet's. Baker can kill you. (More so than most places can, not like when somebody does a routine crash and happens into a tree, which can happen anywhere, but like when a person makes a misguided but innocent left at the bottom of the Chair 5 side of Hemispheres and falls off a 200 footer and isn't seen until August.) Let's be honest. Most of us just want to ski. I can speak for precisely nobody else, but since everybody does, I'll try anyway: if I'm spending money, it's not to ride a chair folks claim is from the 40s (spoiler: it has been updated to the point where it's real dern challenging to claim it's older than my father) or to get all confused when tryna figure out Olympic Valley's crazy Spaghetti Bowl of chairs and trams and--wut?!?!--funitels and base areas and mid-mountain lodges just to get hosed by another northeast Pacific cyclone that comes in hot, but just a wee bit too far north and closes all the legit terrain with some righteous Pineapple Expressery. If I'm spending money to ski, especially if it's at the end of a hajj, it ain't gonna be shit people do all the time.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4dSdWYNVpV-Pc3rHCOviKYfzxQ_xYMfOI2FbdUbiXIL_48I1l39C7VHO-nQHpquTUiq7f2aaA-LGh-FOAOTZPVRhBRhbyH6QCHZ0x2s5__dXFv8DtEx9En6XLsc-8QEaSoAa9_Zlg7rAAiKRn8rdmmo7E9JO-066OBdvE5j3k_ATnSrFYVHPxnyyY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="906" data-original-width="1024" height="567" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4dSdWYNVpV-Pc3rHCOviKYfzxQ_xYMfOI2FbdUbiXIL_48I1l39C7VHO-nQHpquTUiq7f2aaA-LGh-FOAOTZPVRhBRhbyH6QCHZ0x2s5__dXFv8DtEx9En6XLsc-8QEaSoAa9_Zlg7rAAiKRn8rdmmo7E9JO-066OBdvE5j3k_ATnSrFYVHPxnyyY=w640-h567" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Back Bowls at Vail. Supposed quiet and solitude. People pay for this, and travel cross country. Wut.</i></div></i><br /><p></p><p>Here's my top 10, cos I'm too cool for just 5, with a predictable-for-me amount of uncertainty and unwillingness to say one is better than another:</p><p>- Shasta. Seriously. Squallywood is just up I-80 from SF, and there's like lots of houses rich folk use at least 10 days a year and there's like a lake and lots of fancy lights over on the Nevada side and basically Palisades is fine if you are looking to fulfill someone else's dream, but let's be honest: you are not Shane, and you are not Ingrid, and you are not Jonny. Neither am I. Save yer money, and Drive North. (Your choice, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cN6uLavVz-0" target="_blank">John Hiatt</a> or <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dhDBYCV9trI" target="_blank">Suzy Boguss</a>.) Mt Shasta City is funky, weird, cool, foreign, dirty, in the trees, and, simply, not annoying like Tahoe. Tahoe would be rad without, well, being Tahoe. Plus, there's <i>Pinus attenuata </i>and <i>Abies x shastensis</i> on them hills. Weird is better, believe me. Also, too, as well, you just might be the best skier on the mountain, and you absolutely will not be on KT. And did you hear they built a new chair and people think it's hard to access cos you have to--gasp--ski there? Seriously. You should read the Instagram comments. "BUILD ME A BUS OUT OF A SNOWCAT AND PUT CARPET ON THE FLOOR AND A FEATHER BED SO I CAN GO SKI GREY BUTTE." "I WANT A TOW ON A SLED BUT LIKE, WITH EXTRA SPECIAL SNOW PROTECTION AND MAYBE A GLASS OF PORT AND A DOG TO CUDDLE WITH COS I WANNA SKI GREY BUTTE." It's funny, but I don't get it. Last time I was there, one simply ducked off the back side of Coyote and skied fall line to the bottom of the butte, where the chair is now. Hm.</p><p>- Woof Crick. I mean, how, Matt, did you miss Col-o-RAD-o?!?!?!? Everybody knows, when you list skiing, Colorado is <a href="https://www.enoreandmimigoski.com/2022/10/top-47-skiing.html" target="_blank">number 1</a>. And, natch, Woof Crick isn't in one of your fancy multiverses or even part of the Colorado ski area exchange. One of the chairs is called Treasure Stoke, and aren't all skiers all about the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgXObaM9i2Q" target="_blank">stoke</a>? Seriously, though, Woof Crick isn't near anything. CW McCall aside, nobody outside knows where Woof Crick Pass even is, even, and outside of ski mag nostalgists and nerds nobody cares if there's skiing outside of Telluride or Aaahspen or Vail or Summit or Steamboat. Or Winter Park. (Okay, so, CO is pretty well-known.) Anyway, to get to Woof Crick, if you are the jetsetting type, you gotta fly into Farmington <strike>UT</strike> NM (KFMN) and start asking for rides. If you just think "it's in Colorado" and book a seat in a giant wingèd tube bound for Stapleton, you'll then be looking through the rental catalogues hoping for an Escalade with good gas mileage, cos it's a loooong damn way to the other side of the hill. Hence, hajj. You go through places like the real South Park, Gunbarrel Station, Saguache (important cos you probly can't say it correctly), and Poncha Springs. You'll cross the <strike>Rubicon</strike> Rio Grande, be humming Woof Crick Pass, way up on the Great Divide, truckin on down the other side, except that you don't hafta truckin on down the other side cos Woof Crick is right there on the pass. You'll get confused again cos, of course, you'll think you're in <a href="https://liftblog.com/alberta-wolf-creek-co/" target="_blank">Canada</a>.</p><p>- Bormio. (Seriously, Matt, how did you not Europa?) It's near the Stelvio, and, like der Schweiz, and Österreich, and when you can fly into Milano, flounder about like a tourist, try to find a Stelvio to drive up way into the Ortlers on a road called STRADA DEL PASSO DELLO STELVIO HOW COOL IS THAT. Anyway, I got lost. Just go. It takes forever, and people do pilgrimages, like the real kind, through Italia all the time. You heard it here first.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgb7lGKJZbQ5VpfYbUAzPra292kcs2_RthyO-rN981kBbBa8oAI5NlzlPehKHiuLtu_AH0U3kUDVrUTiUE4UiWrhAwzrQYDTOmKXitRQ5iqsRhvEUPfcduxhwW7TFwlNEyrw2RKcxNUdW1uevmi48__If3lQUiRRf-HKVqiBDq1J6WIfNz6FaFBqOPk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1012" data-original-width="1518" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgb7lGKJZbQ5VpfYbUAzPra292kcs2_RthyO-rN981kBbBa8oAI5NlzlPehKHiuLtu_AH0U3kUDVrUTiUE4UiWrhAwzrQYDTOmKXitRQ5iqsRhvEUPfcduxhwW7TFwlNEyrw2RKcxNUdW1uevmi48__If3lQUiRRf-HKVqiBDq1J6WIfNz6FaFBqOPk=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Everyone knows you hafta drive an Alfa if you are a skier. Or something like that.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>- Okay, I'll admit it, Mad River Glen (MRG) is cooler than most places. I'd like to go there. There's probly at least a little bit of pilgrimage-type travel involved. Still, if I gotta go all that way, the first place in Vermont I'm skiing is Owl's Head, QC. I mean, it's named after a dude called Owl. And it's in Canada. That's like, if you're going to Vermont, but you forgot and just kept going and then some Sirens called out and you took the boat into shore, and then you woke up from your dream and found some real nice poutine and hopefully a Trois Pistoles. Seriously. Also, I've seen pictures of the view from that place. And it's next to Lake Memphremagog, which is a pilgrimage just saying it and also, it's kinda like Gog and Magog, and that's all sorta connotations right there.</p><p>- Bigrock, Maine. It's way up there. A long way from anywhere except the NWS office in Caribou. I think you can see Canadia from the top of the big Mueller double. I know, I know, you can see Cannuckistan from lots of ski areas, like Baker, Bromont, Mont Bechervaise, Whistler, Lake Louise, Mount Saint Louis Moonstoone, Stoneham, et al. But those places are all IN Canada. Just ask the locals.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgL2GLiBx2RJdHcSyrJP3gZG5NAjuTrk8ZRbwwdtHPcdPGLsBOy-PlmWpPPd6VxO6BYME0OB-zxf-OLxlhWsvv9TbbSqU5sHd5Azu6JGeI2o5hcdcMTF9CUlezTFtSzST7wWdkR-9FZFKDpngt-Dtc5P1qCREXXlTimDV5icT_mJEDlcmuc9RZ_agei" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgL2GLiBx2RJdHcSyrJP3gZG5NAjuTrk8ZRbwwdtHPcdPGLsBOy-PlmWpPPd6VxO6BYME0OB-zxf-OLxlhWsvv9TbbSqU5sHd5Azu6JGeI2o5hcdcMTF9CUlezTFtSzST7wWdkR-9FZFKDpngt-Dtc5P1qCREXXlTimDV5icT_mJEDlcmuc9RZ_agei=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>That one peak at the back is in Canada and that's all that's needed, thank you very much.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo credit: Peter Landsman, <a href="https://liftblog.com/" target="_blank">Lift Blog</a>.</i></div><p></p><p>- Lofoten. Just go. Seriously. Stop arguing with me. Say hi to my family, too, if there are any of us left in Skutvik. Skutvik's across the water, but there's a ferry. My grandma's cousin Bodvar painted there, and, probly not coincidentally, that part of my family is the Skutvik part. Like, that's literally our name. If you don't believe me, then you can take a flying f</p><p>- Manning Park. Before you ask "where's Manning Park?" just listen. YOU CAN SEE HOZOMEEN FROM THERE AND THAT'S LIKE JACK FRICKIN KEROUAC AND SHIT AND GOOOOOOGLE MERTH SAYS IT'S 42,753 FEET AS THE RAVEN FLIES (seriously, why do we care how the crow flies when ravens are so much cooler?!) WHICH IS LIKE, I DON'T KNOW, SOME MILES.* AND, since we're talking about long <strike>walks</strike> drives, Manning Park is a Wet Side ski joint on the Dry side of the Cascades. Think about THAT. I bet you didn't even know there were Cascades in Canadia. It's a bit of a drive, 160k from Abby, and is in the Similkameen drainage, which drains to the east and is like, International and stuff. Also a cool name. And even though this beautiful Murray-Latta is no more, the views are unstoppable. Did I mention Keraouc?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgb3Xp_GrrEeW7-OIep2p6jL-xWjkQHSAQCdYjoOI22R_ARtQv89eVc7apB35FGlTcRD8ASXa7ch9WP_AcEplreDhP4snZIa9aaFbKr8Ux44pJ0xdDUu9c-uAO3ZL7-uhgmVXcUG3ThAxvcwE97wqwrCOfRDXx_sQYX1KvDUEIJ2-HFIXFAtXgm79V_" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="2000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgb3Xp_GrrEeW7-OIep2p6jL-xWjkQHSAQCdYjoOI22R_ARtQv89eVc7apB35FGlTcRD8ASXa7ch9WP_AcEplreDhP4snZIa9aaFbKr8Ux44pJ0xdDUu9c-uAO3ZL7-uhgmVXcUG3ThAxvcwE97wqwrCOfRDXx_sQYX1KvDUEIJ2-HFIXFAtXgm79V_=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>That's more like it. Manning Park, BC, and yes, Hozomeen. The big one right there. Next to the other big ones. Keraouc sat in a really cool shed at the top of a small peak behind that one peak, actually more of a ridgeline, and wrote a real complainy book about being lonely even though it was his choice and he was like sposeta be seeing God or something? Anyway, he missed the point so that you can get the point. Now, go take on the day.</i></div><br /><p></p><p>- Discovery, Montana. It's in the middle of nowhere. It's the biggest joint in the country without a detach. If it isn't, I don't care, it still is in my mind.</p><p>- Cannon. I mean, the name, the history, the tram (I hate trams, but I'd get over myself), Lahout's, bad weather, big mountains, the funky layout, trees, cold, rain, rime, it's got all the things. It's so far north, if it were in Washington it'd be in Coburg, OR, just north of Eugene. It's between two places with such storied names as Bethlehem and Woodstock. I mean, neither is the real one, but that's okay. Also, interestingly, the western portion of Cannon is Mittersill, Blizzard is listed as their official ski, and wouldn't you know it, BLIZZARD'S FACTORY IS IN MITTERSILL, ÖSTERREICH HOLY SHIT MIND BLOWN.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiddgaxOhoGP68hXhqF7Kw0cPoMaWv8bDRHDPx-VIfshWo3GTUxICLAl9w453VzZgkt84fHtZSAfoC6YD4lk4BgYoXkaLy5pcZBBAXHUldXI3IuB-UHZ_MhPgfaydnj7koW7NFc0O30tI928BXSJv07uMDWqYLWrb9NTG_XNm0T2-RZ9yNTpQmz7GBY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2454" data-original-width="3914" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiddgaxOhoGP68hXhqF7Kw0cPoMaWv8bDRHDPx-VIfshWo3GTUxICLAl9w453VzZgkt84fHtZSAfoC6YD4lk4BgYoXkaLy5pcZBBAXHUldXI3IuB-UHZ_MhPgfaydnj7koW7NFc0O30tI928BXSJv07uMDWqYLWrb9NTG_XNm0T2-RZ9yNTpQmz7GBY=w640-h402" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You can tell this is Skutvik because of how it is.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">- -</div><p></p><p>Just kidding, I know it's not Stapleton. It's the new Illuminati Spaceport out in the desert into which you fly on hajj. The one with all the secret tunnels.</p><p>*8, give or take.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkXMVSEnDtjuBi1ING0iHR603JUv0wtLOlszfvvoQmweozXS4r0SVjvyhoxQzA186sxEzVax0tIfXpXT3qEZmYfORHtZqHtsMxsWlbyEM0v4E2Eg4f4cIBx_KCVRYD2DYZP1zSp_UpYt29kF7Eld1pOF8S6WONNJiahjNzh-_w2GD-bFopxIwNOUoN" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkXMVSEnDtjuBi1ING0iHR603JUv0wtLOlszfvvoQmweozXS4r0SVjvyhoxQzA186sxEzVax0tIfXpXT3qEZmYfORHtZqHtsMxsWlbyEM0v4E2Eg4f4cIBx_KCVRYD2DYZP1zSp_UpYt29kF7Eld1pOF8S6WONNJiahjNzh-_w2GD-bFopxIwNOUoN=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i>Bonus: Spaghetti Bowl in SLC. Lookit a Palisades map if you don't believe me.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">- <i>Title from REM's Pilgrimage. But you knew that.</i></div><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comWolf Creek Pass, Colorado 81147, USA37.482703 -106.80212259.1724691638211553 -141.9583725 65.792936836178853 -71.6458725tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-84875672470396700772022-12-26T20:26:00.002-07:002022-12-26T20:26:53.326-07:00You've got answers? We've got questions.<p> Apparently Jonathan Ellsworth of Blister Gear Review and Cody Townsend of Cody Townsend have a podcast. I feel like these podcast things are popular. Anyway, they asked for ski town relationship questions, and Amy and I had some, but really I'd rather ax some other types of questions instead:</p><p>1) When I was 20, I could tele 7 days a week. It's only been 21 years, why can't I still tele 7 days a week?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2P6Jhsaf3Nu0TL8mX1vAbH21ned1nEtULjvEI9sD0PPtMCG5GSzYEK02higswnN9R3o41K921dWvs8pNiFk0Sc9VWXBMjILIXA4iFQeol7uvKW_nmlskdWRh3Q_Y_33rV7A76-BqgWnHtOVveDV-tYjdby1qlD400es9Dv9TuJlq6i7K64sdLfjXF" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2P6Jhsaf3Nu0TL8mX1vAbH21ned1nEtULjvEI9sD0PPtMCG5GSzYEK02higswnN9R3o41K921dWvs8pNiFk0Sc9VWXBMjILIXA4iFQeol7uvKW_nmlskdWRh3Q_Y_33rV7A76-BqgWnHtOVveDV-tYjdby1qlD400es9Dv9TuJlq6i7K64sdLfjXF=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><i></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><i>I blame the push-broom on The Place That Shall Not Be Named. But hey, limber pine!</i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>2) How do I build a time machine? I need to go back and salvage those two pairs of <strike>red</strike> <strike>purple</strike> aubergine Salomon S914s from the skis that weren't worthy of the bindings before selling the skis.</p><p>3) Why doesn't Mayor Lauren (or any of her predecessors) allow it to snow more in BoyCee? 75 inches in town and 450 at the hill doesn't seem like too much to ask. Baker gets like almost 1800 inches or whatever. I may have hit the wrong unit-toggle on their snow report.</p><p>4) Why does everything hurt? We're both only in our earliest 40s.</p><p>5) How do I get people to pay me to ski while I provide nothing at all of value to them? I feel like there should be positions at ski areas for that.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithpfUDIAWmOg7ESdk0nuwdSg4qsYO1JNPfNa7dbDjZfBOMwyeEFXNpuvZE7GniaCG2altGdt7GIIpbZ2seehZVUNZBq0HcvyBqbQmtk4hiJbaHFR1LCp4usGtEWRXR43k6zgOf3f-q-etz9c1QZ6JXRQMfCBYUoNjq8pxnvHZgjF8lOx7T8cJZ0SN/s2400/chairlift-speed-dating-loveland_h_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="2400" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithpfUDIAWmOg7ESdk0nuwdSg4qsYO1JNPfNa7dbDjZfBOMwyeEFXNpuvZE7GniaCG2altGdt7GIIpbZ2seehZVUNZBq0HcvyBqbQmtk4hiJbaHFR1LCp4usGtEWRXR43k6zgOf3f-q-etz9c1QZ6JXRQMfCBYUoNjq8pxnvHZgjF8lOx7T8cJZ0SN/w640-h360/chairlift-speed-dating-loveland_h_0.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"<i>And that's when I realised that if you can ski Yawgoons, you can ski anywhere."</i></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>6) I want access to a binding bench and an open-stone bow grinder, but I don't want to change jobs. Help!</p><p>7) Why is Vail?</p><p>8) I want my Forester to act like my ol' GL wagon most of the time except when it needs to be fancy like warm seats and lots of cupholders and modern airgoonoomics and that 6 speed (well, 4 and 2 halves). Can you go tell Subaru to do that for me? Thanks. Remind them that ABS is great when you are actually braking, but not when you're just turning corners with vim and vigor and it's snowing and the person in front of you is, um, scared, and I'll just goose er a little and HOLY SHIT WHY IS MY CAR TRYNA SHAKE ITSELF TO DEATH I SAID OFF NOT SLIGHTLY LESS ON</p><p>9) All the mainstream skis I like are expensive and instead I want custom that's more o no I broke</p><p>10) Salomon made the 747 back in like '87 and nothing since has really improved on it in any meaningful, life changing way. Maybe since you guys know people, you could have them make a run in that sexy mid 90s 997 Equipe red for me. I'm an N-9.5, but I like the symmetry of a 10, so tell them to make it 5-15 (I think the OG was 6-14, which is totally fine, but, like, FIFTEEN) so I's right in the middle, please and thanks. Also, make sure the toe is 1-2mm higher than the heel. Enough of this needing to modify bindings to do em right.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhI7LhLahI7uH5SRHBbtEPdIZxjvjhdd0MbxVbJ6avfqBk2MbonNx7LQ4bdwbdvBWlvxfmP_sJuCui7vEh9upBAnIypifhDHftat5McmpDzVgTjm3C-D1h75SaQBlqpJMOenzKqcmTPP_FD6tTfHNmNkrvH-6ZPtd-CFbahudFMPNKprXQSlspKbtlZ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="337" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhI7LhLahI7uH5SRHBbtEPdIZxjvjhdd0MbxVbJ6avfqBk2MbonNx7LQ4bdwbdvBWlvxfmP_sJuCui7vEh9upBAnIypifhDHftat5McmpDzVgTjm3C-D1h75SaQBlqpJMOenzKqcmTPP_FD6tTfHNmNkrvH-6ZPtd-CFbahudFMPNKprXQSlspKbtlZ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This one. Right here. Like, all the time. Yes, I can have an emotional connection with a binding I've only skied once, on my oldest brother's 204 Pre SmpnROther on <strike>Kemper's</strike>** in 1996.</i></div></i><br /><p></p><p>11) Or they could do it in that rad 90s Tyrolia FreeFlex 14 purple. You know the one. It had the gull wing brakes. Yeah. Totally.</p><p>12) Y'know what, I also want a ornj 'n green pair.</p><p>13) One of my favourite Christmas records from growing up isn't on Spotify. How can you help?</p><p>14) Dave Matthews wrote some decent songs 25+ years ago. What happened?</p><p>15) What's better? 20" blower on boiler plate or 6" of day-old consolidated?</p><p>16) Yer both wrong. It's July at Chinook with some tourists wondering just what in the heck yer doin.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEje3z6clsOyNZbmUHSrJ7IE8WtAMSVgJP7hyC-_JFEdsTV_sCr-q3URsM2TQrXC_hUOVDmwh4-UKpG_qUaKMiue4tMWZ-0cmPaqqIWPu2JFBzFeLYC2AeoTS_NqyYyaN_J_iyMf0QTwwvxXJeefYsfRRTAd7mZYExsA5rwMTitFAn4olXkQ8Jpqt7AW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1280" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEje3z6clsOyNZbmUHSrJ7IE8WtAMSVgJP7hyC-_JFEdsTV_sCr-q3URsM2TQrXC_hUOVDmwh4-UKpG_qUaKMiue4tMWZ-0cmPaqqIWPu2JFBzFeLYC2AeoTS_NqyYyaN_J_iyMf0QTwwvxXJeefYsfRRTAd7mZYExsA5rwMTitFAn4olXkQ8Jpqt7AW=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This isn't July. But you get it.</i></div></i><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">17) How do I get to Quebec when I don't have a passport or know how to travel or can't cos money?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">18) Howcome ain't Idaho don't gots Orca?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">19) Mont Sutton.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPX6zJllZThBi2eVur_-s__6r9QlXwB7nlyqebgxMFFpi9nKVLpp4v3WkPOL8ul8AEEei9vrE22xCmu1Jsw-hB8eGoGssamWAE6USBwd34Z5T1-2ltLrhH7e5dr3VwGjjgRf5_1C_ZlyKc6HkDXTfcQgxuySv-PD9XH31alQqQr-zDtiwZZQWF9YBr" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPX6zJllZThBi2eVur_-s__6r9QlXwB7nlyqebgxMFFpi9nKVLpp4v3WkPOL8ul8AEEei9vrE22xCmu1Jsw-hB8eGoGssamWAE6USBwd34Z5T1-2ltLrhH7e5dr3VwGjjgRf5_1C_ZlyKc6HkDXTfcQgxuySv-PD9XH31alQqQr-zDtiwZZQWF9YBr=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Smpn smpn OH SHIT I FORGOT THE LATKES</i></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">20) Why all them internet recipe sites got life stories 'fore you find the ingredients.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">21) I don't believe in Alaska?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">22) I bet you don't know how to say sauna in Svenska.*</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">22) Why skeening so spensive!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">23) Do you like apples?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5dB9horQEPQ0xRqlr9jgZakye9N0GZu5zTRqgkGZdExZHtaE9-LcYf7FU0onKxg3CHIiAImMptN98ZCuKEYqhiZ_ipEMYukVkntFiCybxvTpeHb9ttBQKlm6bclo9d9dbsQazRz6kXGRruDvE72Xrd7DDN_o9BO2wPkI5G95MJndF_vbIBBeePGu5" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5dB9horQEPQ0xRqlr9jgZakye9N0GZu5zTRqgkGZdExZHtaE9-LcYf7FU0onKxg3CHIiAImMptN98ZCuKEYqhiZ_ipEMYukVkntFiCybxvTpeHb9ttBQKlm6bclo9d9dbsQazRz6kXGRruDvE72Xrd7DDN_o9BO2wPkI5G95MJndF_vbIBBeePGu5=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-style: italic;">I like apples. How you like </i>them<i style="font-style: italic;"> apples? This one's a Sugar Bee. I miss The State of Apples.</i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">24) Is Vermont just New Hampshire without Chris Sununununununununu?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">25) How do I go back to Winter Solstice in 1999 cos it was rad there was a biiiiiiiig moon also cold and my wipers didn't work cos inversion cold and why was I alone and was that actually a chupacabra I thought they only liked the desert not 60 inches a year Enumclaw OH NO RUUUUUN NO WAIT YER IN THE TERCEL GIVER PEEL OUT DOUGHNUTS YEAH</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">26) Pa says Garmish-Partenkirchen is real but I've never seen it...is The Zugspitze also real?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">27) Good thing that one guy from Rossi NW gave me this apron LATKES ARE AWSUM HOLY SHIT I EXCITED GIMME GIMME GIMME</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">28) What's the better ski town rig, Toyotacoma or Outback?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0wl7mNmNPvcZCl5MFtP6rPY7Xugr4hJZhzcsUa7ZBVSq6tw0wh_-r_BQH9iy26wT7yw_WJMYwjnbPsbNV9R9jJpAbZtw8wbNgAFbFhgeM5BDOMGA-vbKIZs0M5CKBuYSNJ2Pfg6rp17nQIUk4nGZa2mWfqcrRBTlSMHyTSFFg459LtW7FDt-LYME/s960/157_Toyota-Tercel-L10.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0wl7mNmNPvcZCl5MFtP6rPY7Xugr4hJZhzcsUa7ZBVSq6tw0wh_-r_BQH9iy26wT7yw_WJMYwjnbPsbNV9R9jJpAbZtw8wbNgAFbFhgeM5BDOMGA-vbKIZs0M5CKBuYSNJ2Pfg6rp17nQIUk4nGZa2mWfqcrRBTlSMHyTSFFg459LtW7FDt-LYME/w640-h426/157_Toyota-Tercel-L10.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Mine never got stuck. How bout yours? (Photo: Ben Hsu)</i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">29) Is skiing really worth never seeing your out-of-state family over the Holidays?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">30) How do you stay humble when you actually <i>are</i> the best skier on the mountain?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">31) My trainee is faster on the race course than me and all, but I'm still better, right? Right?!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">31) Why do nieces and nephews grow up so fast?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">32) Why isn't good opportunity and good skiing in the same place?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">33) I don't believe in Alterra.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQXvaAkDh4nEngBFzRzvDKgNXlLBSCtfums9pPqrJnWCIxjN9HRy72gCxpD9TDlCVdfstcJSbdLHno42sPoUrf5IXtx3YjoYw4XyeeRgjXMO0feozNMf4CMq8PscDpJYbm9B6Ktky_5zcTCmEy7G8aR24wgSAxicUM-9hrJwkENo4ODgpa3iEeg88/s972/chair%202%20dos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="972" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQXvaAkDh4nEngBFzRzvDKgNXlLBSCtfums9pPqrJnWCIxjN9HRy72gCxpD9TDlCVdfstcJSbdLHno42sPoUrf5IXtx3YjoYw4XyeeRgjXMO0feozNMf4CMq8PscDpJYbm9B6Ktky_5zcTCmEy7G8aR24wgSAxicUM-9hrJwkENo4ODgpa3iEeg88/w640-h450/chair%202%20dos.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Bring back the Riblets and that sweet flattop and those coveralls and enough of this bougie corporate bul HEY LOOKIT EAST PEAK IS FILLED IN </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(Photo vis Flickr, courtesy of the Forest Service NW division.)</i></div></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">34) Wait. Hannah's got an Audi?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">35) How is it 9.00 already?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">36) Why did <a href="https://unofficialnetworks.com/2022/12/26/ice-skating-ski-resort/" target="_blank">it rain</a> all over our snow?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">37) When do<i> I</i> get to skate on the roads?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">38) HOW WE OLD</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">39) Man, I really liked that Karhu Jak.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtPCaHQFaqrYSKYznqJpLKchMqqSJG1x_VES48EoZ1RL5_QpR5f0BB2JjtoGnU9v8qFIwLY8PkcQ8Eo1226SBHLMbOQbjAfmY95uxckAyKFoLSmHv6y2WbhY_tBXvYApJNU4vC6vyFyR11jTQvC7FriiAmSgnuNJ5tt2WI8VqnTm5fE8anuQeLVfKe" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtPCaHQFaqrYSKYznqJpLKchMqqSJG1x_VES48EoZ1RL5_QpR5f0BB2JjtoGnU9v8qFIwLY8PkcQ8Eo1226SBHLMbOQbjAfmY95uxckAyKFoLSmHv6y2WbhY_tBXvYApJNU4vC6vyFyR11jTQvC7FriiAmSgnuNJ5tt2WI8VqnTm5fE8anuQeLVfKe=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Karhu</i></div></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>*Joke's on you, it's bastu!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>**I swear I've never poached, Uwe. NEVER.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Yes, that's a 90s Radio Shack ad we're referencing. And, if we're being honest, the best ski bum rig has got to be that funky mid-to-late 80s 4wd Tercel wagon. Just drop that tyre pressure and you might even make it up Austin in 4 Low.</i></div><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.com671 Rue Maple, Sutton, QC J0E 2K0, Canada45.1046261 -72.561861816.849482815435206 -107.7181118 73.359769384564785 -37.4056118tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-83527289884742781342022-12-20T21:36:00.004-07:002023-01-01T15:47:52.336-07:00Middle of the day; already gettin dark outside<p>By Eino Holm</p><p>One year, we opened on the 4th of November. Something like 18" new on basically dirt, weeds, dead beargrass stalks, and some leftover teaser-crust. I was ecstatic. Also, not alone. A solid handful of us, whoever we were, were there. Green Valley skied the best. Maybe it was the only thing that really skied. If I remember correctly, and I usually sometimes am sort of able to, we had to download on 11 (Chinook). I think 10 and 3 were skiable. I may be conflating two memories here, but I think I skied the morning and then headed to work. In my ever idealised memory, it was in the Safeway, but it could have been later, when I was at Performance Bikes, pretending to know what I was doing. At any rate, I skied horribly. It was opening day, there were eighteen inches of unsettled Cascady manna on just enough crust to cover some of the dirt. The bottom of 10 is a wet mess when not covered in snow, and otherwise it is a wet mess that is covered in snow, not always fully. Several small springs keep the hillside muddy and alive with black flies in the summer. Mel's Left (how a cat driver trail name got on the official map, I don't know) has this rad soft right-hander with a big enough rollover that I can still see Mike Kupsis gettin rad on some big Dynastar Bigs back in '000. Mute grab, check. Tele, natch. Anyway, I didn't get rad, and when I tried to turn toward 11 to download, well, my teles and I had an argument.</p><p>See, the XXXs wanted to stop moving. Like, now. In fact, they wanted so badly to stop that both tips dug into the mud that was quickly spreading in the eighteen melting inches of early November gift. I, you know, wanted to slide on over to the top of 11, step on them Targa heels, jump off the skis, and jump on the chair. The skis won the argument at a trot. Not a chance. My logic must have been flawed. I was muddy, pancaked in one puddle or other, cursing, sore already and the work day hadn't even started. It was a stark enough moment that my memory of the day stops there, face down in the mud and maybe a little embarrassed.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEe7of82-IZEA4CKlsxq2hqB0S-zHhBfZrhXuYqUW6oDuUdo5zNlS0gjnkTlXhTHciLhMYcwVvdg0edPbdUys1pkAbIVKZ7RRszzQCE2r3hrmzufdd_eGuaSbffrmcScN83VrcnhRQpIQDiFRVN3k4uF-mJsh593gufvocMBagh6P6qCES3ztyRGFA/s4032/WROD.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEe7of82-IZEA4CKlsxq2hqB0S-zHhBfZrhXuYqUW6oDuUdo5zNlS0gjnkTlXhTHciLhMYcwVvdg0edPbdUys1pkAbIVKZ7RRszzQCE2r3hrmzufdd_eGuaSbffrmcScN83VrcnhRQpIQDiFRVN3k4uF-mJsh593gufvocMBagh6P6qCES3ztyRGFA/w480-h640/WROD.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cooking up the White Ribbon of Death. Bogus Basin, November '021.</i></div></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>Every year, ski areas around the world compete to open first. Some cheat, and locate themselves on the side of an Alp with access to glacial pitches in, like, Austria or wherever, and therefore are either never closed or are open in September. Here in the States and Canada, it's usually man-made, a contest between places as big and as corporately backed as Keystone, as famous as Lake Louise, or as small as Wild Mountain, Minnesota. Every so often, when the planets align and it's too warm in Summit or Rutland or Clear Creek counties, but the jet revs up and the weather pilot gooses the throttle a little, Crystal, Baker, Timberline, and a handful of other Northwest Nuggets vie to capture the flag. I definitely don't remember if 4 Nov was the continent's, the country's, or even the West's opening day, but it was Washington's, and all ours. I don't even really remember the rest of the year, but that day, that glorious, thigh-burning, poorly-skied day, that will be there along with all those closing days shoveling snow or scrubbing the tune shop floor in a white button-down and FarFar's tie cos, well, why the heck not?<p>November skiing is special, a kind of niche that many folks fight for and many other folks just do not understand. Some times it's a 30 minute line at the bottom of BMX at A Basin. For me, the best is '007, the year I got fired by a guy in Sumner who was too bloody stupid to never hire me in the first place and I spent all of November on unemployment waiting for a guaranteed ski tuning job that would start, as luck would have it, on opening day. Crystal opened 1 December that year, got washed out by an historical rain cycle, and somehow managed (sorry, not somehow managed, it's Washington, home of the top 3 verified yearly snow totals IN THE WORLD*) to reopen the next weekend. Driving up on Sunday, 2 Dec, was a wonderful gorp of axle-deep slop on the highway. I got stuck by the late and lamented Crystal Inn cos the driver of the minivan next to me had parked too closely and I was worried if I goosed 'er the Legacy would slide sideways and smashify the damn thing. Anyway, <strike>the dude from Robert's Rescue</strike> some random guy (don't sue 'im!) happened by with a tow strap that I just now remembered I also had in the trunk at the time, under the mat, and we shoveled all the snow we could between me and the Caravan. He yanked me out with what I think I remember was a Grand Cherokee, in the process only sort of scraping the whole side of the offending minivan from tail pipe to headlight with my 30th-Anniversary-Gold, 5 speed Legacy L 2.2 wagon with the all-wheel drive that I then the very next day bought new snow tyres for cos, wouldn't you know it, studs are studly.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEje0G7cSpYGOmgMt--YiI8d0p3bLCv-QTH02e7aVK2nyZRGRifMLV1OxUsjltDcdmFGbeWFK1adRbY4Z0nVlrXIEJfhmDlF21_IcNS7F8nfHqBfWgmBk-88G9Pp5wPI6xzwVbHn3IVouxAzaljkwzGkJ2P4kyczNxxrRH2_3fsRIe-91z0MKmGCP6PN" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1000" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEje0G7cSpYGOmgMt--YiI8d0p3bLCv-QTH02e7aVK2nyZRGRifMLV1OxUsjltDcdmFGbeWFK1adRbY4Z0nVlrXIEJfhmDlF21_IcNS7F8nfHqBfWgmBk-88G9Pp5wPI6xzwVbHn3IVouxAzaljkwzGkJ2P4kyczNxxrRH2_3fsRIe-91z0MKmGCP6PN=w640-h384" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-style: italic;">Nope. Not even once. </i><i style="font-style: italic;">Solitude, UT, 10 November '022. I think the correct Norske phrase is </i>uff da. <i>Pic courtesy of <strike>some poor sap</strike> Jake Nixon (@thejakenixon on the tweeter, while it lasts) via Unofficial</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now, where was I? Right, November of 2007. Paul Jr of Bonney Lake Bicycles of Sumner, WA (speaking of <i>uff da; that shop name...</i>) was advertising for help in August on his reader board, and I was advertising for getting the heck out of Performance Bikes. It was a match made in at least the upper level of Purgatory until, in late October, he came to his senses and realised carrying an extra full-timer over the winter would be expensive and fired me. He claimed I was a "bad salesman", which, well, maybe yer wrong cos I sold a damn Special Ed Endurbro in an October rainstorm, and specced and sold a drop-bar fat bike before The Radavist really hit its stride, but also, d'uh, I'm a mechanic, a cynic, and a sometimes-angry Sámi who has no idear why the heck these people keep coming in and asking questions the answers of which are super easy to find out by paying attention and not being a moronic suburban brain dead mediocre white as-----</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I got lost again. Apologies. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At any rate, Jr laid me off, and that was that. Blissful unemployment. Brad answered my queries quickly, that he could totally use me part time starting opening day if I was just a wee bit flexible with my schedule, and being a single, unemployed, re-upping ski bum, I obviously was. I was most excited about the down time, something I have not gotten since. I imagined writing epic poetry (I'd prolly {ha<a href="https://theradavist.com/prolly-is-not-probablys-top-10-beautiful-bicycles-of-2013/" target="_blank">HA</a>} even call it poesy cos that's what other people did who were like, hip and shit) in cafés with pretty baristas who'd flirt just enough to wake me up. I'd go for long rides out at Sawyer on the XLT or the Monocog, and wander up to Corral Pass to stare into the abyss. The road was still open then. I settled for the Starbucks in Sumner, road rides on the TCR cos I sold all of my dirt-worthy bikes, and the hope that I could one day again afford the alpine boot I returned, a Salomon Impact 10, the stiffest, most legit alpine boot I'd yet tried on in my blissful ignorance, to cover costs since I had (checks non-existant-at-the-time internet banking) $0 in savings at that exact moment. With unemployment, returned boots, and three bikes sold, I was sittin' pretty. Enough to not get a paycheck for 6 weeks and yet never feel the pinch I so often have felt.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhd6keIqe6KZkTTeStOWV-5fCTSc7faDtlbjkwJBK3RFEUZwMQFegfBmKnUiiCAy8iOmq_dKFd2eHPnPC3XJhMK10BTv5y7jPl869cRZakMUzKbclHySERWi2rTdApoaCi6SgG_F6WB7F-OVD2kvEubq_s_L2y49Snxv4AlPGINYiQmZ45IEJvxWQS_" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhd6keIqe6KZkTTeStOWV-5fCTSc7faDtlbjkwJBK3RFEUZwMQFegfBmKnUiiCAy8iOmq_dKFd2eHPnPC3XJhMK10BTv5y7jPl869cRZakMUzKbclHySERWi2rTdApoaCi6SgG_F6WB7F-OVD2kvEubq_s_L2y49Snxv4AlPGINYiQmZ45IEJvxWQS_=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sexy or just weird Frenchist æsthetic? You decide. Also, the buckle retension springs broke and would poke my hands. Blood, man. It's a trip.</i></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Phew. Then, it was quiet. The last few days of October disappeared. I assume I got up and did things, but I don't recall. I do recall talking to Doc Clark about a skin condition (that I still have, so he was wrong) which he thought was MRSA. I hate antibiotics. So much farting and uncomfortable pooping. Couldn't even enjoy Mama Stortini's on Chris' birthday. I think one of the days in early November I went up to Greenwater and hung out with Liza, which is something we did then. We haven't spoken in over a decade, and now that I'm way out into my 40s, I'm genuinely sad about that, and I know I'm at fault. Anyway, she had just got a new-to-her black Impreza 5 speed. It was a fun little car to drive, more responsive than my grocery-getter Legacy. Or was that '008? Again, memory. Sheesh. Somewhere about Chris' birthday, it started snowing in the hills, and by Veteran's Day, Naches Peak was skiable. I ticked off little lines that in Summer (the Other Ski Season) aren't lines cos the snow is so deep and everything is just ramps. One line I had to rappel in on an <i>Abies lasiocarpa</i> bough. It was glorious. Liza called my new-to-me flip phone and told me to do it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I got four days on snow in November, a number I now recognise as unimaginative, but which may have been due to constraints I am not now remembering. The last of which was a day of really, really, really nice myth-snow out in the Triangle Bowl with Brian Patrick. I'd got to Chinook Pass later than I should have, which was early by the standards of my current situation. People were parked every which way, Suburbans and whatever stacked on top of Legacies and beater Broncos from Lakewood. I was pissed. Full-on rage. I mean, who the heck were these people? Chinook is MY personal ski area! I threw skin to ski, boot to floppy G3 binding, kit to snow, and ran. By the time I reached the saddle between Naches and Triangle Peaks, I almost threw up. I'd made the two-ish miles in 15 or so minutes. I know what sorta mile that makes. Sue me. I was fitter then. After retching, I laughed a little, watched the trees a minute, and started looking for tracks to follow. On the move, I ate my apple. I love apples. I summited the Triangle easily, and stood there taking in the view. Brian came up from below, and we exchanged <strike>shit-talking</strike> pleasantries about the conditions, the absurd crowd down at the pass, where we'd been all summer, y'know, life. We made two runs in what is still the best November snow I've skied. I think he stayed, beast that he is. I headed back for the truck, and dinner at my parents. It felt, for that moment, like I'd arrived. (Today, I'm always surprised how quickly that sort of feeling can dissipate.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTZ5ZkulMzUZXxNItw3DSUE35VOQNXwZN-b9ZR6QJwa0TGsZt0YJxjeC1-_lSUHgQQKNjo7BPuu_xnxo9hGpGM0fa0uE4XJcy1GWBMJ5py-nkfwp8hv0juCnuT_-hu5y4ezwwupe3zVF1BnB0JQStW2deNRLRSFTNhnIplFvFg5rOBmYCzO2O6yzu/s4032/hiding%20from%20the%20eye%20of%20sauron.jpg" style="font-style: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTZ5ZkulMzUZXxNItw3DSUE35VOQNXwZN-b9ZR6QJwa0TGsZt0YJxjeC1-_lSUHgQQKNjo7BPuu_xnxo9hGpGM0fa0uE4XJcy1GWBMJ5py-nkfwp8hv0juCnuT_-hu5y4ezwwupe3zVF1BnB0JQStW2deNRLRSFTNhnIplFvFg5rOBmYCzO2O6yzu/w480-h640/hiding%20from%20the%20eye%20of%20sauron.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">November turns are better far than November sitting-on-the-couch. Hiding from the Eye of Sauron, Thanksgiving, '022, Bogus Basin. Mambo Left and Right.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></i><div style="text-align: left;">For all the good skiing that November held, and this November recently passed, most early season turns are like last Sunday at the local Slop House. I damn near cry for the feeling of being back on snow, and the turns are meh. My feet hurt, my lungs hurt, and I wish there was a cello following me playing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeDLnMprG90" target="_blank">that one Bach suite</a>. They are irreplaceable, full stop. And at the same time, forgettable, full stop. So many Amerikanski folks associate skiing with the calendar pages between Thanksgiving and President's Day. I just don't get it. For me, fall skiing is borderline religious, but rarely is it good. That month, November of '007, is the only one that stands out. There are blips and blorps, yes, like Veteran's day of '005, skiing chalk (?!?!?!?!) on the Front Side on the ol' 1080 Gun, or Sweet Revenge and Bear Hollow with 3800 of my closest Utah buds in Northern Utah's worst winter on record, but otherwise, it's the snow and the wind and the first taste that I actually crave. Chinook Pass (always, forever) in the first snow. Chris' Civic, enough snow that it's white, and cold, and the divide between now and never, between here and gone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">-</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">One memory, just cold, an inch or two on 542 above the E Lodge. All Saints' Day, 2000. Eli's Godmother's birthday, if I am not mistaken. John and Lizz just got married, and I am just lost. The inertia of 14 years of school is waning, my compass utterly unmagnetic. I can't really tell where to go from here. A couple months later, I just give up. 22 years later, I'm still a junior in college, like my nieces, though they'll stroll on past me this coming January. There are a lot of people at Heather Meadows, some successful, most just wandering around like the four of us. I think Lizz' friend Andrea is with us. Does she still have Grandma Linnea's swivel rocker? Maybe. I think Kelly, friend of a friend, still has the dresser. Or they had them, and who knows? I am ashamed, from time to time, of how many cars I let fall off the tracks back then. I held shit together for a while, barely, and then just, well, didn't.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Even so, this afternoon, 1 November 2000, all is well. Everything is in front of me. Table, Pan Dome, Herman, all above me. God, too, if that's how this works. Cold, low-angle sun, damp, Whatcom County, almost Canada; Border Peaks and Sefrit, Goat and Tomyhoi, Larrabee and Yellow Aster to the North, and to the East. The cardinal directions that as a child I was certain held meaning beyond simply pointing the way.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">-</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Title from Zoë Muth's </i>Taken All You Wanted. "<i>Every day, about this time, this time of year, we lose a little bit o' light." My parents' house is behind a 1000' peak, and this time of year, the sun goes down about 3 in the day. I can't shake the feeling.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">* I hear tell of much higher snowfalls, but without verification. The point isn't that these three totals are absurd, or verified, just that I like the Cascades like some folks like cheese or The Beatles or Shania Twain.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLLu3LzDf-1GpV5U4ge0DCYuwU0cZeoT_jDmV2mJQEyTkiIZEia71Be1rr0a_2oGWb0BM0jYZrwV-LLeFEwozciqiMyOU5LzMRn6jXxZY_tNVw8UmFclBhS93KBiX7iiNhZbmIEHPinY3qvSlK3VV7ZQPttR1QRHGf5om0mJ-HLzjU4CKCR-mSGpfl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLLu3LzDf-1GpV5U4ge0DCYuwU0cZeoT_jDmV2mJQEyTkiIZEia71Be1rr0a_2oGWb0BM0jYZrwV-LLeFEwozciqiMyOU5LzMRn6jXxZY_tNVw8UmFclBhS93KBiX7iiNhZbmIEHPinY3qvSlK3VV7ZQPttR1QRHGf5om0mJ-HLzjU4CKCR-mSGpfl=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comHarlan, KY, USA36.8431441 -83.3218488.532910263821158 -118.478098 65.153377936178856 -48.165598tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-88878762783132627052022-11-06T20:55:00.004-07:002023-01-01T15:48:06.568-07:00Stranger than known<p>By Eino Holm</p><p>As the joke goes, I am not superstitious, but I am at least a little stitious.</p><p>I can't remember the exact date. January of '005, good timing if you think about it. I was managing a bike shop in Tacoma, living in Puyallup, stable and away from the hill for the first time in five years. I say managing not because that was my job, but cos the actual store manager was flighty. The sort who'd wait until Tuesday to post the schedule for the week, which started on Sunday, two days prior. I woke up on my day off, and just couldn't raise the mustard for the long drive to Crystal, even though it was cold in the valley and had recently snowed down to the water. I rode the Monocog out at Sawyer instead. The dirt was fast, and the riding good. Traction for days. Just warm enough that my lungs worked well. This sounds like I'm starting a narrative for some Dirt Rag Mag stoke piece, I can already tell.</p><p>It isn't for Dirt Rag, though. Maurice and friends gave up the ghost a long time ago. </p><p>It started raining the next day, that legendary PNW kind that just slides into Winter's DMs and leaves without so much as a by your leave. Snowfall had been sparse, and what stayed behind when the Pineapple shifted east was a meager and thinning ghost of an El Niño snowpack. Crystal stayed open into February, somehow. I ruined a Vølkl P40 on skiers' right of Green Valley, only got one memorable pow day, and generally bemoaned the state of things. I skipped First Closing Day, thinking it'd be pea soup milkbird and not worth much, but somehow the storm track slid north and it was a beautiful spring day. There was even a shot in the paper of Karel Sir in the Valley looking, um, out of time, as he always did. Probly some purple onesie with futuristic silver shoulder extensions or whatever. It was annoying just how good of a skier he was. Anyway, the photo was in the Seattle Times. Or the P-I. Or like, the Evening News. The point is, I still regret that I skipped that day.</p><p>At some point that spring, the tap turned back on and the Cascades got at least a solid taste. Baker finished the year with 464", most of which fell from late March on. A good year of snowfall here in the desert is 200". Winter of '99, the Big Year, Baker cleared 300" of snowpack. It takes lots of snow<i>fall</i> to make any snow<i>pack</i>. When you get used to snowpacks deeper than many joints' entire winter snowfall, 464" just isn't that much. Somewhere in there, as well, I sort of realised that I really shouldn't miss chances to ski. They might just never return. I don't remember the turning on of a lightbulb, I was simply resolved. It felt a bit like when I was bumping chairs at the bottom of 6 and asked Sharon the math teacher patroller which boot she put on first and with a slight hesitation, she said "Right. You?" and with the same slight hesitation, I realised that even though I'd never thought about it until that exact moment, it was always the left. Always. It has been twenty-two years since then, and still, I always pull that left boot on first. If for some reason I start in on the right foot, I get a little confused and have to stop, and then start again with the left.</p><p>Okay, maybe moderately stitious.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWPlIzYhNVpKzcjTMLvetyJvRccs_-GWpldDQeGlfO7qtW49MkPctHPYtqlcpabin4GWrQNGbi-7i0ewHq--L2PhjRSZYPB0LwYiW0AdlAe0SN0jc_GLwpoYfI172PlECDqwmoHRtCOPcXaR3AbfohH0-2m8S0p-Ds9_j2IJtdz2sr0KUwxL650l0/s4032/covid%202020%20closing%20turns.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWPlIzYhNVpKzcjTMLvetyJvRccs_-GWpldDQeGlfO7qtW49MkPctHPYtqlcpabin4GWrQNGbi-7i0ewHq--L2PhjRSZYPB0LwYiW0AdlAe0SN0jc_GLwpoYfI172PlECDqwmoHRtCOPcXaR3AbfohH0-2m8S0p-Ds9_j2IJtdz2sr0KUwxL650l0/w480-h640/covid%202020%20closing%20turns.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>15 March 2020. I went, and got my two pre-surgery pow laps of the winter.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>Last winter wasn't a huge one. We had a great start, with that famous longwave La Niña pattern setting up in our favour. As near as makes no difference, it was up there with Decembers like '016 and '98. Just kept coming. Somewhere around mid-January the meteorological powers that be turned the tap damn near off. A little late for a typical January drought, but whatever. It didn't really snow until after we closed in early April. In that time, I had some phenomenal days chasing chalk in the trees off Three and tryna lay them railroad tracks as deeply as my ability and (currently) 250 pounds would allow. Or at least as cleanly and consistently as I am able. I'll admit there were days where the chalk was more like the board than the writing implement.</p><p>All the way through, I heard grumbling. That same grumbling we heard in UT back in '015, or at Mt A in '012, or at Baker in '001. "It's not snowing enough." "It's too sunny." "It's not sunny enough." "Maybe the snow will be powdery on the 'Backside'." (My personal favourite. As though somehow there were an entirely different weather regimen <i>just</i> over the ridgeline.)</p><p>While chatting with the In-Laws' friendly, largely intelligent neighbours on a Sunday evening last spring, both spouses agreed with fair zealotry that the past winter had been terrible. <i>T-e-r-r-i-b-l-e</i>. I was apoplectic. Thankfully, this apoplexia often fully shuts off the part of my brain which is responsible for speech. How is it possible, when all I did was have good fun skiing all winter, for them to completely miss out? Clearly, there's some cognitive dissonance here. Skiing is fun, whatever the medium. So-called "bad" days stand out for me, simply because they are so damn rare. I do not cherry-pick days, and only rarely skip a trip to the hill. Very, very rarely. I don't feel like I have some special insight into enjoying bad conditions. I simply like skiing. I constantly find new reasons for doing so. I truly don't understand what these folks are looking for in life. The husband of this duo claims certainty that he'll ski until either he dies or physically cannot, and yet, somehow, this winter was <i>T-e-r-r-i-b-l-e?</i> I am so confused. He loves skiing so much that at 50 he can claim he'll ski another 40 years, and yet he thinks a slightly drier-than-desired winter is not so much below average as <i>T-e-r-r-i-b-l-e?</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIc4SbKqY723I7iQz7XHgheFJahR0FnxHs1pUMNBFsh_ioUN4f8JR5uXS3jNpBPaC2lCi5XLZ0_mvynIvpZM2lmEelmW74Wow54yxwJ1JHPkm5NGLNzzaGIbAY0r6eGIkL_0Vln_hP9tE5iZR_2s2fJjiFd_CpUgmZDJPo-Aolby0vo-hBUuXVHAh4/s4032/stack%20rock%20silly.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIc4SbKqY723I7iQz7XHgheFJahR0FnxHs1pUMNBFsh_ioUN4f8JR5uXS3jNpBPaC2lCi5XLZ0_mvynIvpZM2lmEelmW74Wow54yxwJ1JHPkm5NGLNzzaGIbAY0r6eGIkL_0Vln_hP9tE5iZR_2s2fJjiFd_CpUgmZDJPo-Aolby0vo-hBUuXVHAh4/w480-h640/stack%20rock%20silly.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This cat knows.</i></div></i><p><br /></p><p>Catherine (she's Crimski in my phone) once told me about her FOMO, which at the time wasn't the hip jargon it is now. Fear of missing out. Sounds about right, pop-psychology aside. First real pow line I ever slayed, to use yet more annoying popular parlance, was due to just such an urge. Remy had just ducked under the rope at the top of the Cache Run, bout 2.30 in the afternoon, That Winter. I was 17, skiing pretty decently for an untrained high schooler. I'd skipped school cos I knew that my repeated Calculus 2 class just didn't need my attention that day, and the snow did. I got to the hill a little after opening cos I had to pretend for Ma that I'd headed to class, which was a half hour away at Harvard on the Hill, and my first class was at 9. I couldn't leave early enough to get to the hill on time cos I had to make a show of heading the other way at the correct time.</p><p>Remy looked a little peeved at the time, staring down some random High School Joey with a crappy goatee--it was '99, after all--and skinny skis. I asked if it was worth it, and he just glared. I took that as tacit affirmation. I never had the presence of mind to thank him, even though I tuned his skis a handful of times between '007 and '011. It was worth it, and more. Twenty turns, good rhythm, 6 or 8 of that mythical day-old consolidated. One run, 24 years on, and I hope to never forget it. I could have just kept skiing on past, knowing how hard the bootpack out would be, but I couldn't shake my own nascent FOMO. Presented with the same options ever since, if safe enough, I have nearly always chosen to say "F(&* it. You don't know if you don't go." Ham cramps on Fryingpan be damned. Ham cramps in a fancy Issaquah sushi joint be damned. (That one was kind fun, to be honest. Catherine just said "TURN AROUND LEMME PUNCH YOU" and then smashed my hamstrings with her fists quite aggressively. It worked.)</p><p>-</p><p>I remember the wooziness and the grass in my facemask. I could barely stand up trying to open the outside door to the locker room. My arm just felt dead. </p><p>It was our weekly 8th grade varsity football challenge for who'd start the following game at a given position, and that week it was just head-to-head shoving. Whoever was still forward of scrimmage by the whistle won the start. I was the starting centre, and Aram was second-string. I drove Aram back about eight or ten yards. I didn't have time to even congratulate myself. Aram tripped, and I landed nose-down in the grass, my right fist on his chest protector. Jay Fox had pushed Nick Tanner about eight yards, and when one of them tripped, they were right next to us. They landed with Nick's back protector directly on my elbow. The ER doc told me it was a really nice looking break. Clean across both radius and ulna, with no dislocation or compound fracturing. Season over. I still have the callus on my right middle finger from learning how to hold a pen differently than before.</p><p>Long about early November, it started snowing <i>allegro con brio</i>, and Crystal opened around Chris' birthday on the 8th. I watched from town as Grass Mountain turned snow-pink in the sunset, arm still in a cast. It didn't matter that I'd successfully challenged Amber for first chair percussion in Concert Band or that in general I skied strongly enough to not worry about my well-protected bones, I couldn't go to the hill. I held this against football such that I never played again. The only playing I did at games in High School was on the snare drum. (And the tambourine that one game. I will never forgive that.)</p><p>-</p><p>Warren Miller says, "Remember: If you don't do it this year, you'll be one year older when you do." Sometimes what I hear him say is, "Remember: If you don't do it this year, these precise conditions will never occur again and this exact experience will be lost, or worse, experienced by some bougie turd who doesn't understand the value of the experience, and you'll hate not only them, who you already do hate, but even a little bit yourself for not having the gumption to wake up and start moving in the right direction."</p><p> Maybe I am super stitious.</p><p><i>Title from The Byrds psychadelic folk-rock classic "Eight Miles High". I'm no Tambourine Man.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJK-6KL9MAirRsRwoXr8w62kDAyaaGXX6T0F3aX1WiZpdK7tZAaW_H6BguvG-pEtQGr0SYvMx4rPpbWmJpesSU-eBftfWKcKFgTaKYNzOQPo5MtgxbggzQE_I2Ygu-dZttmCp24b2GlPqhr-ejIN4TSwEGZ91HYBqtRCAX-NJ-UtTNQkL2zHQEMnh/s500/mrtamboraineman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="500" height="636" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJK-6KL9MAirRsRwoXr8w62kDAyaaGXX6T0F3aX1WiZpdK7tZAaW_H6BguvG-pEtQGr0SYvMx4rPpbWmJpesSU-eBftfWKcKFgTaKYNzOQPo5MtgxbggzQE_I2Ygu-dZttmCp24b2GlPqhr-ejIN4TSwEGZ91HYBqtRCAX-NJ-UtTNQkL2zHQEMnh/w640-h636/mrtamboraineman.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /><i><br /></i></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comBoise, ID, USA43.6150186 -116.202313715.304784763821154 -151.3585637 71.925252436178852 -81.0460637tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-10427892632116843842022-10-28T21:06:00.005-06:002023-01-22T21:23:14.808-07:001140, or Why You Can't Trust Numbers, So Here's a List of Numbers<p>By Eino Holm</p><p>The Pacific Northwest is a consistently misunderstood place. It is home to cities with some of the lowest precipitation totals in the country: Yakima receives 8 inches in a year, Bend gets 11, Boise 12. It has vast arid regions, places bigger than some eastern states, where precip comes exactly as it does in the more famous deserts to the south. Infrequent and mild winter snow, and periodic summer thunderstorms. Monsoonal pushes don't happen this far north very often, and in summer, neither do Pacific systems. Seattle, that northwestiest of Northwest places, is dry basically from the middle June to early October. If you've ever lived there, or spent time there, you know it may not look like the dry of the desert, but little to no measurable precip falls in that time. This year, it's the middle of October and I don't think it's rained more than a drip or two up there since June.</p><p><i>Oregon, Washington, and North Idaho.</i> - Brandt and Ryan (The Owner), the only exactly repeated answer.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHacXTJ7FBQ2_9x396ckxO3NG-dZEy0brkFa-CwUR5vnkhG27B5yhTwS2aEXtDxjURSXwBG5SV2vAJjMADBeF2Jn1O7BI_3fnkgXcGQpYr8WYFLnW--MyUYxWKqw5RFMdAVu9_sXbxBRIhCdVZLqY-WTUa8jUqAeU0LPgCwLeGMlhmhD9j3cL3RnU/s1920/mount%20adams.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHacXTJ7FBQ2_9x396ckxO3NG-dZEy0brkFa-CwUR5vnkhG27B5yhTwS2aEXtDxjURSXwBG5SV2vAJjMADBeF2Jn1O7BI_3fnkgXcGQpYr8WYFLnW--MyUYxWKqw5RFMdAVu9_sXbxBRIhCdVZLqY-WTUa8jUqAeU0LPgCwLeGMlhmhD9j3cL3RnU/w640-h426/mount%20adams.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Is it still the Northwest if you can actually see the volcano?</i></div></i><p>The general consensus, though, is one of consistently gray, mopey skies, and torrents of water. If a movie or tv show is set in Seattle, say, or Portland, the rain is always heavy, aggressive, and very visible. That is not the case. Nor are the rains aggressive. They often are unrelenting and destructive in the Wettest Season, 15 Oct to 15 Feb; it will be raining, maybe 5 inches in a cycle, and without the perspective or a puddle or the feel of the water on one's face, it is perfectly possible to think it had already stopped raining.</p><p><i>Oregon and Washington. - </i>Dr J, "Reverend Doctor Super Genius"</p><p>Even the boundaries of the PNW are passive-aggressively controversial. In informal personal polling of random folks (okay, friends, family, and coworkers) and in somewhat partially official research (wikipedia and the internet), the most consistent idea is "Washington, Oregon, and Idaho, except, y'know, not all of it." I am fiercely (well, not fierce, I'm Norwegian fer heck's sake) of the PNW, and I have lived in its heart and on its periphery. From the lower Salish Sea Basin and the upper drainages of two small but high-flow Salish rivers to the desert of southern Idaho, the Mediterranean oak savannah of southern Oregon, and Ogden, Utah, not really the northwest at all but good for perspective, and I think all of the ideas are defensible.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>From Donny BoBo* to that one place in Alaska. - Dino Voulaj</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">The most codified of the boundaries seem to be the Pacific, and the 42nd parallel. Even those aren't wholly rigid. The 42nd is utterly arbitrary and unnecessarily unyielding. The ocean is, well, have you been to Brookings during a vintage January Chetco Effect? 80 degrees, fire weather, a bit like Calabasas. Not northwesty at all.</p><p><i>Washington, Oregon except the Great Basin, Idaho north of the Snake, west of US 93.</i> - Brother John</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCmhLPWjWH40nRp5i9KC5nG9WmgJOCXHU_wsVPyuuBjkibkIM9_ALdkrTgdomdn4q8RLXcNAQ0QzjAZ2ICUoeqnzFdtGPup56NnqxyyouHimRRsyckUQonvZBJG2Zdh1hNhR65xLH-FuTZeYNjotCH26fMQGHOiSHbPEBOBjbxUXT9RoeycAeRR0n/s4032/sammins.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCmhLPWjWH40nRp5i9KC5nG9WmgJOCXHU_wsVPyuuBjkibkIM9_ALdkrTgdomdn4q8RLXcNAQ0QzjAZ2ICUoeqnzFdtGPup56NnqxyyouHimRRsyckUQonvZBJG2Zdh1hNhR65xLH-FuTZeYNjotCH26fMQGHOiSHbPEBOBjbxUXT9RoeycAeRR0n/w480-h640/sammins.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Definitely PNW</i></div></i><p>It seems everyone is trying to put their interpretation of the phrase into a solid quasi-national entity. We are so used to and governed by boundaries that any notion of fluidity makes people uncomfortable. I have heard from folks who grew up back east that the PNW is just the strip of land from the Cascade Crest to the coast, either because they heard the PNW is wet and that's where the wet is, or because it's a solid, knowable boundary. As with all things, knowable is one thing, and solid is another entirely. Medford is west of the Oregon Cascade Crest, but averages just 18" of water a year. Kellogg, Idaho, is 300 or so miles east along a sometimes boring I-90 from the crest, and at above 30", averages only a Yakima's year shy of Seattle.<br /></p><p><i>West of the Rockies, from Tahoe to the Bering Strait. - </i>Crimski</p><p>In <i><a href="https://www.timothyeganbooks.com/the-good-rain" target="_blank">The Good Rain</a>,</i> Tim Egan describes the Northwest as the "reach of the Columbia." This, finally, sounds somewhat sensible. The Columbia, after all, is a World River. Not as well known as the Ganges or the Mekong, nor as big, but it drains significant portions of one Canadian province and four American states, and minor portions of three other states. The bar at its mouth is dangerous and deadly and utterly humbling and beautiful. The highest point along its crest is, understandably, Columbia Crest, the highest point on Tahoma. The river drains the western slopes of the Canadian Rockies, vast and semi-obscure plains, giant spires of granite and anger from Valemount, BC (which is, like, WAAAAAY up there) to Nevada, northwesternmost Utah, and the Tetons. So, again, another solid boundary that is not so solid. In fact, one of the furthest points in the entire basin from the Pacific is, naturally, the headwaters of Pacific Creek in the Teton Wilderness, well east of the Teton range itself, at a unique spot where one creek separates into two creeks that drain into different oceans. This is Wyoming, obviously, which has for its eastern geography plains that are part of the Great Plains. The Plains owe their arid existence to the Rockies, which are obvs east of the west which is OW MY HEAD.</p><p><i>West of where all the scrubby landscape begins.</i> - Taylor</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qarTBxT-CUol9Nm7hLOpNrvn8py1akEVPIELUfka7fEj2vX5WsoJG48xFiHDZV7V1d9DpW_7w-QShqZTK_F2sEvQuOMgCyYRjRnkMiuk0sJZygg9BvXxV1ZkoOsVxvAq61UCHKaR8Y-hwViSDLRkyjxe1pOcPaa8bANRuOxR9be6VDQzX2HSlKVl/s1544/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-26%20at%2011.11.15%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1016" data-original-width="1544" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qarTBxT-CUol9Nm7hLOpNrvn8py1akEVPIELUfka7fEj2vX5WsoJG48xFiHDZV7V1d9DpW_7w-QShqZTK_F2sEvQuOMgCyYRjRnkMiuk0sJZygg9BvXxV1ZkoOsVxvAq61UCHKaR8Y-hwViSDLRkyjxe1pOcPaa8bANRuOxR9be6VDQzX2HSlKVl/w640-h422/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-26%20at%2011.11.15%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Are we looking out of the PNW into the Inland NW? (Screenshot of Mission Ridge's well-placed summit cam.)</i></div></i><p></p><p>This is my central problem with the idea of boundaries. Vague and hard to defend. Unnecessary, as we all came from the same ancestor, which to me suggests commonality of purpose and need, our perpetual and deadly desire to prove that wrong aside.</p><p><i>Cascadia. </i> - Dustin</p><p>The point? Other than truly enjoying <strike>good</strike> <strike>debate</strike> silly argument, it's skiing. The American portion of the PNW has around 45 ski areas. Some big, some little, some famous, some, well, most folks don't know Rotarun from Rotorua. (I see you raising your hand in the back, New York. You win. 52 ski areas, according to the NSAA.) As we shift borders around for one reason or another, the number rises and falls. Someone in passing mentioned Sun Valley isn't PNW, but Bogus is. Trouble with that is that I can see the same peaks from the ridgelines of each mountain. But then again, saying Bogus is a Rocky Mountain ski area kinda rattles my teeth a little, cos BoyCee just feels absolutely nothing like Albuquerque, and yet they'd be categorised together if we took everything literally. Peakbagger <a href="https://www.peakbagger.com/range.aspx?rid=1323" target="_blank">says</a> Brundage is in the Rockies, and Tamarack is in the Columbia Plateau, but you can see each ski area from the other on a clear day. So, since categories are kinda silly, I'll just stick with the simplest answer: Washington, Idaho, and Oregon, and, like, one small part of California cos I want to and also volcanoes. Major continental ranges and rivers are part of multiple regions. Rather than solely defining the region, I'd say they simply play a part. Definitely a big part, but they never tell the whole story.<br /></p><p><i>As much as I'd like Southern Idaho to also be a part, I don't think it is. </i>- Jake</p><div>Which finally brings me to a conclusion of sorts. I was riding Chair 2 at Bogus the other day, Summer Only Riding Park Closing Day, with a remote-worker guy from some to-me-unknown place. He was asking all sorta questions, and being me, I could not help but answer them honestly. This is to say I hemmed and hawed and told him to define his terms more acutely. "Does Bogus get many powder days?" begs for clarification; how much is a pow day? "Eight inches or more," he said, surprisingly confidently. I mean, I've skied "powder" that was three inches overnight, and it outskied some ten inch days, but whatever, yeah, let's just pick a random number. At Bogus, not many. </div><p><i>All of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, and Montana and Wyoming might be. </i>- GMRII</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCtHF1mF67r5_ngsKu64eR2IDYk4lTSdSm8SbisnGt3tG4PT2aUGpKSCVfym89C2i5jCPpUy7kRqLUsGwIHr86aeE9cfXtXQ6qP5Dv4oHSgMb2Ha7FiBnIKulKhm-oWhIWx6l6WlKbEuqwAQLVV5TyYWVk6gxnWDM_SH0icI6_OmKabQ3JqjX4XBq/s4032/cheesy%20idaho.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCtHF1mF67r5_ngsKu64eR2IDYk4lTSdSm8SbisnGt3tG4PT2aUGpKSCVfym89C2i5jCPpUy7kRqLUsGwIHr86aeE9cfXtXQ6qP5Dv4oHSgMb2Ha7FiBnIKulKhm-oWhIWx6l6WlKbEuqwAQLVV5TyYWVk6gxnWDM_SH0icI6_OmKabQ3JqjX4XBq/w480-h640/cheesy%20idaho.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Not just potatoes.</i></div></i><p>At any rate, he also asked if I could compare Bogus to Tamarack. (Bigger, and smaller at the same time. Like so many things. Srsly, can you actually not figure these things out from just skiing? That's how I know these things, and I don't have the privilege of moving around at will while holding down a job.) I took him at his word and said, simply, that they are different. They require different skill sets, and if you've the money for new or the patience to buy used, different gear. He tried to drill down on the exact size again, and when I said Bogus has over 1000 more skiable acres than Tamarack, he seemed surprised. (He also had never heard of Baker, so maybe I'd set my bar too high.) Bogus is bigger than Sun Valley, too, also, even with the new expansion. I find this sorta underdog-punching-up scenario cool, and I relish the opportunity to share such things with folks who don't already know such things. I don't know why, but it gives me some significant satisfaction to see a little brain-gear smoke out the ears when I say "Mt A has a higher base elevation than Bachelor." </p><div><i> Didn't you ask that last week? </i>- Chris</div><p>When I got home, I looked for a published list of PNW ski areas by size, and did not find one. Some other blog or mag from way back or other random collection of 1s and 0s might have something, but herewith is what I could find from surprisingly unverifiable Wikipedia articles and ski area website infos, with any ties alphabetised to pretend I'm not biased, and maybe a comment or two:</p><div style="text-align: left;">- Bachelor, 4600 skiable acres, when it's sunny.<br />- Schweitzer, 2900<br />- Bogus, 2600, on weekends and if you aren't afraid of a little willow-whipping in your pow-slash routine. Seriously, just try it. Almost all of it goes, and the parts I can think of that don't are right under Chair 6, so Patrol can find you and people can yell really helpful things from the chair like "That's a creek you're stuck in!" or "Hey! You're almost there!"<br />- Crystal, 2600<br />- Sun Valley, 2400, but that's after a very recent expansion and includes Dollar, which is a small bit of marketing shammery.<br />- 49 North, 2325<br />- Hood Meadows, 2150, and like Bachelor, that is only when it's sunny. These Cascade volcanoes have a way of being stormy for days or weeks or months (1999) at a time.<br />- Mission Ridge, 2000<br />- Snoqualmie Pass, 1994, the combined total of 4 actual ski areas, one of which--Hyak--is rarely open, and which can only be fully connected by car or by paragliding off Denny. Also, "Summit-at-Snoqualmie" is just artificially fancy. East to west, it's Hyak, Ski Acres, Snoqualmie Pass, and Alpental. Regular-sized marketing spammery.<br />- Brundage, 1920<br />- Mt Spokane, 1704<br />- Timberline, 1685, but that's combined with the former Summit Pass Ski Area, which Timberline recently purchased but which is not yet connected without creative skiing, and which also is maybe never fully skiable because (according to a dude I talked to on Palmer who totally had an Employee Jacket and spoke with what felt like much authority) the Forest Circus doesn't allow them to run Jeff Flood while Palmer is also running. Also, like, when them Pacific cycles is slamming the side of Wy'east, Palmer is buried, and when the Palmer chair itself is melted out and runnable, the lower mountain is melted out to dirt, mostly. So, maybe a lot of marketing scammery. The views from Palmer and the Magic Mile are downright righteous, though. No marketing needed.<br />- Silver Mtn (Some still call it Jackass, cos, why not?), 1600<br />- White Pass, 1402<br />- Soldier, 1150<br />- Stevens, 1125<br />- Pebble Creek, 1100<br />- Tamarack, 1100. This tie is an interesting one. Both ski tall and narrow, with some real challenge in the woods when you know where to go. Beyond that, they have almost nothing in common save that they are both, indeed, ski areas in Idaho.<br />- Lookout Pass, 1023, expanded this year and with plans (and, I think, the Okay from whomever or whatever) for more.<br />- Anthony Lakes, 1000<br />- Baker, 1000. I'll pause here to let you decide whether or not you believe that one. I love Anthony Lakes without any qualification, but in my mind, I can fit the entire place within the confines of the front side of Pan Dome at Baker. Then again, my entire point here is that definitions and numbers don't tell the whole story.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5K3j0R-oHtjeAF3TzPHDZhRUYod7Sz_zxC1muDZ1dJlYOSE1aA_s3-JqvU3yp8wLgjV0hAtXROJcWG0ges4ZXf6eVVJeGfO0No-XG5Pfu2Jc8YjYbouvv2AYNfHtMpIai0-aMhzDlSiniM5oMGLrQjZhFglyFk83PGJl2cKalFp3ZNVe49lktv-l/s1620/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-26%20at%2011.29.06%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1210" data-original-width="1620" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk5K3j0R-oHtjeAF3TzPHDZhRUYod7Sz_zxC1muDZ1dJlYOSE1aA_s3-JqvU3yp8wLgjV0hAtXROJcWG0ges4ZXf6eVVJeGfO0No-XG5Pfu2Jc8YjYbouvv2AYNfHtMpIai0-aMhzDlSiniM5oMGLrQjZhFglyFk83PGJl2cKalFp3ZNVe49lktv-l/w640-h478/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-26%20at%2011.29.06%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Views, a Riblet triple, Abies lasiocarpa, good snow, lesser-known mountain range? I'm in. (Anthony Lakes, photo by Snowsnapper, public domain.)</i></div></i><i><br /></i><i>- </i>Mt Hood Ski Bowl, 960<br />- Lost Trail, 900. Hey. It's got at least 13 turns in Idaho. And besides, it's within the Reach of the Columbia.<br />- Hoodoo, 800<br />- Kelly Canyon, 640, sadly, no longer serviced by the legendary homemade Riblet lookalike they built from copied, possibly stolen, schematics. Kelly's is now open Sundays, and according to my source, who like, knows the new owner cos bikes or maybe Rexburg is a small town; there might now exist within the creek drainage alcohol, which if one is so inclined, could be supped for the purposes of mild intoxication, known in many circles as "a good buzz".<br />- Mt Shasta, 635 as of this winter with the new Gray Butte chair.<br />- Willamette Pass, 555, with the additional claim (for now) of having the only 6 pack in Oregon, and with the dubious and maybe not measurable "steepest groomer in the US", RTS, which supposedly overtops 50 degrees. Might need to head there some day. Or ask my niece at U of O for a report. She's from Colorado, and as everybody knows, when you list skiing, Colorado is Number One.<br />- Loup Loup, 550. I've ridden their chair, but never been to Loup Loup. Think about <i>that</i>.<br />- Pomerelle, 500, with some rad orographic snow showers if the flow is right.<br />- Bluewood, 400. I just have to point out here that I love literal names. Bluewood is in the forests of the Blue Mountains. Perfect. I also love scientific binomials that are just double names--tautonyms, apparently--like <i>Pica pica</i> and <i>Alces alces.<br /></i><i>- </i>Warner Canyon, 300. Or 200, but as I pointed out above, it's surprisingly challenging to verify these numbers with my limited researching skills.<br />- Cottonwood Butte, 260, the largest (claimed) area without a chairlift.<br />- Hurricane Ridge, 250, but according to the kids I worked with at Baker who grew up in Port Angeles, it's like, totally not about the inbounds, man, it's like, endless and stuff. One of those kids is, like, a big cheese at Baker now.<br />- Mt Ashland, 240, or 220, or, like, lots more cos the whole peak is skiable and accessible from either Windsor or Ariel and it only takes a little skate along FR20 or even just a quick walk back through the lot from the bottom of the Void. This, then, brings up the whole challenge of understanding Skiable Acreage in the first place. It feels like ski areas just guess and then try to defend either through repetition or a shoulder shrug. We spent three winters at Mt A, and while I don't think it is a huge or even mid-size place, it felt bigger to me than Anthony Lakes does. My perception is by no means perfect, I know. Maybe some joints just count cut runs and others count every last feather of snow within sight?<br />- Spout Springs, 200, on pause while an operator is sought. Fingers crossed.<br />- Ferguson Ridge, 170<br />- Bald Mountain, up near Pierce in 6C, not the one in 5B or the random pile of rock in NY, nor the totally awesome and totally not creepy at all piece by Mussorgsky, 140<br />- Magic Mountain, again, the one in 2T, not the one in VT, 120. There is an abandoned platter liftline across the road, which I don't think is included in the total, and rumours of replacing it with a used chair. Or they might replace the carpet. Who knows? At any rate, Magic is cool and funky and up a long, very pretty draw with a nice Lodgepole right next to the top shack. Not big, but that never matters. Also, this is not the smallest ski area in the PNW that has a chairlift.<br />- Sitzmark, 80<br />- Echo Valley, 70<br />- Cooper Spur, 50, home to the final Riblet installation ever. That's worth something right there. It's the smallest hill with a chairlift, too, for good measure.<br />- Little Ski Hill, 50<br />- Snowhaven, 40</div><div style="text-align: left;">- Rotarun, 15<br />- Badger Mountain, 10<br />- Blizzard Mountain, some acres. Can't find numbers. It's a platter and one groomer. Guessing between 5 and 20, but like most folks, I do not know by looking what an acre actually is.</div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhow5heMn57jgcv4ZJ5yWEB0e3SJ_46J-jUrmBWoxWf4djwJwlFab2vPyWlsATf1kQ5ngocdc03j6jofkSQJjuHalOxWdvXSxJfnyapNIyZom-lbG4vNOjOcTk9yh0b05feBo1xEnAeKt4S-BPST_bfvgIb7PaFihMsCSHrUgxsDya8HQYDr1FNcZoo/s2048/boise%20in%20winter.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhow5heMn57jgcv4ZJ5yWEB0e3SJ_46J-jUrmBWoxWf4djwJwlFab2vPyWlsATf1kQ5ngocdc03j6jofkSQJjuHalOxWdvXSxJfnyapNIyZom-lbG4vNOjOcTk9yh0b05feBo1xEnAeKt4S-BPST_bfvgIb7PaFihMsCSHrUgxsDya8HQYDr1FNcZoo/w640-h426/boise%20in%20winter.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Boise, City of Trees. Tree City USA award recipient for 44 years. That's a lot of trees, cos allegedly Boise! was the cry from Frenchist trappers back in the day, and like, "les bois" means trees, and so does PNW, so there. Bogus Basin is the highest, furthest, most elevationary point in the photo. (Credit: Boise Metro Chamber of Commerce, via flickr.)</i></div></i><p>* Boise. That's what Angel means when he says Donny BoBo. It's, like, funny.<br /><br /><br />pps:<br /><i>"With a base elevation of 6300', Mt Bachelor offers the highest base elevation in the Cascades. Paired with its location on the eastern side of the Cascade Crest, the result is consistently high quality snow not typically found in the Pacific Northwest. 462" of snow falls during an average year."</i><br /><br />- Found on the internet. A good example of confusion seemingly based in the need for things to be cooler than they are. Bachelor has the highest base in the Cascades, yes, and the highest summit, too, and plenty of great skiing and is huge, but while it is east of the Crest in the riverine sense, weather doesn't care. I have skied my share of borderline mank at Bachelor, and through at least two full-on rain events there. Also, not for nothin', both Anthony Lakes and Mt A have higher bases, they're just not in the Cascades. Mt A is even the first peak west of the official reach of the Cascades, which doesn't really mean anything either, but again, it makes you, like, think, y'know?</p><p><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 14px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJxK4mFFO0rPXSkWCRzmcYBulTfeAc6gmbzN_9cP1r1wIzzsYvrvKYsCKhKLpcjfYdd5z5ikQ6pswaL6qnfHRn7_nIyE_9rdpXj2frEQ8diDrV0FckJXXfLgoL78c0lE7zfzNx9Dy6aMPLo_0aj5dsFCL1kIVBhZPbSJI2BYOCQKWvgaCC45HRJOIn" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1252" data-original-width="1920" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJxK4mFFO0rPXSkWCRzmcYBulTfeAc6gmbzN_9cP1r1wIzzsYvrvKYsCKhKLpcjfYdd5z5ikQ6pswaL6qnfHRn7_nIyE_9rdpXj2frEQ8diDrV0FckJXXfLgoL78c0lE7zfzNx9Dy6aMPLo_0aj5dsFCL1kIVBhZPbSJI2BYOCQKWvgaCC45HRJOIn=w640-h418" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Bison bison</i></div></i><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comBlizzard Mountain, Idaho 83320, USA43.5007366 -113.681133215.192163411818349 -148.8373832 71.80930978818165 -78.5248832tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-91253067767814693012022-10-23T21:32:00.003-06:002023-01-01T15:48:49.940-07:00The death of culture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By Eino Holm</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2MRduXL7roj_QpweQhjwqBsK3eg69fLxkdAbej17pYtcKPJmXViiigkQxriKFyrFZM8YDICuF_3CRBPDjTaHBlaMcHBzzecXnibkAgY4q-PDww4Z8BDhdHXamLCAvR1tzmHst77_J--0BXxdq3jP81wcr5Kqzo8BRJVDhM2EUac1Bd4VpQQYBSr2/s1920/panorama%20snow.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="1920" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2MRduXL7roj_QpweQhjwqBsK3eg69fLxkdAbej17pYtcKPJmXViiigkQxriKFyrFZM8YDICuF_3CRBPDjTaHBlaMcHBzzecXnibkAgY4q-PDww4Z8BDhdHXamLCAvR1tzmHst77_J--0BXxdq3jP81wcr5Kqzo8BRJVDhM2EUac1Bd4VpQQYBSr2/w640-h168/panorama%20snow.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I used to think bindings were made in a shed like this by elves and their friends, the faeries</i>.</div><p>My gut has been a little piqued of late. I was not sure why, until I realised it must be a disturbance in the Force, because:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUHyZ4W8uh7pgqSwMM4c6N2r6hrk5KczWyhUNSt77QP-XXLnG9_e2kqF1Q82p32x98QkXrFAgnDNyXlqfpKqf7bYJ-PfDZPNvHa3esnO5QiT0NYftXH_MpIEHLSnTq5pzZXfOOk4hWO3klVUDRMRVZ9f24ipaN3iETAiG4R9dDcTMHIPn1H6BjzUWA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUHyZ4W8uh7pgqSwMM4c6N2r6hrk5KczWyhUNSt77QP-XXLnG9_e2kqF1Q82p32x98QkXrFAgnDNyXlqfpKqf7bYJ-PfDZPNvHa3esnO5QiT0NYftXH_MpIEHLSnTq5pzZXfOOk4hWO3klVUDRMRVZ9f24ipaN3iETAiG4R9dDcTMHIPn1H6BjzUWA=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>New doesn't mean better.</i></div><br /><p></p><p>While perusing the new stuff at <a href="https://greenwoodsskihaus.com/" target="_blank">one</a> of the local shops instead of riding the Tractor in this glorious fall weather like I would have been if my gut was less yucky, I learned that Salomon has discontinued entirely <a href="https://www.enoreandmimigoski.com/2021/10/have-i-lived-through-best-times.html" target="_blank">my favourite thing in the universe</a>, after reducing it with a less-than-acceptable heel a handful of years ago. After roughly 35 years of rotary-release security, Salomon introduced a new toe piece, which looks like some genius took their most complex, fidgety piece of engineering, the hybrid A/T Shift, and then removed all the utility. I am no industrial designer, but I understand retail margin, and when you have a reliable, bombproof, proven piece of kit like the existing Driver toe, why not simply rejigger the AFD for this silly GripWalk nonsense and watch the dollars continue to roll in?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhL9aqDs5awQ92EGXdjMk4_9hTC38upb-ILBSOY0O5fy2GkkHIU7vNW6-6zr47yofbGnirPrQm2WnmBHpHyJh3kL5R5-F9iVwHQTmig8eXX64o0-1lsehOtaIe5bMlikJHzDqTw7zOdjrK3m-LKlH-ZNHMxtSBoHVSlZtkFpgqCBFJFzgZXjnKwoqaF" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="723" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhL9aqDs5awQ92EGXdjMk4_9hTC38upb-ILBSOY0O5fy2GkkHIU7vNW6-6zr47yofbGnirPrQm2WnmBHpHyJh3kL5R5-F9iVwHQTmig8eXX64o0-1lsehOtaIe5bMlikJHzDqTw7zOdjrK3m-LKlH-ZNHMxtSBoHVSlZtkFpgqCBFJFzgZXjnKwoqaF=w226-h320" width="226" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Step 1: Do nothing. Step 2: ???</i></div><br /><p></p><p>Over the years, I have skied or worked on hundreds of skis and bindings. Maybe thousands. If I can't tell you what a binding feels like, then someone over in <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alps" target="_blank">die Bindungsländer</a></i> did their job well. If, say, I can remember watching a Völkl Kuro (dimensions: 1 milliones, 1 half milliones, 3 quarter milliones) fly out in front of me on Upper Bull in 32 new, with a just-mounted, set-to-spec Marker Griffon having toe-released not once, but TWICE, then I will write your company off entirely. If the heel just feels extra move-y, like, say, that STH2 heel, but I like the overall experience, then it's one strike and we're still friends. Same goes for AAAttack/AAAdrenalin toe, which, when the toe height was set to spec, would allow enough up-and-down movement, like scraping charcoal a grille. Still skiable, but I (and a local industry cat who shall remain nameless) simply raised the toe height until the movement ceased. No clue if it still tests out, but that doesn't matter. Less ramp angle, as a side benefit.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoxytbK3rnF4VdeLi5DgoAp6YOWnpfyTH2vUGe1bT56ju7oZ129gYjMv78jn2RYEi6ZHNBE6pPiaJKsOqQYZDRCHe6UTtoEZVPwPnVAcLNIDxpC58UJ0Z3dFnP-BChujgN5qjJvYkSP57RP8wRvS2wLfBCwc3KfaP0vS0RF174KmlxlFBinJaW176_" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="247" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoxytbK3rnF4VdeLi5DgoAp6YOWnpfyTH2vUGe1bT56ju7oZ129gYjMv78jn2RYEi6ZHNBE6pPiaJKsOqQYZDRCHe6UTtoEZVPwPnVAcLNIDxpC58UJ0Z3dFnP-BChujgN5qjJvYkSP57RP8wRvS2wLfBCwc3KfaP0vS0RF174KmlxlFBinJaW176_=w400-h330" width="400" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm sure Abe is somewhere on my now 82-long list o' names. Or is it 93?</i></div></i><br /><p></p><p>At any rate, this is obviously travesty. If it was good enough for the venerable 747 in 1987 or whenever, why isn't it good enough today? The new <a href="https://www.salomon.com/en-us/shop/product/strive-14-gripwalk-li3307.html#color=74398" target="_blank">Strive</a> is wider you say? Don't care. My boot is the same width. The new toe is lower, you say? For a lower centre-of-gravity? Don't care. In fact, I had to put a 6mm gas pedal under the last STH2 toe, so, no.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6Bx-0_qUXD89M4Pc0704_v8FUz-riWRFKhwSoe5md8AbeL0squVALOi-KA54qYj9bAbyBmliV-f-hvTleFbJEE1oNfi539kzBB9M4ZlNk0dTPxWR4qVxRMLRB_g_flO4FzDpK3UGuUb6RTsW7eJYxsjTgyKcBx9mJXaueAd1swTsKYggucLtCOD4/s4032/solomon%20equipe%20boot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6Bx-0_qUXD89M4Pc0704_v8FUz-riWRFKhwSoe5md8AbeL0squVALOi-KA54qYj9bAbyBmliV-f-hvTleFbJEE1oNfi539kzBB9M4ZlNk0dTPxWR4qVxRMLRB_g_flO4FzDpK3UGuUb6RTsW7eJYxsjTgyKcBx9mJXaueAd1swTsKYggucLtCOD4/w480-h640/solomon%20equipe%20boot.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Genesis</i></div></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguhOzI6G9psNsIYYYr7f-qXEXaz3MyPUPVx0oCpxwGZQsZS9IHScqAjaGW1MLOT4Ijaf5YaJcad4Vqlgx1HFnwTlf-V34xGEhJmmvLfxVtXwRoQUJjS0f38JgczVlNuhUpbcni9dAJb4jSMgih5j98pg_2khdVJiFBcHOPbDaDEphelMDUkC57IVmN/s1567/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-19%20at%207.44.00%20PM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1567" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguhOzI6G9psNsIYYYr7f-qXEXaz3MyPUPVx0oCpxwGZQsZS9IHScqAjaGW1MLOT4Ijaf5YaJcad4Vqlgx1HFnwTlf-V34xGEhJmmvLfxVtXwRoQUJjS0f38JgczVlNuhUpbcni9dAJb4jSMgih5j98pg_2khdVJiFBcHOPbDaDEphelMDUkC57IVmN/w640-h436/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-19%20at%207.44.00%20PM.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Trig</i></div></i><p>Basically, all this newer better stronger faster marketing collateral is just words. Those words make a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAjR4_CbPpQ" target="_blank">bad song</a> from a bad band. As mere words, they make an even worse idea, like Tide Pods or the cinammon challenge, or Tesla.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhD7dfbR0M6Iuf4PXOyPy3-7_DdXJNO_aHLiMYoeEPFjGP4Xuz03JKCX4Qu7ZI1BAhZPpaepMZOtIYxM-pFcx5n13NBYfzSIfLm4bTFaJpzx3YF0CEAAAlBLdPHjyTMoH0EXlEk3pENxgyhkgSSg9Gcsd92shOEkd3vBrC2gFZS1COg4A0kH6nefK3/s4032/gas%20pedals.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhD7dfbR0M6Iuf4PXOyPy3-7_DdXJNO_aHLiMYoeEPFjGP4Xuz03JKCX4Qu7ZI1BAhZPpaepMZOtIYxM-pFcx5n13NBYfzSIfLm4bTFaJpzx3YF0CEAAAlBLdPHjyTMoH0EXlEk3pENxgyhkgSSg9Gcsd92shOEkd3vBrC2gFZS1COg4A0kH6nefK3/w480-h640/gas%20pedals.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><i>Gas pedals for flat bindings. Centre: 2mm, we'll call it within rider preference. Top: 6mm, annoying, but acceptable cos why not? Bottom: 12mm, what I'm afraid of. The world was different in '93. Pumpkin for scale.</i><br /><p><br /></p><p><i>Overdramatic t</i><i>itle from Tonic's classic 90s Drama-rock record, </i>Lemon Parade,<i> specifically the song "Celtic Aggression". I guess you had to be there.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPH259DEsm49_yTR08fB2jW_JKWGE7YNCuNjzQzAOthKMb0AoTD0Phb0G25l2ejnCX9Beb1a8GIQ9uiEYVhHI8YiLSnlxXAHaCSq0FH52gBKaz7D8k_Mn_fr0UIQ8ZsGyJENH0Ne40ardPdW3Wy3KumXurU57r_mjZg6I8QeWE183mwEmb7tKN5zAW/s1316/Look%20factory.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="1316" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPH259DEsm49_yTR08fB2jW_JKWGE7YNCuNjzQzAOthKMb0AoTD0Phb0G25l2ejnCX9Beb1a8GIQ9uiEYVhHI8YiLSnlxXAHaCSq0FH52gBKaz7D8k_Mn_fr0UIQ8ZsGyJENH0Ne40ardPdW3Wy3KumXurU57r_mjZg6I8QeWE183mwEmb7tKN5zAW/w640-h468/Look%20factory.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Unfortunately, I was wrong.</i></div></i><p></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comAnnecy, France45.899247 6.12938417.589013163821157 -29.026866 74.209480836178841 41.285634tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-20450668915957490102022-10-16T21:44:00.009-06:002023-01-01T11:37:20.808-07:00Top 47 Skiing*<p> * <i>According to, like, Everyone.</i></p><p>1. Colorado</p><p>2. Like, Europe</p><p>3. Subaru</p><p>4. Whistler</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQNeqUsgxcGwMDQLsnVYq1xt1EmX4Q9FcwKZjjpnRfLPToFJqM8IkFYbXegnktAPIgQF0gVD7zrxqmQg8-yBohWAel4mDW4t208LIcws8utmg9IHXIvD4xL8Z9w05VCVDN_VBWyI24RTE_iJlYHp9i2AKK3KQ7Q3aiGyAqDX7ET_fbU4gTRFP1OLj/s1600/boyne%20highlands.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQNeqUsgxcGwMDQLsnVYq1xt1EmX4Q9FcwKZjjpnRfLPToFJqM8IkFYbXegnktAPIgQF0gVD7zrxqmQg8-yBohWAel4mDW4t208LIcws8utmg9IHXIvD4xL8Z9w05VCVDN_VBWyI24RTE_iJlYHp9i2AKK3KQ7Q3aiGyAqDX7ET_fbU4gTRFP1OLj/w640-h480/boyne%20highlands.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I think this is Whistler from Blackcomb? </i></div></i><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">By Mr Swordfish2 - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=115239019</span></div><p>5. Tremblant, QC</p><p>5. Sun Valley</p><p>5. NO, WAIT, COFFEE SHOPS</p><p>6. Mad River Glen, or not cos it's scary.</p><p>7. Kitzbuhel</p><p>7. NO, WAIT, DEER VALLEY</p><p>8. Vail. And a little place called Ahspen.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeuvDzPGPJ0BqgsVKq_gYp8ZHLjBSBVnLggocf8sbwj4IOB2JLuYUsIcOZkZCqplbDy_JF51m3h8Yu20fzisIyUAbj6ikO4JMLg-rTLXPGihHm9F0rigdcqnETI2Sy6c2FVg4N2pIrEyPdbuQiUq29yyS2NJm-6MtGpYlRKGT5bL0ifhfophDVprW/s1920/cornfield-kansas.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1501" data-original-width="1920" height="501" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeuvDzPGPJ0BqgsVKq_gYp8ZHLjBSBVnLggocf8sbwj4IOB2JLuYUsIcOZkZCqplbDy_JF51m3h8Yu20fzisIyUAbj6ikO4JMLg-rTLXPGihHm9F0rigdcqnETI2Sy6c2FVg4N2pIrEyPdbuQiUq29yyS2NJm-6MtGpYlRKGT5bL0ifhfophDVprW/w640-h501/cornfield-kansas.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>That John Denver's full of shit, man.</i></div></i><p>9. Rainier? Is that a thing? Should I get some bar-mode boots?</p><p>10. Stowe</p><p>11. Tucks, if you're like, hard.</p><p>12. Dubai</p><p>13. Pontoon I saw it on the YouTube</p><p>14. Pizza</p><p>15. Is Oregon near Iowa?</p><p>16. Cairngorms, Scotland, which is like, in Europe or Andorra?</p><p>17. New Zealand</p><p>18. The waterparks of Jay and Jackass</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPURHh0z_a2F7Jev0LleYzbzcuzE-0w4Rmlm6uTIyQXzB6skBdH3JjxPtBWJs3vUhGgwatDd3PZOYCt-gOUmwJta-LiTfVZXIqdFiP15W8IvPZXrvdc9RoOyW2PmgLl9gh41WP5VzIcmCgB701lJ_eBVjs04vGdngH9MeAQLPFUlE5L-PeKKzPvud/s1920/waterslide%20first%20descent.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPURHh0z_a2F7Jev0LleYzbzcuzE-0w4Rmlm6uTIyQXzB6skBdH3JjxPtBWJs3vUhGgwatDd3PZOYCt-gOUmwJta-LiTfVZXIqdFiP15W8IvPZXrvdc9RoOyW2PmgLl9gh41WP5VzIcmCgB701lJ_eBVjs04vGdngH9MeAQLPFUlE5L-PeKKzPvud/w640-h426/waterslide%20first%20descent.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Hashtag FirstDescents</i></div></i><p>19. JHole, but, like, watch out, cos skiing's harder there.</p><p>20. The Mangy Moose</p><p>21. You're Cody Townsend? Man, I'm so much better than you.</p><p>22. Somewhere in New Mexico</p><p>23. Chair 7 Extreme</p><p>24. I think it's in the Andes?</p><p>25. Hyland Hills</p><p>26. Pennsylvania</p><p>27. Huntah</p><p>28. Wait, Baker's not on a volcano?</p><p>29. Fur</p><p>30. Bode</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ppIVX_-AJKt2PAAWOP1gA3mdy7diVXFJfzmzYcyjbcgSPiEfdyPmeZNyPBd9SiwUITZYY4ERdYybMsul-NGXtKTKYwPdE3WN8uyiA-gGmdwiFLyY7dv4dP_p4WAMq2hz6ss3X4sWIZj23I2oGKREZ6Y8JhhhauYHxmshA94BW8F_1XpsaoSaRN7w/s6492/weird%20ski%20ladies.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6492" data-original-width="4328" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ppIVX_-AJKt2PAAWOP1gA3mdy7diVXFJfzmzYcyjbcgSPiEfdyPmeZNyPBd9SiwUITZYY4ERdYybMsul-NGXtKTKYwPdE3WN8uyiA-gGmdwiFLyY7dv4dP_p4WAMq2hz6ss3X4sWIZj23I2oGKREZ6Y8JhhhauYHxmshA94BW8F_1XpsaoSaRN7w/w426-h640/weird%20ski%20ladies.jpeg" width="426" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Is this how you do it?</i></div></i><p>31. Fireball</p><p>32. There's TWO Cottonwoods?</p><p>33. Lindsey's gym</p><p>34. Alyaska? Aleksa? Amazon? Something like that.</p><p>35. Theo the Brave</p><p>36. Great Big Bear Valley Mountain Lake</p><p>37. Coopers, Anthony Lakes, Beaver, Pomerelles, Mission, Cannons, Saddleback, Sugars, &c, &c</p><p>38. Bjarne's Van I saw it on YouTube</p><p>39. Cuff alignment</p><p>40. The K12</p><p>26. KT22</p><p>41. Red Chair</p><p>42. French Fries</p><p>43. My Smartwool PhD socks have holes in the heels.</p><p>44. I can't root for Mikaela cos she didn't Gold 36 times.</p><p>45. I can't even say Oslo, or Kristiania, let <i>alone</i> Altai. Can we just say it's from Austria?</p><p>46. BURRITO, STAT.</p><p>47. Is it still skiing if you didn't drink beer?! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRhpM6Cp2GFZVZAAeMhr9AifpmSYGiWECQia1HpMB_YUhL0KC1lVNqirTYNk8VmTUJ0F_fG_-W6qA2l9JS4y5hs8KojF60eGDgjBBJNqDYMdSYDI58X_nVTq9vq91dXCenF8d-YRESyTaq8zMId2l9YELROS3r0E29JHoqUDPJLXdnzrqJ3Vly_N-/s400/oly%20can.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRhpM6Cp2GFZVZAAeMhr9AifpmSYGiWECQia1HpMB_YUhL0KC1lVNqirTYNk8VmTUJ0F_fG_-W6qA2l9JS4y5hs8KojF60eGDgjBBJNqDYMdSYDI58X_nVTq9vq91dXCenF8d-YRESyTaq8zMId2l9YELROS3r0E29JHoqUDPJLXdnzrqJ3Vly_N-/w256-h320/oly%20can.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Skiing beer. Pretend you're at Hyak.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you don't like the weather, just wait five minutes. And besides, if you can ski here, you can ski anywhere. If you aren't falling, you aren't trying hard enough.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">hashtag <i>onlyinwhereveryouare</i></div><p></p></div>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comParadise, WA 98361, USA46.7853161 -121.734973218.475082263821157 -156.8912232 75.095549936178855 -86.5787232tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-15653596729361930742022-09-26T20:55:00.001-06:002023-01-01T15:49:14.079-07:00Lookin up to watch the birds<p>By Eino Holm</p><p>The only person at my twenty-year reunion more cagey than Amy was my first ski buddy, Aram Scott. I saw him a couple times, and by the time I got through the crowd to chat, he was out the door, a ghost in the window. By the time I got out the door, he was simply a ghost. </p><p>Aram was one of the few kids in school I grew apart from but for whom never felt anything other than the simple affection that comes from knowing we once were friends and could be again if circumstances allowed. They never really did, and for that I am still sorry. Aram and I made a lot of good turns together, (think "good for 11 year olds"), ditched both the ski bus and class together, played baseball together at least one year, the sort of important things kids do that in the long run don't amount to much other than basically everything. I totally get why he snuck out of the reunion. It was just a weird amalgamation of the same but different. James Cline looked exactly like he did the day before graduation, late 90s fashion included. Keri Nietsche looked like she hadn't aged, but had lost the awkwardness of youth. My little crowd, Chelsea and Noël and Crosby and Aaron Mayer (ever the salesman, just passing through), we all showed our age. Crosby and Chelsea have a family, a house on solid ground, and careers. Noël is married, has been successful in one form or another since basically graduation, and lives somewhere around DC. Her parents moved here to southern Idaho cos politics. Mayer's some big cheese or at least long-tenured cheese at the Ford dealer. I hope he still skis. I remember one time in the Brown Bag Room (RIP) he and Shane were arguing about boots. It was some time in this millennium and he still thought his rear entry boots were the shit. Shane and I both assured him that they were, but drop the "the".</p><p>I hope Aram still skis. Neither of us were all that good, but that's not what we thought.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKGu-eiUdKyu9YFXOYhAYugMNjAc_GrgNk4ncwJKUgeLrl9J3kKGLMzX5Iv81T-G32RUQJahSnwCpNF6lIXu59lzVv2vcFfQw_c7Zt9v6RweVlyHP3STylwcYrOqiVNAJGTqwogHWt3Espn-huEKkkTe7LH-_U-Nfx80tn15aSDftw90HQjWqxZBB/s960/deer%20valley%20with%20pa.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKGu-eiUdKyu9YFXOYhAYugMNjAc_GrgNk4ncwJKUgeLrl9J3kKGLMzX5Iv81T-G32RUQJahSnwCpNF6lIXu59lzVv2vcFfQw_c7Zt9v6RweVlyHP3STylwcYrOqiVNAJGTqwogHWt3Espn-huEKkkTe7LH-_U-Nfx80tn15aSDftw90HQjWqxZBB/w480-h640/deer%20valley%20with%20pa.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Some friends are Pa.</i></div><p></p><p>Life has been challenging since moving to the desert. First Ashland, then Ogden, then BoyCee. These places don't feel permanent. Ashland, specifically. It felt like a permanent vacation, like I could blink and it'd be gone. In truth it's me who's gone. </p><p>By all reports, Ashland still stands, above the fog but below the peaks. I couldn't convince anyone from town to ski with me more than a run or two, and at the hill, it felt like the best thing I could do was keep my head down. The trees were inviting. Southeast Right held better snow than the ski area itself. Longer runs, too, and fewer people. The quick skate back on Road 20 thinned the crowd to near non-existence. The Void musta had too many satyrs or something. I wasn't the only bloke making turns under those beautiful Shasta fir, but I never met anyone else in there.</p><p>My buddy Rob lives in Talent, a little downstream from Ashland. He grew up in Steamboat, but grew tired of shoveling snow, and after a season tuning skis at Mt A during a bad winter, gave up on skiing entirely. I will never understand, but I'm grateful to know him. I just wish he still skied. Dude's fit, mellow, and cynical. The kind of skier, I assume, who'd kick my ass most of the time while maybe not making PSIA-sanctioned turns. My type of skier.</p><p>I like good turns, but more than that, I simply like turns.</p><p>--</p><p>The low pole is a little brody. Kinda like forearms in lieu of high fives in baseball, but like, in skiing. </p><p>Catherine and I are at the bottom of some pitch out south of Crystal Lakes. The pitch was steep, and the snow was good. Worth the challenging skintrack. We both made nice turns, natch, and I don't know if she went first, or me, but I do remember she ate some homemade raw crackers and homemade yogurt for lunch. She shared some crackers and they were darn tasty. Anyway, it was steep and sloughy, and when we finished our turns, equally as tasty as her raw crackers, I reached out with my pole and we made that satisfying *<i>click</i>*.</p><p>I said, reminiscent of Dax Shepard in Idiocracy, "I like skiing." And I do.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouSFMmZaMRG8Jx-UKy7QE_aVnQy-BjzvxS7M8U8h7AdUqSsM8Q1SLGkAuaecZZOtcAzvHYAfnzfSMIVBwTpQ3pXIY6DLsHxgKOVb1spBx4CbVXgNsQ4Yi2AD0bUuCyQNK9-oQbDtUxPDkEvZD13NT0H1NC-7xfeXzfL7EFT7-peCfOsaMOqKTuF58/s414/Me%20and%20Dad%20matching%20Spyder%20suits.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="308" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouSFMmZaMRG8Jx-UKy7QE_aVnQy-BjzvxS7M8U8h7AdUqSsM8Q1SLGkAuaecZZOtcAzvHYAfnzfSMIVBwTpQ3pXIY6DLsHxgKOVb1spBx4CbVXgNsQ4Yi2AD0bUuCyQNK9-oQbDtUxPDkEvZD13NT0H1NC-7xfeXzfL7EFT7-peCfOsaMOqKTuF58/w476-h640/Me%20and%20Dad%20matching%20Spyder%20suits.jpg" width="476" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Amy's ski buddy, Dad, at Buck Hill. With </i>those<i> skis.</i></div><p>Some folks make an impression, and some folks make a difference. </p><p>Kenny Tataku and I were never close, but the guy is responsible, almost single-handedly, for where I am at this exact moment, sunset just expired, food on the range, partner rolling her muscles and stretching after a hard day in the desert sun working in someone else's garden. Kenny is the definition of ski buddy, someone easy to be around, who doesn't hold a grudge when you aren't around cos he's been there, seen how this life can take its toll even though we're all just chasing a good feeling. </p><p>It was Kenny who said, "Go talk to Brad, and tell him I told you to." I started the 1st day of December, '007. The best job, without qualification, I've ever had. Not for nothin', it was the only way I could have met Amy, my partner of longer than most marriages. I often feel all sorts of things, negative or not, that I'd avoid, but to avoid those, we would have had to have never met, and that is just not okay with me. I'll take whatever bullshit this uncaring universe gives if it means we face all of it together.<br /></p><p>I was about 24, 25, Kenny and I were talking about technique. I was trying to lay railroad tracks on the Back Traverse, failing at speed, and frustrated. Kenny just said, "You're turning left with your right foot, and turning right with your right foot. You can't. The turns need to be a mirror of each other." Something like that, anyway. It made sense. Load that cuff, let your inside leg follow, draw the knee to the inside of the turn, just glide back and forth, back, and forth. The rest will work itself out.</p><p>It has.</p><p>Brad hired me on the spot, after I mentioned Kenny's name. Brad said "Kenny taught me to tune, and he wouldn't send me a jerk or an incompetent." Everything for me, today, draws from that moment. The difference between a kid and a man, between guessing and knowing, between following orders and making one's own way.</p><p>--</p><p>It's a curse of good low-light lenses that every time you notice the sky on a storm day, it seems like the sun has just started to break through the heavy Cascade stratus deck. Today, it's been raining since God knows when, and Dustin and I simply followed through on our plans. We were gonna ski, and by God, we did. I mean, d'uh. That's what one does here in the PNW. Or at least that's what we tell people. I think it's '99. <i>That</i> winter. I could be wrong.</p><p>The snow wasn't great earlier in the day, but as the rain abates, the snow settles further and the surface water thins, and it gets better. And better. Dustin and I have a timeframe, and we just keep skiing until we have to head down. Skiers' right of Green Valley is that choice, slarvy snow, each turn more effortless than the last. People talk about Pisten Bullys and Champagne Powder Snow tee-em and yet here, some random day, the name of which I cannot remember, rained-on snow is all there is. And it is glorious.</p><p>I don't remember what skis Dustin had, and it doesn't matter. I'm 41 years old, and I still remember those turns, 98 or 99 or whatever. I've forgotten a hundred deep days, give or take a 20 or 30, but skiing with a good friend in the rain, some clammy base layers and soaked socks, wax scraped entirely from our bases, that is irreplaceable.</p><p>You already assumed this is coming, but when we decided to head for the barn, knowing we had no more time in the frame, is when the sun decided to poke through.</p><p>--</p><p>My phone died on my 27th birthday. Well, the battery ran out of juice. You'd think I would not remember a specific day when my phone battery ran out of juice unless it left me stranded in a desert basin, somewhere in the eastern Mojave, sun beating down on my parched neck, canteen long since pierced by a vindictive roadrunner, but no, it's the top of Pineapple Pass, June of '008, with the whole ramp below me, Catherine making those turns you want to make when you are imagining this exact scene. There was no danger, I had a charger in my car down in North Bend, and really I just missed filming the scene. I usually didn't think of taking crappy flip-phone video, except for that day, and the dern battery died.</p><p>The turns weren't memorable for the type of the snow. It was just June of a Good Snow Year, and not really anything else, and that snow is consistent. I know the snow was good, because I absolutely love summer snow, but I don't remember the actual turns at all. I remember the views. I remember the pitch. Chair Peak, buried Source Lake somewhere under the remaining snowpack. I remember the short skate back to Catherine's Outback. I remember the Kuhl jeans I had waiting for me, the ones that looked out of style and felt great and still made me sheepish enough when wearing them that I sold them at a second hand store. The pockets were wrong, or the legs too baggy, or the gray too gray, I don't know. It's interesting to remember the jeans, who drove, the date, my phone, and not the turns, but there it is. The crux of all this memory.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3M5cEizcFmoI4KINz743-QkBg6h8g5HKuMsHFBo5-TBI3Bl4siVmpPmkig4L7uAC3A6bkw7Go006svWPrJJzmtZrfc_mzg_o6_X2eG7O_cAOmEOMfUIVLAJPwUrlqD0QvUfuWXEYfszXLoZ8Z1aJ9GFo0speKPRlua1KltLIEE6ocEM1nQu7I87Aq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2400" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3M5cEizcFmoI4KINz743-QkBg6h8g5HKuMsHFBo5-TBI3Bl4siVmpPmkig4L7uAC3A6bkw7Go006svWPrJJzmtZrfc_mzg_o6_X2eG7O_cAOmEOMfUIVLAJPwUrlqD0QvUfuWXEYfszXLoZ8Z1aJ9GFo0speKPRlua1KltLIEE6ocEM1nQu7I87Aq=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Pineapple Pass, Alpental. Not June.</i></div><p></p><p>--</p><p>Amy was fast. She had her GS boards on, natch, and it was a vintage PNW January drought. (I've since confirmed with at least one other person, Ryan [the Owner], that this really is A Thing.) This time, I remember the snow. It was. . .um. . .white, it covered the ground, and if used correctly, it was also fast, like Amy. I am always fast. They (well, Lisa and Bob, anyway) didn't call me Two Turn Eino for nothin'.</p><p>I don't think I knew she was behind me, and when she passed, I noticed. Her GS boards were of suitable vintage, late 90s Salomon, that F$#@ You Red they used for their racing program. Silly Prolink arms on the topsheet, my absolute favouritest bindings and yellow race plates. She looked comfortable, arms low, <strike>eyes</strike> goggles to the fall line, helmet, well, on her head, I guess. Almost 13 years later, I'm sitting at our dinner table, grateful for all the years and even the shit we've been through, no matter how high it piles or how rotten the silage was that the cows ate.</p><p>I do not, however, remember much about the run. I remember Amy ripping past me when I stopped at the top of the Gulch, her hands forward. In my mind, it was sunny, but so what if it wasn't? The outcome is the same. I know what she sounds like at 7 in the morning, a minute after the alarm goes off. I know that if I find a good pic of a cute elephant baby on the flappy internet box, she'll squeal a bit and maybe be a shade happier than she was before. I know that we'll fight about certain things, and that the fighting can hurt like hell and also make each of us stronger. Individually, and together.</p><p>Amy isn't fast right now, and that's totally okay. Her knees fight her, to the point where the docs say she needs some Ti upgrades and some UHMW poly, to where skiing isn't always the right answer. This from a man, a stoic Norske, an arrogant Svenska, a silent Sámi, who for 41 years has thought skiing is always the right answer. We age, we change, we hopefully grow. We're old enough to start thinking about second acts.</p><p>--</p><p>Stina had to leave her house to The Former Guy. She built the damn thing herself, including the chainsaw carvings. It's a beautiful structure, open, comfortable, cosy somehow, set back a piece in the foothills, away from the road, invisible until you right underneath it. We're from different places, different worlds, really. That house, though, before TFG stole it, it's like I designed it, except I did not. Wood for days, open, isolated, quiet, air to breathe and room to believe.</p><p>My earliest memory of Stina is somewhere long before the new Northway chair. I was chasing her group, 18 years old, just then learning how to bum, bumping chairs for Jace, fighting off those demons we all seem to face. Mind on everything except this moment, whatever this moment is. We're down low in the draw below Spook that led to Lower Northway or I-5, moguls and icy spots and all those lichen-hung <i>Abies.</i> (The new chair kinda changed things some. The draw isn't quite the same. The moguls are bigger, the hardpan easier to scrape clean.) Stina had one of those hats, I don't know, fleece? Colourful, kind of pill-boxy, not hip at all. Out of time. It is the best illustration of Stina for me, style borne of force-of-will rather than some other asshole's idea of what is cool. Not hip, and better for it. She doesn't need your approval anyway.</p><p>I'm not lying when I say Stina Stringer is one of the best skiers, both freeheel and fixed, that I have ever seen, let alone skied with. (In the vacinity of? At the same mountain as?) That exit, the creekbed draining Upper Spook and the Horseshoe Cliffs and Paradise Bowl, before Pa widened it, it wasn't exactly smooth going. Slackcountry, as some of the more with-it writers say. Those shoulder-high moguls that never really go away until Mud Season. Pa calls em Volkswagens. Stina's crew were all experienced dudes, current and former bums, strong skiers, and she's the one who really got it done. All five-foot-not-much and a buck-very-few, she was (still is, hopefully, once her blowed-up foot heals) the strongest and smoothest, by at least one order of magnitude.</p><p>I remember her gliding through the bumps, and I wondered, "Who does that?!" Knee not quite to the ski, cos even when tired, she still held her technique. I wanted to do what she was doing. That mythical, mystical turn. Bending the ski through technique and strength, demurring when people say, "That looks haaaard," like they were some bumpkin who just learned what a freeway is.</p><p>To learn that a person such as her, sought after by many dudes, quiet when you don't know her, is also kind, giving, and loyal, well, sometimes people are good. I am grateful for that.</p><p>--</p><p>I like good turns, but more than that, I like turns.</p><p>If memory serves, it's the 25th of February, '008. Pa's birthday, number 60, to be exact. He was probly working. I missed 70 cos people are terrible drivers. (Ma and Amy and my mother-in-law, Jane, all thought I should stay alive, that even skiing isn't worth fighting off 70 mile-an-hour cars driven by idjits in what really was a prime, deep, cold cycle. Stina had to rub it in, of course. I was pretending to tune a shitty bike in BoyCee while she was dropping the knee out South. Stina's Chute, even, in the cold late-February sun on 8 or 10 or whatever had settled there.) '008, that was a different story. Same weather on the day, but it'd been a minute since there was any snow. It was cold, chalky, that hero snow I can't get enough of.</p><p>Kupsis and I kept sprinting South, skating and booting quickly to whatever line we fancied. Nothing could stop us, and I don't think I've skied much <strike>better</strike> faster on anything as steep. Somewhere around the fifth or thirtieth lap, at the first gate, a strawberry blonde stranger asked "What's skiin' well?" and I just spat, "Me." I had been enjoying, more than usual, the alpine gear. I was in my own boots, I think, not sure I actually had alpine boots right then, and on a demo Katana. The first model, the one with the UHMW swallowtail that the mags all hated. Glorious. Ugly, like, in a good way. That ski always had its nose vaguely up, and it was right in line with how I was feeling. The snow was hardpan, but the good kind, like the dirt all the mountain bike mags used to sweat about back when there were actual mountain bike mags. Confident, I'd call myself. Arrogant, even. She, this to-me-unknown skier, was with Sean, the Snowsports guy. He mumbled something about my sense of humour and the, y'know, undeniable fact that yeah, I'm pretty good. Mike and I booted up the Throne to the first gate with something more than urgency, and skated hard around the back. Dodging those <i>Abies lasiocarpa</i> branches at speed. Pretty much ran up the King. Hazy sun. At the top, I took a short breather. I'd been fighting bronchitis for two weeks at that point, my lungs wheezing, only my anger and hubris allowing me full-speed South laps.</p><p>As I dropped my skis, she ran up the traverse as fast as Mike and I had, and I, I had to stop. Sean was nowhere to be seen. She'd dropped him outright. She nodded, laughed a little, said her name was Catherine, and asked,</p><p><i>Well, Mr Confident. Where </i>you<i> gonna go?!</i></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPgsXhdCDlbn5nhYYeiUqKqlvgltXdLnl5GwNbSAb5xR0pwFA_JejOR88a60Ej0ToQV7zRelpL6bpVqJ8bhk89Qu726oTl8qAnaEb0znLGB0XKzb3Yc4-y6Z_qrDySDGeGrkKQEvogi1g8_rqAJunQV-VYbtS_a9aYMRcE_18qt11W4iapUZsu5eDP" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPgsXhdCDlbn5nhYYeiUqKqlvgltXdLnl5GwNbSAb5xR0pwFA_JejOR88a60Ej0ToQV7zRelpL6bpVqJ8bhk89Qu726oTl8qAnaEb0znLGB0XKzb3Yc4-y6Z_qrDySDGeGrkKQEvogi1g8_rqAJunQV-VYbtS_a9aYMRcE_18qt11W4iapUZsu5eDP=w640-h482" width="640" /></a></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The King. If you know, you go. Bluff suitably called, I went Hourglass, third shot skiers' right of the summit, the easy way.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>--</i></div><p></p><p><i>Title from the classic Roger Miller tune, "Old Friends". Willie did a handful of versions with different ol' friends. Give 'em a listen. I hope you'll like at least one.</i></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comCrystal Mountain, Washington 98022, USA46.9281666 -121.5045349-28.984369414322387 97.87046509999999 90 19.120465100000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-71759724802113198432022-05-29T20:04:00.006-06:002023-01-01T11:28:47.483-07:00Nothing good ever lasts<p>By Eino Holm</p><p>The lights are dim, kinda smoky even. New Year's Eve, 1999, Crystal Mountain. It's Noël, Chelsea, Peter, and me. We're all acting like it's a normal night, that the world isn't going to end in a handful of hours, cos, well, why would it end on Pacific Standard Time if it didn't end, say, on Japan Central Standard Time earlier in the day? We're all in various states of curiosity, though, if nothing else. All around us are people we don't really know, even if we each know a handful of 'em a little bit in our own ways. Peter and I had bumped chairs all Summer, Peter first with his head eight or twenty times on my 18th birthday back in June when the two of us were building that old, elevated, loooong ramp on Old 3 from whatever crunchy corn Bruce Engdahl brought up from the Back Traverse. I don't think Peter'd ever really spent much time around chairs. Maintenance was running the beautiful ol' '63 Riblet double to find any kinks they hadn't found during the short spring fix-it season. For whatever reason, Peter couldn't grasp the fool-me-once adage. I'd felt bad. Anyway, this night, six months later, it was both light and dark, quiet and loud, quick and slow.</p><p>I asked Kim Rausch the next morning, just to confirm, and she said the two booms had been a 50 sack and a hundo. Or whatever jargon she used. ANFO, that slow-burn explosive that so nicely dovetails with a stick or two of DynoAP for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJkZgjrzJ40" target="_blank">avy control</a>, makes one heck of a shockwave when Patrol sets off about 45 kgs at once. I've experienced this twice, and the second was no less surprising than the first. Kim said that even though they were on top of 70-odd inches of good snowpack that they'd controlled all season, they still brought up dirt.</p><p>Walking around the base area was a little surreal, orange light and crazed locals and all. Griffin Eshpeter slid by us on the slickery* Boulevard heading down, fireworks already all boomed and ANFO all burnt, smoke still hanging above Silver Creek. Maybe it was Alex Kemp, doesn't matter. They didn't crash, and I don't know that whoever it was was actually drunk, despite appearances. They were a year behind me in school, but my age. (That shouldn't have mattered then, and it certainly doesn't today.)</p><p>The light slowly faded, and by the Family Cabin at the bottom of the Boulevard, it was a normal Winter night. We shared some Champagne, or at least bubbly; I don't know where it was from. The elkers and White River ghosts watched us from the trees, digging for food under the snowpack.</p><p>-</p><p>Lisa leans out from the shack at the top of New 3. "GO TO SIX NOW!!" she says. Stina and Catherine and Steve Holmsen and I don't wait. We point it. <a href="https://liftblog.com/high-campbell-crystal-mountain-wa/" target="_blank">Six</a> has been closed all day, and there's a break in the weather after puking for who knows how long. I don't know it for sure, but I think Baugher wants some skier compaction before the cycle gets going again. It's one of those glorious March days, cool and showery, and the snow piles up more than you think. Steve and I ride up in the quiet. Baugher is bumping chairs at the bottom, Patrol Director name tag and thirty years of service notwithstanding. His assistant, Brent, is up top. He's grinning as he does, crooked tooth and general good nature.</p><p>Brent pulled me over once, seventh grade, but I dodged a ticket. I argued with him like a good 12 year old. I'M IN CONTROL BRENT WHY YOU PICKIN ON ME. He was polite and firm, like Noël told me to be with the missionaries in Ogden. "You were out of control, son. I know it when I see it." The difference between being able to change direction, but not stop, and being able to stop on command. I don't know that I really understood that until I was bumping chairs myself years later.</p><p>Stina and Catherine and I wait at the bottom of 6 a good ten minutes for Steve while he digs under the line for his phone, somewhere up near the Punk Rock. Stina's yelling, as though he can hear us from this distance. HURRY THE (*&$)@#(*&^#$(*&#^$(*&#^(*#&$^(*& UP STEVE ITS JUST A PHONE THIS IS SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW and then he finally finds it. He reaches his hand up like some kinda treasure hunter, and then heads on down in that albatross stance of his, turns solid, round, expert, and just a little bit goofy. Catherine and I ride up this time, shoulder to shoulder, still quiet for these two irreplaceable runs. So unique in the midst of all that year. 114 days on snow that time, and these two runs right under Crystal's marquee stand out like the first day driving Blue by myself, <strike>power sliding</strike> skidding out of Fed Forest by the ol' hollow-truss bridge at almost 90 cos, well, yer 16. How else does one drive at 16?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">--</div><p>Sometimes it takes years to build a community. People on this here internet always talk bout building one, but really, you can't. They happen, quietly and otherwise, through shared experience, or shared value. Some are as transient as the snow they're built on, some are as durable as the pavement connecting the houses and schools.</p><p>Most ski areas, the good ones anyway, this takes a few weeks or months. Maybe the bonds are tenuous, and years later you sit bolt upright in bed and wonder just where did Food Service Ryan With the Earrings and Goofy Grin go? It's been 21 years since you lived together accidentally, and you'd long forgot. Sometimes you wake up in your house in a different time zone, with a friend sleeping in her van in your driveway, boyfriend beside her. It's funny calling Stina in her 50s and Martin in his 60s "boyfriend and girlfriend", but there you go. I've known her for over 20 years, and we've been good friends for almost all of that. I skied up next to her and the Former Guy and Kenny Tataku in line at the bottom of 9 headin South, and she looked down at my skis and said, "Do your skis fight?" I mumbled something about Ma and Pa bein Scandihoovian and how on a map, Norge is on the left and Sverige is on the right, but basically, she's been there ever since. I appreciate someone who can joke at my expense.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJz9am8g2grNBEXg6ZOzc1XJfCFh800HI0gVeaSu1Iz2CFCI2ZSWLt53vtJDTKVlzJ_nnVoWpnKOGLQdnm2aQW5FuhZ1UvhqAeSZkTKPZn2I0pXEIcy93AQRSeQqTX31XwT-LGvcIl4Qeh1p5KpjZCrnbt8cRoEJBhX2S848-r7MrdCUXWnDmXvjdt/s4032/Eino's%20car.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJz9am8g2grNBEXg6ZOzc1XJfCFh800HI0gVeaSu1Iz2CFCI2ZSWLt53vtJDTKVlzJ_nnVoWpnKOGLQdnm2aQW5FuhZ1UvhqAeSZkTKPZn2I0pXEIcy93AQRSeQqTX31XwT-LGvcIl4Qeh1p5KpjZCrnbt8cRoEJBhX2S848-r7MrdCUXWnDmXvjdt/w640-h480/Eino's%20car.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eino's car fights with itself.</i></div><p><br /></p><p>The dark closes in quickly at the bottom of any valley, killin' woods or not. The White has those and more, deep cover and crunching elk hooves and the ghosts of who knows how many. Only a handful of folks in modern times have ever really called it home for life. It's a ways to town, twenty or more miles just to the bottom of the hill. The local tribes hunted up here, for elk and deer and whatever else they looked for. Millennia stretch to epoch, with the alternating quiet and violence of natural life interrupted by snow and fire and flood and lahar.</p><p>In peak Pineapple, there's nobody to help but neighbours, conservative-value cliché aside. Filling sand bags at the Fire Hall, watching a friend's dog if she's stuck in town, loaning your shovel and your time to throw logs from one side of the bridge to the other on the Greenwater to keep the lumber roiling downstream from blowin it out. It isn't always life-and-death. In point of fact, it rarely is. Sometimes you just sit on the floor with Jen's awesome old lab mutt and scratch the poor girl's ears and think out loud. Discuss the verities, and head home when it's bedtime. Wonder what those noises are outside the door.</p><p>Usually they're just the elk.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2NFycUPy0bBQSCylUKneDwCpRFD1LEyozPPzFbKwtA5XgSaoDSJc-TQvPQcZtwX-yx_WhDufyFeyRccCaAmTf7lv5sZWdUPVvOdMDtew1YufaHaLbOJIWLTM7EUlPF_ZavrEehhzMoKt44KHK5v490rZXpteBqnfZInMEdqwgT61EVg-nCNt0-0Od" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1361" data-original-width="1814" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2NFycUPy0bBQSCylUKneDwCpRFD1LEyozPPzFbKwtA5XgSaoDSJc-TQvPQcZtwX-yx_WhDufyFeyRccCaAmTf7lv5sZWdUPVvOdMDtew1YufaHaLbOJIWLTM7EUlPF_ZavrEehhzMoKt44KHK5v490rZXpteBqnfZInMEdqwgT61EVg-nCNt0-0Od=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><i>Characteristic bull elk glare, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.</i></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Crystal is known for its view, something I took almost for granted for most of my time there. Tahoma, obvs, but Pahto and Loowit, and sometimes all the way to Kulshan. Stuart and the Wenatchee Range, the Castle, Fifes Peaks, Aix, Goat Rocks, countless smaller hills. The White almost five grand below, silent at this distance. The upper White isn't this dramatic, punchy place full of toothy giants. It is home, though, time and distance and interlopers notwithstanding. Just over the ridge, in the next small drainage, a couple small subalpine lakes sit quietly under some impressive rock bands, with a nice mess of <i>Abies lasiocarpa</i> for company. Crystal is not known for tree skiing, even though it should be. Stina and Kenny showed my scores of little lines, whether before we officially met when I was just the 18 year-old kid chasing one or both of them, or when we were there together and on purpose.</p><p>One run, not really tree skiing, per se, but with trees, I snuck between some hemlock and dropped about three or four feet onto what I had assumed was a puffy, ten-inch-thick pillow of angel hair and unicorn dreams, just to find it was two inches on top of a rock-hard ankle biter. My back has not been the same since. I don't know that Stina or Catherine really knew that my life would be different after, that my chiro bills would run into the many thousands and my identity as a bum would slowly winnow until I'm in a different drainage entirely. A desert, really. I can't say at all that my ganked back and fussy ribs led me here, but nothing is ever isolated. In the rental shop Stina showed me some stretches I still use today, and Catherine did some energy work that I as a cynic don't really believe in, but still absolutely appreciate and cherish. Sometimes someone giving a shit about you means more than anything else in the world possibly can.</p><p>-</p><p>Moving day is hard, really no matter where you are. Sometimes it's physical, sometimes emotional, sometimes spiritual. Sometimes it's the last you'll see of someone. I keep in contact with a handful of people from the various hills. Some have moved on, some unfortunately have passed on. I wish them well, mostly. Even that one jackass who hit on Amy in front of me, and then had the stones to come to my shop for basework. At least he could make a good beanie. My other good beanie--besides my favourite that I can't wear here because BoyCee people just cannot let go of BSU--was also knit by someone I haven't spoken to in years. Kind of an odd reminder, each of these. These pieces of people, real or felt, keep the past nearby.</p><p>We headed down the Boulevard that last day, mid-April of '011. We'd had a couple beers, shared some nachos on the tiny deck of <strike>Rafters</strike> <strike>The Bullwheel</strike> Rafters with Sean, absorbing the late April Sunday evening and the warmth that surrounded us, laughed at some jokes, wondered at the ethereal among the fir and hemlock, generally acted as though it was another day, and, well, every day is just another day, I guess. No controlling that. Haven't seen Sean since, though I hear tell from time to time. Abbie, Sam, so many people whose names I forgot or didn't bother to really know. Sam, unfortunately, passed away this winter. The details aren't important, but dammit, I wish he could have caught a break. He and I started working for Brad the same day, tuning skis and generally tryna avoid responsibility. We were never close, but he's a good dude and we got along really well. We joked about entering the Powder 8s on our teles just to do a single Powder 8, but full-length. He fell into a crevasse doing sweep on the Emmons Glacier as a climbing ranger, and never quite recovered. His seizures got to the point where he thought speed-flying was a good idea cos it was fast, and he only had a minute or so from start to finish where he was in danger. He still had to be airlifted a couple times.</p><p>Sam was rumoured to be a better-than-decent cat driver, and for a ski area, he was definitely a fairly hard worker. Stina said the last time she talked to him, he was figuring stuff out, and had been seizure-free for quite some time. Some sort of medical progress or surgery had helped out, and things were looking up. His passing was accidental, and yet it wasn't all that surprising. It hurt more than I expected, that understanding that none of us really controls anything. I had made peace with the knowledge that either Pa or Stina would call, matter-of-fact as they both are, and I still almost threw up. Sam deserved better, or at least to be taken while he was chasing some adrenaline high. I always hoped he'd find some help, the kind that he actually did, and that his seizures and his luck would both improve. That he'd find another lady, someone who'd love his dog, someone like Abbie, but like, not, at the same time. I hoped we'd actually one day get to skate out to the Boxcar, and drop in. Sam first, me following. He'd go left, make his one right-hander, then I'd jump and we'd make that tandem, knee-dropped left, then I'd finish with my one right-hander, and we'd ski off knowing whoever it was we thought we were competing with so long ago was long gone, and it was just cold smoke off the top of the snow, some mountain hemlock, a little breeze, and a lifetime of stories.</p><p>-</p><p>Almost as an afterthought, we dropped by Sean's trailer that last night. It was closing in on dark, and a handful of instructors and random folks were milling about drinking brown bottle beer and wondering just what came next. We'd already technically closed that year, but as these things seem to go, Crystal kept reopening for weekends until they either ran outa steam or snow. We left before that happened. </p><p>As parties go, it wasn't. Just some tired, sad folks slowly aging out of the scene, looking for grander dreams or a way out of the flatland life. Either chasing a dream of bumming from here on out, or of finding some real motivation and a "real" career. I certainly wish there was some way of forgetting the emotional damage and the physical toll a life of bumming actually exacts. I wish I could show up for closing day, wear a cape or whatever and throw a backie off the end of the pond skim, and slither into whichever cave I'd find for the summer, but I cannot. What might have been, I guess.</p><p>As Closing Days go, it wasn't. Everyone else had already left, LB and Abbie and really anybody, and it was just me and Brad, and then just Brad. Amy and I met my buddy Jason on the side of a road in Oly and then it was foot-down until Exit 19 in the late afternoon, catching up to Pa and Ma and unloading the trailer they had pulled out of Enumclaw at 5 am. Ashland, OR is such a different place than Greenwater, WA. It's a small town, comparable to Enumclaw, but it feels like a city. Shakespeare and folks from The Bay and fancy hotels. Lithia Park wedged between million dollar houses, but even with all that money, there are cougars and bears in the trees and chupacabra on the highway. Eleven years have passed, some successfully and others, well, I speak for both of us when I say I'm happy they are passed.</p><p>The nachos we shared with Sean that night weren't memorable, but I still remember them. The nachos Marquez and his ex shared at the old Caldera dive under 99 the night before we left Ashland three years later weren't any better, but I still remember them, too, also. Mt A hadn't opened that year, not even for a day just cos, so that quiet night with a couple beers was all that we really got. Closing Day can border on spiritual some years, to the point where I can't stomach missing it and I also can barely stomach participating. I grab my Closing Day Poles from behind the door, the ones I got from my Father-in-Law all those years ago, and hope to ski in a button-down and sunscreen and maybe, if we're lucky, some real good spring corn.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmSDtJ8jNql8y-xdxf87EKy0kasK53L2HGvA37ADAu2mw3l_7TOZ89XwXFHaQet6J3BHICkWAavoC7ylhg-DB1fEshkY0wBsY6IfuOdLaW9dMYW3Jpxoy08xvnNu9T5XU1jwstxS8Re8PavSO-w8WE69GFoKzZEkuUsrWyeoNYhU48DLC4_Sb7NLI/s4032/Closing%20Day%20Eino.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmSDtJ8jNql8y-xdxf87EKy0kasK53L2HGvA37ADAu2mw3l_7TOZ89XwXFHaQet6J3BHICkWAavoC7ylhg-DB1fEshkY0wBsY6IfuOdLaW9dMYW3Jpxoy08xvnNu9T5XU1jwstxS8Re8PavSO-w8WE69GFoKzZEkuUsrWyeoNYhU48DLC4_Sb7NLI/w640-h480/Closing%20Day%20Eino.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eino on Closing Day, with his Closing Day Poles, 2022</i></div><p><br /></p><p>The light is dim, kinda smoky, even. Catherine and I are at the top of Rex, a couple years before that silly gondola. It's chilly, the April corn freezing slowly in the waning warmth. The sun sets quickly, as it does when one doesn't want it to. The lifts are silent, unlit. Green Valley is dark, disappearing quickly, and we don't dawdle. The freezing corn snow is skiable, 100 or so days on snow so far that year. (4th of July would be 114.) My legs are solid. Quads and hams and calves ropy from dropping the knee at speed 10 or 12 days a week. It's embarrassing, really, but in the 14 years since, I have never been as fit.</p><p>To be honest, I don't remember the turns. I say the snow was skiable, and it had to be cos we made it down, but Catherine's like a PSIA Level 5 Alpine and Level 7 Tele, and I'm, like, pretty good, so skiable is relative. Six inch sun cups in 4th of July fog is skiable, too, if you want it to be.</p><p>It's the light I remember. The White, milky in the early spring runoff, down below to the west. The dim, smoky sunset red and black. The orange flashed and faded, and then we just had to turn tail and run. Neither of us had lights. These moments are always there, as are the old ones watching from the subalpine fir atolls. I don't know if they're benevolent, and I don't know if it matters. We'll all join em, one at a time. </p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuO5mtHuNUHB3_dUeNEcckzX7a7meAZtZFJfalUxUsdpbRpRgZ3iLaC4v-vOTgNp-bibvNK0SqYMd9m1ZYWoAd8E9ZtLh0-iCDIlZoK5H8SmO5_Ttdy_MaLNIxCEM8vjap5XZomaTUN6flLQbaJ2LirL90Ikn0haOjrXn08oEBNNwuL-yMueZMdO8j" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuO5mtHuNUHB3_dUeNEcckzX7a7meAZtZFJfalUxUsdpbRpRgZ3iLaC4v-vOTgNp-bibvNK0SqYMd9m1ZYWoAd8E9ZtLh0-iCDIlZoK5H8SmO5_Ttdy_MaLNIxCEM8vjap5XZomaTUN6flLQbaJ2LirL90Ikn0haOjrXn08oEBNNwuL-yMueZMdO8j=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Abies lasiocarpa<i> atoll, courtesy of <u>The Gymnosperm Database</u></i></div><i><br /><br /></i><p></p><p><u>Interesting resources for them killin' woods:</u></p><p><i><a href="https://conifers.org/">https://conifers.org/</a></i></p><p><a href="https://www.michaelkauffmann.net/"><i>https://www.michaelkauffmann.net/</i></a> </p><p><br /></p><p>*Pa coined this term. Don't argue.</p><p><i>Title from Iris DeMent's "Our Town"</i></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comCrystal Mountain, Washington 98022, USA46.9281666 -121.504534918.617932763821152 -156.6607849 75.238400436178836 -86.3482849tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-47740523955371069352022-03-19T16:51:00.015-06:002023-01-01T15:50:00.131-07:00Top 3 Best Skis Ever*<p>By Eino Holm, with contributions from Amy Post</p><p>I finally redrilled the one-eight-six Monster for the third time, and for whatever reason, let's say that at 40 I'm better at the skeenings than I was at 28, or whatever, or maybe the handful of gray hairs give me strength, I don't care, the spark is back. That ski, even in what I thought was too long a, um, length, just skis like a ski should. Reminds me of an FIS GS board, except that when there's snow to push, it's still comfortable. Herewith, what I thought of on Chair 3 while looking down at them beauties.</p><p>-</p><p>17. Igneous Mid-fat Fall Line. Somewhere around the turn of this century, some drunks in a shed somewhere near J-Hole made some skis. They didn't have metal, so far as I know. They did have maple, and muchly so. That's almost as good. Mid-fat was not the truth. Skinny was the truth, but it didn't really matter. If you know, you probly knew then. If you don't, you probly don't care, didn't care and won't care. I teled this ski in a 196/197 combo with slightly different core construction foot to foot (see above comment about boozahol) and then put some <strike>purple</strike> <strike>magenta</strike> aubergine S914s on there. I was never as good as this ski needed me to be, but I and that ski made some sweeeeeet turns when I could handle it. Also, too, as well, a giant head print in the rained-on cream under Chair 5. - EWH</p><p>16. '01 Völkl P40. Step up to the plate. This one is a four seamer, about 97, 98 mph. Probly a little high, definitely inside, but so inviting you can't help but swing. If you're out in front, you don't even have to try. Just inside the foul pole in left, upper deck, a beauty. If you're a little behind, you may even foul it off your face. It'll bite ya. But if you get it right... I'm pretty sure the colour mattered with this one. Neither my red version, nor my white, blue, and red version skied as well as the orange I borrowed from that one guy in the Baker Demo Joint, which blew my shoes off. Also, the white one didn't handle well after I ripped a third of the base off on a sneaky shark fin rock on skiers' right of Green Valley the Bad Winter of '04-'05. Not sure why. Also, the lady at the old Sturtevant's in South Hill told me they weren't repairable, but Kenny Tataku told me later that he wished he'd been there cos he figure he coulda. I still haven't forgiven her.</p><p>15. '00-'01 Salomon Supermountain. Soft, flexible, forgiving, and if you pointed it and didn't care, dense enough to hang. Slarve that right footer over the knuckle at the top of Gabl's and then send it. It shared a few things with many good skis over the years: it had yellow (though not in the most copious quantity), it was ugly, it surprised people while flying under the radar as a second-tier model, and made friends with unlikely company. According to at least 2 Baker Lokes from back then, it teled like a Tua and actually got imported to the states, which Tua did for a while and then did not forever. Which was sad, cos I wanted them Tuas like some people want cheese or a Lamborghini. </p><p>14. '99 Salomon X-Scream Series. Fast, tons of metal, funk, yellow, weirdness, random things stuck on the topsheet, everything. Also '99. That was a good year. Did I say yellow? That was a theme then, the Turn Of The CENTURYYYYYY. Salomon was tryna polish its image, or change it, or refine, or, heck, I don't know. They green-lit (green-lighted?) some pretty wacky idears, like a ski that would go forward AND backward. Or the two sets of parallel bars glued to the topsheet. ProLink arms, they called 'em. Not sure what they did, but they caught yer attention. Funny thing is, Rossi and Atomic have stuff like that on their race rigs right now. (And no, that twin-tip Olin Mark IV from '74 totally didn't pre-date the TenEighty by a quarter century years. Not at all.) Anyway, a part of the mystique of the Scream Series was just how damn fast it felt if you screwed up. People still had bumper stickers with goofy slogans like "SHORT SKIS SUCK, BRATI!!" You had to rock a 195 instead of a more rational 177. And if you tried to slide around that one <i>Abies lasiocarpa</i> atoll skiers' left of Hamburger, and, well, didn't really actually slide the tails cos you were 19 and not that good a skier, and you got shot out into the chunder at Mach 2.37, the ski kinda giggled and said "I'm good at this! What else ya got?!" I drilled a few of 'em when I was workin for Brad, and if I remember correctly, they had two plates of metal, but not a metal topsheet. A base sheet and a mid-core sheet, with two cores and a cap. So, like, a macaron with a thick schmear of cream cheese frosting and some sprinkles. Except these macarons ate alligator teeth for brefixt and pooped out gold bullion.</p><p>13. '03 Rossi XXX. Don't try to tele it in a 195. Not that you would. I did, some days well, others pretty poorly. I also splatted on my face on Highway 542 while skating to work cos, well, sometimes highways aren't covered in snow. Even with some S914s and my Salomon Axe 9 boot with ProLink Spine--through-line is what I think the kids are calling it--it was a handful, but holy crap, was that a smooth ride. It's top 3 ever in the smoothness department, astride the same line as the Legend and the Stormrider. It had something called "freeride V.A.S." which was "visco-elastic" (I should start a marketing firm so I could also get paid to make $#!@ up) and a tapered metal topsheet and like, velvet stringers. It was also very powerful, and looked pretty <strike>ridiculous</strike> cool in the gondy at Whistler next to Dan Treadway and those over-the-head Oakleys. I just wish I had the stones to remount mine that are still in the sauna in Enumclaw. I think I even have an 900S that would go right in those old S914 holes. Hmm...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKeW65CdWqCJfKeyRvkdxAwiwcXRaAEZmaf_a5Vj90rl8ETvh7-lHmEjC4U4l1zeTlnRVT96cSbei77hKGAKeE-y11WkU_oTaQg7huKDfQqpwq0oLNzIJENyWUnPVd5O6E778x6hi0E4Ow6m4i8Ta_DXQQ_X21JkNG83SisInUbLcaYDpvCGyx5EHg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="494" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKeW65CdWqCJfKeyRvkdxAwiwcXRaAEZmaf_a5Vj90rl8ETvh7-lHmEjC4U4l1zeTlnRVT96cSbei77hKGAKeE-y11WkU_oTaQg7huKDfQqpwq0oLNzIJENyWUnPVd5O6E778x6hi0E4Ow6m4i8Ta_DXQQ_X21JkNG83SisInUbLcaYDpvCGyx5EHg=w640-h454" width="640" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Uff da.</i></div></i><p>12. The old Nordica Enforcer from whenever that was, I don't know. The last two years have been the longest decade. Anyway, the one with the ugly wizard topsheet. (Or was that that one "big mountain twin" Vōlkl from like '03?) Anyway, ugly. Still, it was metal, had no rocker, had a nice round tip like so many good skis around '09 or '010 or '011, and was 100ish mm of awesome like the Mantra to be noted later. Climbs like a gelada baboon and descends like a snake in a waterslide with rockets on its tail. Oh wait, that's bikes. O Great Nordica in the Sky, why did you not just bring that one back exactly the same except with a different but still weird and ugly topsheet graphic? Why? The current "Enforcer" is not the original. It is a pretender to the throne, like Peter the Meh, after Peter the Great and before Catherine the Great. (Why were so many folks we refer to as "Great" basically just murderous villains?)</p><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioZsW3P5n1SxVYfpNAQMssC_2zg69Vb8_OV2BYgZZpWCrGAf1juXBBEpbEcyUW82-CMIcqB31J_HXinvIngSi4ZTKETq6_e-9-lr9Ed3ZF6TG4lH5TzuSuO1DnRtFetpZtrMw_QnZiIejhKuOxJ85nXeOJxfJg9004_q7QUBjSNp_JsPP4TxX57-9K=w640-h426" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Uncle Vlad may be just as crazy and as murderous and evil, but his sartorial flair leaves something to be desired.</i></div><p>11. Vølkl Mantra, Mark II, somewhere like '09. A customer brought a brand new pair in to the shop. I don't know if I or LB drilled it. Duder came back like thirteen seconds later, fairly nonplussed. He said it skied like hot garbage mixed with a wolverine. We drilled it down to needing some detuning. I did some, to no avail. LB did some more, much aggressive, to no avail. I asked duder what his boot sole was, and coincidentally, it was the same as mine. We headed out, me on his new set, him on his old set. Midway down Iceberg Gulch, I was in love with the ski. We traded at the bottom of Rex, and skied the same run. I almost skied off into oblivion. Turns out his old Tyrolia FreeFlex 14s had developed some Tyrolia Twist, and made an otherwise real-dern-quick-for-almost-100mm ski into a wet hen. The mark II Mantra was one of a handful of skis in that 95-100 range that just get it.</p><p>10. '011 Nordica Fire Arrow. Amy says a lot of women's skis are wet seagull dirt. I believe her, cos, a, and most importantly, she knows her $#!@, and b, also most importantly, she skis real dern well and knows lots about skiing and turns and the four fundamentals and, like, flex patterns and stuff, and if she says there've been pretty much 3 or 4 good women's skis ever, then there've been pretty much 3 or 4 good women's skis ever. This was not a women's ski. Amy skied it with one of her Level-3-aspiring friends the winter before the spring we moved to Ashland, and she and Laura both said it was giggles. Like a good long-slalom ski, reboundy, damp, reboundy, turny, stable, held the edge longer than Jimi's guitar cable, and like, many more things. Also, the topsheet was ugly, there was all sorta tech, it was pressed in Mittersill, which is like Valhalla except for skis, may have even had a not-Marker system binding (system bindings are always a knock, but if they ain't Marker, they are 75% less of a knock) by Vist, which is like saying you have an EXT shock on your otherwise very Trek-ish downcountry sled. Those who know will nod knowingly and those who don't will try to pretend that they don't. . .um. . .don't. - EWH/AEP</p><p>09. Rossignol 9S 10.2 RC. I think. Sometime around '001. It's damp, boingy, manageable, turny, and, most importantly, it gots that 90s slalom gate deflector tip. With the race plate, it was a powerplant ski for a college gate basher, without, it's a ski to get back into the swing of things after a minor knee surgery you made into a major turning point in your mind. Amy skied it with the plate, both bashing gates in college and progressing up the PSIA ladder. I skied it without the plate, but with that one Salomon riser that had a stiffener thingie that really totally kinda did something, I think. Poweraxe, if I ain't mistooken. Anyway, that ski was worth chasing after. Real live. Yeah, yeah, putting race skis on here is a little weird, who cares. It was a good ski, and both Amy and I dug it for different reasons, and both as designed and as not designed. That speaks well. Also, it were yellow, and yellow skis from the turn of the century were tops. See the X-Scream Series, the inaugural AK Rocket, and the ever mooned-over Ten-Eighty. - EWH/AEP</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLlOWywY1nlmpwa-OfQXZo6SMVAKg1Wkxg3zo_Rko-TqHKYwYNKF8YOPzUWReo_pXbAqOqKM7EqWb96hXV95mJLihlpUEWZYYEO_Z9VNtWMKUyQ22hWG4UXkJ46WR7mAAAiAHz2-azSlsdU4cjqd-G1w_NUCCEPwsvSapXNeIGYXGBHvtC3aK_BID3=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLlOWywY1nlmpwa-OfQXZo6SMVAKg1Wkxg3zo_Rko-TqHKYwYNKF8YOPzUWReo_pXbAqOqKM7EqWb96hXV95mJLihlpUEWZYYEO_Z9VNtWMKUyQ22hWG4UXkJ46WR7mAAAiAHz2-azSlsdU4cjqd-G1w_NUCCEPwsvSapXNeIGYXGBHvtC3aK_BID3=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Gimmicky bat-wing tips</i></div><p>08. '010 Vølkl Kendo/Kenja. Kendo/Kenja the First. Much metal, much 88 mm. Too lively to float in more than about 6 or 7, but then, who cares. That's what ski swaps and demo sales are for. Where it fell slightly for us is it is not as damp as the Monster or the MX88, but for anyone who wants more snap and pop, that is probly a good thing. And I can still steal some Instabro's line below the Olympic Start Shack in the sun at 7 or 8 new while he's yelling that he's filming and have way more fun the he ever would cos he thinks you hafta film your line for it to matter and I don't. - EWH/AEP</p><p>07. '08 Vòlkl Katana. I met one of my best friends while skiing this thing. "Well, Mister Confident. Where are <i>you</i> gonna ski?" Holy Jerbus Toads, it was good. Tibial-plateau-deep out in O Meadows, chalk in Sasquatch, groomers even. All the ski mediums all lamented the breakable and maybe a little ill-conceived translucent UHMW (or whatever) plastic swallow-tail giblet, but I think it just added funk to an otherwise workaday sorta ski. Oh, no rocker, so there's that. 111 mms of givin' 'er. Much metal. Named after a sword.</p><p>06a. Head Joy line. Turns out I don't need as burly a ski as I thought. I actually kinda like having light ski. Makes hauling children around the mountain easier. Like any ski that isn't all the metal, it doesn't hold an edge as well as it could on an ice rink. But damn, they struck a vein with graphene, so much so that they put it in a lot of variations on the theme, including the men's frontside skis. Ted sold me my first pair. He handed them to me and said, "Do you want to ski 'em?" So I did, and when I got back to the lodge, he said, "Do you want to buy 'em?" and the only possible response was yes. They railed--I couldn't overpower them--and busted through crud, despite being 70-somethin underfoot. Ted gave me a good price, and it was a few years later before I realized they were the intermediate ski. Honestly, I couldn't even tell. I bought the Total Joy a few years ago. It's the only new ski I've ever bought for myself, which is why it made this list. It can't do everything, but it does just about everything else. - AEP</p><p>06. '012 Kästle <a href="https://www.enoreandmimigoski.com/2021/09/castles-in-sand.html" target="_blank">MX88</a>. Some jackass at Unofficial said it was the ski for rippin' Grandmas. He's right, cos a rippin lady in her 50s or 60s would definitely ski the shit outa this thing, but he's also wrong, and that's one hell of a backhanded compliment. Condescension and ascension all at once. Swipe that away, and yes, a rippin' Grandma could have a riot of a good time on it, and so can anyone with some technique and a little strength. Two (2!) plates of metal, a nice, dense wood core, some sorta special JuJu we're not allowed to understand, an ugly topsheet and that weird cutout in the tip that used to be orange but isn't anymore; this is the slightly more accessible version of the Monster. It was even built in Vorarlberg. (Or somebody stole Head's serial number stamp.) If you think it was only for discerning women in their late 50s, you are doing a disservice to the ski and to the women in their late 50s who unquestionably ski better than you, Barclay, and with more strength, and for longer. This is a Good Ski, full stop, and those women to whom you condescend are Good Skiers, full stop. Not "for a Grandma". Good Skiers, full stop. The knock on this ski is it isn't as quick to or as confident on the edges as I'd like. At 88mm, I'd hope for a bit (tiny bit) more firepower. So, no top 5. - EWH</p><p>05. '011 Blizzard Bodacious. (And Bonafide, but, I don't know, you knew that.) That ski was huge. At 117, it cannot be top 5, because it just won't be versatile enough, but that's okay. It's top 5. This is The Horse for The Course. Unless you're his sister, Ingrid, or Betsy, his Ma, Arne Backstrom skied with better technique than you and waaaaay more harder than you, and he designed it, including the then-new construction. He left us far too early. I never met him, but his father gave me the unmatchable and unmatched honour of mounting the bindings on the first board out of Mittersill in Arne's memory. I still cry when I tell the story. I cried when I drilled those beautiful skis, grateful for Brad putting the binding bench in the corner, facing the wall, with the Done Rack between me and the customers. I'm crying right now. That ski lived up to the hype. Even all the hipness surrounding it couldn't thin its legend. The only thing that could was the bean counters and marketing hacks who asked for, as always, a more friendly ski to sell to a broader audience. I do not agree with that. At all. That first ski did not back down, and did not let you down. Only you could let you down, and you probably did. I just wish the fairly strong Brahma skied as well, cos 88 mm is the best mm.</p><p>04. '021 Stôcklį <a href="https://www.enoreandmimigoski.com/2022/02/dancing-in-sun.html" target="_blank">Stormrider 95</a>, the recent one before the now one. A bootfitter I know here in town who works at a ski shop, let's call it Grünewald's cos I don't know if I'm allowed to divulge trade info, says they sold all sorta Stóckli this year. I asked about who bought 'em and he said "Let's just say they've read about 'em and had the money." He was circumspect and did not disparage, and I respect his tact. I do not have as much of my own tact when not on the clock, so I will say that there are a decent amount of folks on these skis that really don't know what they have, and don't care, much like most of the folks who demoed my MX88 before I saved them from the trash compacter. This ski, as I was reminded this morning while skiing and avoiding work, is about as versatile as it gets. Better on hardpack than skis 15mm narrower, easier to manœuver <i>auf</i> <i>der Wald</i> than skis with less firepower and more slarvy profiles, and so far no speed limit. Also, much metal, as always. </p><p>03. '014 Võlkl Kiku. Floats, turns, slarves, carves, even. Rocker, yes, but like, the whole thingie, so it doesn't ski confused or anything. Elongated Low Profile, I think <i>die Deutschen</i> called it. All the things but none of the bad things except coulda had a little metal cos every good ski deserves metal cos metal makes #1. Not metal is #5. Also, made in Straubing, which is nice, so #3. - EWH/AEP</p><p>02. '06-'08 Head Monster 88. It went by slightly different names over the years, and before this iteration was kinda techy and had a funky cap instead of a sandwich, but this was and still is the real damn deal. Race sandwich, metal (LIQUIDMETAL sung in the voice of Bruce Dickinson) topsheet, funky-shaped tip, full-length edge contact, a speed limit I have never found despite trying with two lengths and four skis with 6 different binding setups, and some real confidence in dang near anything. Even teleing in 6 inches of day old consolidated Copper Mountain cream. Yeah, yeah, LB broke a core just loading the ski on Cattle Crossing, but that's LB for you. - EWH</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7mSz1LS1CxhodgJBEwZFo0C5mLBlTuGrOxHdsv8hgF1iu0FaE94dk3hjdSSdNoQLtAkOT4djOnvNaiGShS9bNtVM3-4SWJFSr3QOGeNPB0crEuUiygkTJHS-5BLK6msazWX10V0HqTCrgwk4H5ldxJCUijs8oBZ9j6VSlFnUpmjsUpdQCF2Mov0jA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="560" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7mSz1LS1CxhodgJBEwZFo0C5mLBlTuGrOxHdsv8hgF1iu0FaE94dk3hjdSSdNoQLtAkOT4djOnvNaiGShS9bNtVM3-4SWJFSr3QOGeNPB0crEuUiygkTJHS-5BLK6msazWX10V0HqTCrgwk4H5ldxJCUijs8oBZ9j6VSlFnUpmjsUpdQCF2Mov0jA=w448-h640" width="448" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>YOU FORGOT YOUR SLEEVES, BRUCE!!</i></div><p>001. Blizzard Firebird HRC. Current, in case you think we're just crotchety jerks. If you can't ski it, I suggest you seek out a lesson or two cos we all can benefit from another person's input; this thing is what a ski should be, so you should <i>want</i> to ski it, like yesterday. (Except for how spendy it is. That's a little annoying.) Fast, slow, steering, laying railroad tracks like you were Enore tryna impress Mimi in the winter of '09-'010 [Ed: <i>he did</i>], if you have the power and the edge pressure regulation and the rotary and the cuff pressure and the tactical smarts and the technique (wow, I sound arrogant) and the 130 flex boot (or more) and a willingness to ignore the fact that certain people in certain circles will think you're preening for a very specific audience, this is the best that has ever been. Except in dreams. And if you complain that it doesn't float, well, maybe you don't get it. Whatever "it" is. Blizzard has names I don't care about for their technology and whatnot, but it has a full metal base sheet and a metal binding sheet, so that's two boxes ticked. The original Bodacious had that plus a full metal topsheet for a total of three sheets under foot, and the fact that this ski doesn't have as much metal keeps the HRC from being better than number one.</p><p><i>post script: There's a special place in my heart (and quiver) for true race skis, but they are not really all that accessible to the skiers who ski less than many days a week or who did not bang gates in college or chase the thirteenth level of PSIA mastery. It doesn't matter that most aging bums will claim they skied everything on race-stock GS and Super G boards back in '88, race skis just require technique and attention that isn't easy to come by or maintain. If I jump on the FIS-compliant slalom or GS skis, it takes me a run or two to catch up. I absolutely love how they ski, but I gotta be on my game, smashing that cuff. Not everyone wants or can handle that, nor is there any requirement of such; the ski is then less universal.</i></p><p>Alright. Time to go ski.</p><p> *According to me and Amy who knows lots. You're welcome.</p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comBoise, ID, USA43.6150186 -116.2023137-36.296412190835852 103.17268630000007 90 24.422686299999938tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-16174286799864391092022-02-08T20:05:00.003-07:002023-01-01T15:50:12.896-07:00Dancing in the Sun<p>By Eino Holm</p><p>Long-term review, Stöckli Stormrider 95</p><p>Skier: Eino Holm, age 27, 39, 40</p><p>109 kg, 176 cm, Type 3+ skier, 308 boot sole. (N-9.5, if you were doing the binding chart in your head, which I know you were.)</p><p>Locations tested: Bogus Basin, ID; Crystal Mtn, WA, back in the day, when this was the Stormrider DP Pro, and was, like, waaaaaaaaaay stiffer.</p><p>Length skied: 184 and 185 (I think. Advent of '008 is like, I don't know, 27 years ago.)</p><p>Bindungen: Flat. (Mounted with STH 16 today, some random demo binding back then. Let's say it was a 14 din Tyrolia demo binding. If you were there and you remember what binding was present, let me know. Write to us at I'm Somehow a Bigger Nerd Than Enore; The Small House with the Two Subarus, North End, BoyCee, Idaho, 837--)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjY5OpsWjgwX-UWFOOz7RW2N7XVIB7ynQW4dO63IFWywIwP_-SicHALIj8Fo44NBLgcguP-durytZnB1SYGBY8eRAKK9dAHgcaFUR4dkZkRQQTOyQqevOQNv5OxVcUalBoeAON2Bi4iytiiVIcGnuRcDmnYwIikHGfQKRkWur1pRJC4TdvPRcZzByEQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="660" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjY5OpsWjgwX-UWFOOz7RW2N7XVIB7ynQW4dO63IFWywIwP_-SicHALIj8Fo44NBLgcguP-durytZnB1SYGBY8eRAKK9dAHgcaFUR4dkZkRQQTOyQqevOQNv5OxVcUalBoeAON2Bi4iytiiVIcGnuRcDmnYwIikHGfQKRkWur1pRJC4TdvPRcZzByEQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>As is my prerogative, I'll address the various elephants and giraffes and capybara in the room; if you are actually interested in this ski, you are one of maybe three things as a skier and as a person: foolish, bougie, and/or discerning. Stóckli is one of those brands, like Kjus and Arc'Teryx and Mercedes, where performance is at the forefront, and yet the most common denumericator* is a willingness to outspend other people because in the right circumstances, those who know, <i>know,</i> and those who don't are people upon (pinkie up!) whom you've already chosen to look down.</p><p>Stôckli skis, at least at the retail level, are quite well made. (Not impervious; in '09 or '010 I pulled a screw on a ski formerly owned by the artist still known as Scot Schmidt with his cameraman filming me.) The hands-on feeling of the ski is that it's just, I don't know, different. There's a satin feel to the metal (first clue to the type of skier this ski works for) topsheet, something that is not present with any other ski I have <strike>cuddled</strike> skied. The on-snow flex feels just the same, silky and a little bit unsettling.</p><p>* <i>That's a word cos I wrote it.</i></p><p>-</p><p>The foolish: If you don't have a ready and willing power plant binding just sitting about like I did, the Stòckli is an even more expensive setup. Since it is flat and costs $1100 or more, you'll end up spending up toward $1500, depending on where and from whom you purchase. You don't want to mount just any binding, you know. You need an STH2 16, say, or a Pivot 15 in Forza colourway. A Tyrolia AAAttack2 16 GripWalk (to fit those fancy new bar-mode boots of yours). Gotta keep up appearances. Alternately, that money could buy two or three season passes at a decent ski area, or many, many, many burritos from Taco Del Mar.</p><p>The bougie: This Stõckli is the Audi A6 Allroad to, say, the Blizzard Rustler 9's used '015 Outback. Same purpose, same execution, just fancier. Anyone can get to the hill with good tyres and some patience, but the A6 will make you feel things. And it will help you glower at the PSIA Level III lady in her '015 Outback who skis better than you, cos you can afford to pay cash for a new A6 and she is making payments on her (gasp) 8 year old, dirty, used (shudder) Subie that basically anyone has access to.</p><p>The discerning: The Stœckli SR 95 is a really good ski. Surprisingly so. I went in thinking, "Eh, Aunt Nancy is paying, and when will I have this unbudgeted cash just laying around?" It is much more than that. Great edge hold for such a wide, manageably flexy ski. Decent float for something that is leaning toward all-mountainy. That silky ride. I would definitely enjoy a fancy Audi if I could afford it and if it came with a proper 6 speed manual, and it is no different here. Chop, up to 8", groomers that are harder than you expected, January chalk in the Bowl at Mt A, slush bumps at Killington in May, steering, high-angle carves, slarving through the local Intermountain willow whips, pretty much whatever you want, it is right there with you. I haven't found a hardpack speed limit yet. I'm certain I will, but it is much higher than the soft nose, short tail, and early taper would suggest.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJf_0RBhc62ieK0918H-o9OCiybYr9momdhG2NKpLWNF-957l1eOrpt9YMdCGr2QSAsYvxTE6h5BGLfaTEhcekDn_0lQWZ1tS1PvntrDRlPP91XLqHKUTCHEB73bE13rrsARUaOsIG74QnmgiVQFCyuJ91Y9MWc_Wc5bRrPhuZQY4f2YCi8wbtiYZE/s4032/Stockli on the chair.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJf_0RBhc62ieK0918H-o9OCiybYr9momdhG2NKpLWNF-957l1eOrpt9YMdCGr2QSAsYvxTE6h5BGLfaTEhcekDn_0lQWZ1tS1PvntrDRlPP91XLqHKUTCHEB73bE13rrsARUaOsIG74QnmgiVQFCyuJ91Y9MWc_Wc5bRrPhuZQY4f2YCi8wbtiYZE/w480-h640/Stockli on the chair.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Appropriate juxtaposition of bougie and venerable. Štoćkłį and Riblet. Chair 5, Bogus.</i></div><p><br /></p><p>The overall profile of the ski will look fairly current to most folks. Mild early rise tip, 80ish% edge contact, progressive flex. It's physically very stout underfoot, and softens quickly around the taper. I have found that at speed in deeper snow, this pattern is a little prone to a sort of bent-tip brake feeling, but if you ski the ski the way you should, which is with round turns and a slightly more traditional weight-unweight rhythm, the ski just keeps going. The old (ancient, even) DP Pro that I skied all those years ago would have had none of this. You simply would stand on the downhill ski and hold on for the ride, hoping those subalpine fir were spaced for what the ski was going to do anyway. It was fun when I was 28, and fit, and stronger than today, and skiing 13 days a week. I doubt I would giggle as dreamily today.</p><p>The metal topsheet of the ski might scare some folks who are actually paying attention. It might also make stronger skiers cast an eye or three. It's a bit like a car geek seeing an early 90s 911, noticing that it's a 5 speed manual, and then noticing that it's four wheel drive. Støckli calls it "TITEC PRO", which is short for Titanal Technology PRO, which is jargon for the anecdotally most common metal in skis today. Titanal, contrary to most brands' abbreviation--"Ti"--is mostly aluminium. It's a proprietary alloy, with a splash of zinc, a skosh of copper, an soupçon of magnesium, and for skis, a final silken anodisation that helps it bond to other materials well. It is an isotropic material, as are most metals, meaning it has the same strength in all directions for a given amount of materièl. This in turn means if you want it stouter, make it thicker, or flexier, make it thinner. Carbon, that other, less gilded material, must be laid up for desired attributes in multiple directions, as does fibreglass. (The older nerds out there might remember some 80s and early 90s K2 skis proudly proclaiming they were TRIAXIAL, which just meant that K2 was doing its job on those skis.) All this to say, METAL. Yes, it matters. This ski in carbon would probly break, ski like wet butt turds, and look ugly. Instead, it's a beautiful, smooth skiing wonder like its powerful forebear, but manageable and, dare we say, playful. I've read copy on this ski that argue with me, say it can't float, or is a plank, but let's get real, folks. If a ski above about 90mm doesn't float, it's the pilot, not the plane. That funky old Salomon Supermountain from back in the mists floated just fine, thanks, and it was a whopping 78 underfoot.</p><p>-</p><p>I wouldn't be me without a couple complaints beyond the price of entry. I really wish Stōckli would build this ski with the same exact everything from bootcentre forward, but add 6 more cms of length to the tail. I also wish they would have laid up a high speed race base instead of whatever they actually used. I've skied enough dry race skis that still glide like a bull on ice to know that this ski could be that much better. Those quibbles aside, if you've got a spare grand or three, and want to be bougie, foolish, AND discerning, well, have I got a deal for you!</p><p>-</p><p>Pros: Dominique Peret, Tina Maze, Marco Odermatt, Ilka Stuhec, Martin Cater, Scot Schmidt.</p><p>Cons: John Dillinger, Boss Tweed, Enedina Arellano Félix, Butch Cassidy.</p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.comBoise, ID, USA43.6150186 -116.202313715.304784763821154 -151.3585637 71.925252436178852 -81.0460637tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7584872623471476700.post-72551960964904345902022-01-30T22:23:00.002-07:002022-05-29T21:54:05.324-06:00These old records that haunt our dreams.<p>By Eino Holm</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVwENLZAklI7LuGFIIpv2__knD3E7GK-cnQuv1oUReHyXMOh8Y_qLQejnr6ttYAin3nMJnqIrD8Fje-spVX-7pCldujmpVILhtGLep8NTvguyr7C5A80nubX-I5ita1TK9pHPDhLS4Dl3Gh99K6W_w4CJarmzjToxxZ2fovIgYuctvnE1NKBdotMgz=s356" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="356" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVwENLZAklI7LuGFIIpv2__knD3E7GK-cnQuv1oUReHyXMOh8Y_qLQejnr6ttYAin3nMJnqIrD8Fje-spVX-7pCldujmpVILhtGLep8NTvguyr7C5A80nubX-I5ita1TK9pHPDhLS4Dl3Gh99K6W_w4CJarmzjToxxZ2fovIgYuctvnE1NKBdotMgz=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Them's some hairs.</div><p><br /></p><p>Highway 101 never really got off the ground, even though they had a handful of hits and their first vocalist, Paulette Carlson, has one of <i>those</i> voices. They were decidedly neo-trad country before Clint Black and Alan Jackson really broke the dam, but after Dwight. Not really skiing music, when you think of it, but that doesn't matter. Given some of the $#!@ Matchstick used during the Ski Movie years, one apparently needs to listen to horrible noise with some dreadful misogynistic posturing and terrible lyrics to really send it. I prefer to listen on the way to and fro, and then just be in my own head listening to the conifer whisper while gettin' after it. I am sensitive, you know. An artiste.</p><p>Long about Madras, if you grew up like me, you realise this really isn't Kansas anymore. Nor is it the Wet Side. That first time was the first time I'd really seen the dry side. It's open country, sage and bunchgrass; if yer payin attention there are trailers and cheatgrass and truck stops as well. The Cascades over Blue Box Pass aren't really all that high, yet they are effective <a href="https://forecast.weather.gov/glossary.php?word=OROGRAPHIC#:~:text=NOAA's%20National%20Weather%20Service%20%2D%20Glossary,such%20as%20hills%20or%20mountains." target="_blank">orography</a>. Madras gets a little more than twelve inches of precip in the water year. If we're feeling poetic, I'd call that a couple drops of trillium nectar north of being Desert. If we're feeling poetic. I don't remember Madras at all, other than the Taco Time at some intersection or other. A popular internet mapping service (<a href="https://bikesnobnyc.com/author/famousoriginalbikesnob/" target="_blank">thanks, Eben!!</a>) says it's permanently closed. It seemed to be around dusk, or maybe later, every time we hit town all those years ago. I still don't know how Ma and Pa could even afford to take a ski vacation, let alone one that today feels as ritzy as heading to Sugarbush on Spring Break from The New School.</p><p>From these trips, at least one or two in the old Bronco II, I remember three albums. Dwight's <i>Guitars, Cadillacs, Etc., Etc., </i>Highway 101's second record, and some to-me unknown Merle Haggard collection that I think, correctly or otherwise, led off with "Rainbow Stew". Of the three, great though they all are, it's Paulette's plaintive alto that stands out for me. And, I mean, who can resist a country song with somebody named "Cactus" bangin on them drums? Not me. When those high desert lights get to stretching off to the distance, some Mojave dive-haunting honky tonk dripping with <i>Opuntia</i> glochids seems to fit the bill. Paulette's midwestern roots notwithstanding. They weren't the most authentic band around, with three quarters of the original lineup being session guys, but since when do most seven year olds even know what that means? I did not. Besides, Mr Tambourine Man was mostly the Wrecking Crew, save Jim McGuinn's 12-string. I merely absorbed that heartbreak, the anxiety, the beat, and importantly, that twang. Twang and ponderosa are like Athens and a nice Rickenbacker.</p><p>Mt Bachelor, the volcano, stands above the plains in the same exact way that every other Cascade volcano south of Stampede Pass does. This part of Oregon is so crowded, though, that without the association of chairlifts and ski vacations Bachelor remains small. The Sisters to the north, then Seekseekqua, then Wy'East, all stand taller and more massive. Broken Top to the north is more complex in shape, and the more remote peaks south of Willamette Pass are just, well, mysterious. I didn't even know McLaughlin existed until I was damn near 30. From Mark and Liz' ranch out a little southeast of Bend, one sees a fun jumble of peaks, some 20 or 30, that are certainly or at least most likely all volcanic. Bachelor, the volcano, is one among many. To me, a six or seven year old kid, Bachelor was the biggest thing in the world. It really doesn't matter that Tahoma loomed over Southwood Elementary at home, bigger than life, or that the Root Chakra of the World, Shasta, is even bigger than Tahoma. Tahoma was local, and for some reason it seems most skiers equate local with somehow diminished and not, I don't know, <i>enough.</i></p><p>All three of us brothers were enamored of their detaches. At least if memory serves. Pine Marten and Outback were quads, early Doppelmayrs. (Pine Marten has since been updated.) Summit was exotic. At the time, it was a Doppelmayr triple, one of the earliest detaches out there. Sure, sure, Byron and crew built detachable mining trams in the 19th century, but, you know, video or it didn't happen. Summit had faded green slats for the seat back, ran at whatever speed they did then, which was slower than me when I wanted to <strike>carve</strike> power-wedge Beverly Hills at Mach 7-Year-Old. We were comparing Pine Marten to Rex, an early Poma detach, which today seems silly cos both are just fine, but then seemed like no comparison at all. Doppelmayr FTW. I think the entirety of our experience was that Bachelor was new, and distant, and fancy, and like, Pole House #2 in Sunriver was tops, whereas Rex was local. That misapprehension again, that anything local is less than anything distant.</p><p>I remember the view from that little loft bedroom, looking directly at Bachelor in the Central Oregon sunrise. Lowland ponderosa fading to montane <i>Tsuga</i>. I remember Monday night wrasslin' on the cable TV. That old Bronco II that Ford decided to resurrect but not really. Battleship. Spaghetti and French bread. (Why is that a thing in the States?) J-O dropping his glove off Rainbow and never finding it. Sidestepping up to <a href="https://skiliftblog.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/img_6528.jpg" target="_blank">Summit</a>, tryna huck all my 50 or whatever pounds off the rollers on Cliffhanger, or hitting Boomerang under the Outback chair after lunch and finally understanding moguls--I thought; I was 9. Hot chocolate with cinnamon at the Pine Marten Lodge. These things we build into mythology when really they're just things. A good turn or two.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgi9wNq0fc9qhzPfvK8XXmfGPYQ--dvXmSt9DQmiE4qWq3UrIJf6cnW-t1YyC_eri7trwl6ES9qtrpv9qmm3ArFiWAhM8wCi4eIMqHbbl9JuWpZwQNJAQFtxxh0ESF25u7tsWBrNDEoLPGyn0F8735NM9ePrKppC3iVCyeTranHCK_EAZ8FHIjJNhAJ=s468" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="468" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgi9wNq0fc9qhzPfvK8XXmfGPYQ--dvXmSt9DQmiE4qWq3UrIJf6cnW-t1YyC_eri7trwl6ES9qtrpv9qmm3ArFiWAhM8wCi4eIMqHbbl9JuWpZwQNJAQFtxxh0ESF25u7tsWBrNDEoLPGyn0F8735NM9ePrKppC3iVCyeTranHCK_EAZ8FHIjJNhAJ=w640-h430" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The old Summit triple and J.O., late 80s</div><p><br /></p><p>Vince Gill's <i>When I Call Your Name</i> is the Snoqualmie Valley, heading up to Stevens. The 4th movement of Brahms' 1st is Alpental. The Desert Rose Band's <i>True Love</i> is the 2.30 employee bus down from Crystal in a last-gasp inversion, late February, parking lot dust on the floor and that one suicide lane by the mill, the one I'd use on tourists who were tailgating me. I'd slow just enough that they'd get even closer, antsy to get to Enumclaw and whatever it was they NEEDED to get on to beyond that, like the Ski Inn or 169 or Renton (It's Ahead of the Curve!) or whatever, and at the last chance I'd slide left into the middle lane and all that dump truck dust from the the gravel pit would explode and when I could see them again in the rearview, they'd be a handful of car lengths back, whatever important thing they couldn't wait to get to not quite as important.</p><p>-</p><p>Axel Jaffee passed away a few years ago, I don't know, 8, 10, 12 years, somewhere in there. He (along with my friend and co-conspirator Dustin) taught me to swear. He also was in his 60s when we carpooled my first year bumping chairs. Dustin and Peter and I worked with Alex over the summer, after the <a href="https://www.mtbaker.us/the-mountain/snowfall-statistics/" target="_blank">storied</a> Winter of '99, and in the fall Axel and I were buddies. He had an old, slow, two wheel drive short-bed Ford pickup in faded white, with sand bags in the bed between the wheel wells and the cab for traction. I had my front wheel drive '81 Tercel 5 speed. I think my snow tyres cost $25 a piece including studs. I never did get that car stuck. Anyway, Axel, he had maybe two records in that truck. Don McLean's <i>American Pie</i>, and then his "buddy" Julio Eglesias. No clue what that one was, but it had "To All the Girls I've Loved Before<i>"</i> with Willie Nelson, and I just couldn't take it. I'd tune out and watch the <i>Pseudotsuga</i> and lowland <i>Abies</i> slide by, hoping it'd turn to snow before Silver Springs.</p><p>That winter, '000, I was pretty certain listening to female singer-songwriters would draw me closer to either of the two women I couldn't get out of my head. (To this day, I am grateful they tolerated my utter uselessness and that I still get to call each a good friend, distance and time changing all in its path.) Along with Jonatha Brooke and Tori Amos, I had Mary Chapin Carpenter's <i>Stones in the Road</i> stuck in my craw. Axel for some reason would think the volume in his truck was petering out after the first song, even though the song had simply ended. He'd turn the volume way up, uncomfortably high. The second song, "House of Cards", starts with a loud kick and snare, and those tiny speakers always sounded broken. I'd commandeer the volume knob from there, until the next time we'd listen to the record when he'd do it again. </p><p>That winter wasn't particularly big, especially since it followed the Big Winter of '99, but we still got good snow for most of it. Many cycles we'd get snow down to the river. There was snow in Greenwater most of the season. It passed like all those conifers bending under their blankets, the dark stands of timber my buddy Todd calls "killin woods". I never knew if Axel actually liked <i>Stones in the Road</i>, or if he simply tolerated it cos it's a fairly straightforward record, easy for the uninterested to tune out. I still enjoy the record, and some of those mid-90s social commentaries still resonate. I still laugh inwardly every time those twin drum beats hit.</p><p>If I was driving, if Axel was in a talkative mood and I wasn't, I'd put Tori Amos or Jonatha Brooke on, and those soothing voices would put him to sleep. Usually by the Sand Flats, at latest by the bottom of the Boulevard. <i>I know I have been driven like the snow. . .</i></p><p>-</p><p>The next Winter, I bumped chairs at Baker. I'd headed to Bellingham to finish school, AA under my wing and a BA in writing on the horizon, but life gets in the way sometimes. This one lady, Amrah, we were talking at the bottom of 5 one day, making a list of pros and cons. It's funny to think that little list led me here, out in the desert, 21 years later, but that's definitely the way these things tend to go. </p><p>I'd attempted to register for Winter quarter, but some compounding mistakes on the colleges' part--with some ignorance and a lack of curiosity on my part--added up to me being without actual admission credentials. When I asked why I'd been able to register for class back in August, the dude at the registrar's office sighed in a condescending manner and, Eino-phrasing here, said, "D'uh! We give you a quarter's length grace period. Yer sposeta figure it out." I asked why no one had let me know that I was derelict in whatever it was, and he just said it was my job to know or find out my status. Turns out GRCC hadn't shipped my transfer degree/AA up to Western, only a class transcript. I'd only been admitted to Western on state transfer regs, so classes and grades (3.49 gpa) and strong SAT scores be damned, I was only accepted to University based on token agreements. After hanging my Grandmother's old cordless landline in its cradle and gassing up the GL, I high-tailed it the 115 odd miles south, grabbed my degree, then headed back north. In the morning, I got my admission straight, but I was at the back of the line, and missed out on every class I could have put toward this phantom writing degree.</p><p>On the cons side, Amrah wrote "harder to restart than continue," and she could not have been more correct. I took Winter quarter off to ski. Now I'm a 40-year-old English major with no actual credits toward that major and no fancy paper to back my hubris up, but with, I don't know, 1500-odd days on snow and countless turns, and the memory of Amrah rewinding <i>Dulcinea</i> over and over on the tape deck so she could hear "Something's Always Wrong" again, and again, and again, them killin woods slipping by in the dark. I only had a few cassettes in that red GL wagon. <i>Ropin' the Wind</i>, <i>August and Everything After</i>, and <i>Dulcinea</i>.</p><p>In among the decent snow that January, Amrah, some dude named Andy from Mount Vernon who did. like. binding repair or fry frying, and a lady from South Africa whose name is escaping me, and I had time to take the Tsawwassen ferry over to the Island. It's an incredible ride, across the more northern/less western of the two northwestern-most corners the lower 48, through the Gulf Islands, landing at Schwartz Bay on the north end of the Saanich Peninsula. It was cold, wet without any rain, and we huddled on the deck so we could watch those mysterious islands drift past and the gulls ride the ferry's slipstream. We slept on the floor of a float house in Victoria's Inner Harbour, owned by I think an older woman who had at some point dated the lady from South Africa's Pa at some point in the hitherto. Or something like that. The gentle swells of the Inner Harbour, combined all the driving I'd been doing as the sole owner of a car, knocked me out early. In the morning, we headed back east. Across the water and up the Nooksack, through all that endlessly deep conifer wood, up the lower Arm to the E-Lodge, and then I don't even know where one of those kids is. In the three days off the hill, I'd missed three days of skiing. The next winter, I decided that wouldn't do, and by July I'd been on snow 127 days. I only missed possible ski days if I was anærobic from too many days straight in the deep. 800" in a season is not a time to be gallivanting, and so I did none of the sort.</p><p>At the dock in Tsawwassen, there were giant screens to convey informations and entertainment. (I will not utter that most horrific of portmanteaux.) One could tune the car radio to the correct FM station, and the audio would come alive. Or that's what the ferry folks wanted. That day, they just looped Our Lady Peace's "In Repair<i>"</i> for the entire two hour sailing wait. It's not a bad song, and I still enjoy hearing it every year or two, but that's a lot of repeats. Maybe <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5FEj9U-CJM" target="_blank">that's just how the Canadians do</a>.</p><p>-</p><p>School of Fish's Human Cannonball is driving the ol' puke-orange Tercel up Chinook in the Spring, nothing specific lyrically, just full throttle alt-rock that fit in during the Grunge era. It was loud, a little off-kilter, much distortion. Those hairpins and <i>Abies lasiocarpa</i>. I spent my 21st up there, shuttling road shots with John John Rutherford's Pa, John Rutherford. We got after it pretty good, skiing from morning until almost dinner time. The last time climbing into the GL, my left hamstring locked up like I was still playing football.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhM7uwu_-dNO-X7-YtV8nNeyxmmRikp4YEfEDZLMUF9Wqbtc2lvv_P0ldCPZ-zdO83MA2RifAIBYWkyMBg1wRqwIH-K5gyEQyWheaukEPPggJIGPkosmnI3OjZvb7U6p_A88PakrxkLWT0FubLT6zzjpuc9xsLjtLytgYOTJmttFCoJCsSyzr54P2uO=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhM7uwu_-dNO-X7-YtV8nNeyxmmRikp4YEfEDZLMUF9Wqbtc2lvv_P0ldCPZ-zdO83MA2RifAIBYWkyMBg1wRqwIH-K5gyEQyWheaukEPPggJIGPkosmnI3OjZvb7U6p_A88PakrxkLWT0FubLT6zzjpuc9xsLjtLytgYOTJmttFCoJCsSyzr54P2uO=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Way up here, it's crystal clear.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">(That one corner's hiding down there, just above the soup. Behind that one Doug fir.)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p>The Turnpike Troubadours' albums, all four, hit pretty hard here in the desert. I don't care why.</p><p>Turning the corner above the new Stack Rock trail, that goofy 90 degree left, where before the trail, you'd find less expensive cars and some Fred Meyer winter clothing and $8 discs or garbage bags, you'll now see a new Defender in amongst the new Outbacks and new F250s. The awkward, less-than-thought-out jargon for the corner was "Ghetto Sleddin'". Today, with the addition of a trail, it's a "trailhead."</p><p>Evan Felker's plaintive voice and Kyle Nix' roughly, expertly sawn fiddle, I don't care what day it is anymore. Sometimes it's above the capping layer, sometimes it's puking, some days it's just mare's tails and faded blue denim above. Ponderosa mixing into the struggling, mistletoe-addled Doug fir. <i>The country was cold, with the sun westward sinking; it's good to be back in this place. My hands around a Belgian-made Brownin', my mind on the lines of her face.</i> Experience. Something off-handed, but still meaningful. McMurtry's "30-year crush."</p><p>The dying fir slides past, if there's some snow I'll goose it just a bit to try and egg the engineers over in Shibuya City on a little, hope I can get sideways before the ABS stabs at the rotors and that stern voice says NO FUN FOR YOU. "How good does it feel?!" Sometimes I slip that CD in cos a) I'm old, now, and b) dag, it sounds good. It hurts, too, sometimes. Yesterday, I was droppin the knee for a third of the Throne per turn, 8-10 new and the maze at the bottom of 6 overfull, Pa laughing at me and also--hopefully--with me. "The whole line was watching, you know." Today, I'm 40, mysterious knees draining my youthful impudence. I'm afraid to drop the knee at all.</p><p>The punchline to the joke is that when I hear Evan sing "you belong in these hills," I'm seeing Grass Mountain, and the Sisters, and Carbon Ridge. Corral Pass, and Suntop, the White and the West Fork, Lonesome Lake and the Dalles. Governor's Ridge, and Yakima, and Naches, and Sheep Lake. The upper Silver Creek drainage and the King. Pa quoting Clint Black. <i>The lights are on, but nobody's home.</i></p><p>- -</p><p><i>Title from Zoë Muth's "What Did You Come Back Here For?"</i></p>Enore and Mimihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12984030768206325050noreply@blogger.com13000 SW Century Dr, Bend, OR 97702, USA44.0028937 -121.6790714-32.465265161485135 97.6959286 90 18.945928600000002