From a trail called 'Life'

Clarity

2012-01-17T22:38:00.000-09:00

There's nothing fun about "below zero."
After literally weeks of incessant storming, the skies have cleared, and the orb of fire has reappeared in the sky, flying just a little higher than it did whenever he was last seen, sometime ago.
The thing about clear weather in January in these parts, is that it usually equates to deep cold.
I'm not talking Interior Alaska cold, like -50s or anything, which is what areas like Fairbanks see this time of year, more like -0s to -20s. I realize that Interions wouldn't bat a frozen eye-lid for Southcentral in times like these, but I didn't move here to play try and get frostbite either.
At the apartment, which lies in the toe of the Anchorage inversion zone, the mercury has struggled to climb above the 0 mark under the "F" column these past few days, while lows at night have dipped to about -10. A few hundred feet above us, deeper into the inversion, temps are a good 10 degrees warmer. Below us, they're 10 degrees colder.
Toward Anchorage's coast with Cook Inlet, temps again move up a bit.
This weather pattern is typical in mid-winter here.
In some ways, these days of crisp scenery, snow-clad trees, breathless winds and temps cold enough to crack the base of decades old trees in the middle of the night, are not much different than the ideal days of July that are so often equated with summer. It's just a state of mind.

On Saturday Rachel and I headed to Turnagain Pass to make some turns and tour around the Center Ridge area. Center Ridge, as its name implies, is sandwiched between the two prominent peaks, Tin Can and Sun Burst, and protrudes a little over 500 feet above the valley floors of Tin Can and Lyon creeks, to its north and south, respectively. The area is heavily treed, low-angle, and gets boatloads of snow. The Turnagain Pass NOAA Snowtel site is located at 1,800 feet on the ridge, and on Saturday was registering a snowpack depth of 80 inches (it has since subsided some as the snow settles over time).

This compact car-sized snow mushroom would have easily buried and likely killed me if I could have released it. Then Rachel would have been able to enjoy a ski in peace!

Sunburst seen through the trees.

Climbing with the south-end of the pass in the distance.

Temps were -3 when we left the car in the morning, though up the ridge they felt above zero. Temps these cold make the snow dry and very slow. This was ideal for Rachel, who is still getting used to the concept of actual snow and powder. When we got back to the car in the evening the car registered a temp of -13, and my skins failed on the tour back.

Kickstep Peak.

On Sunday Brian and I headed north to Peak 4068 in the Government Peak area of Hatcher Pass. We were drawn chiefly by the lack of winds in recent days and expected lack of crowds. Summit Pass had been buffed out up by high-winds as the weather pattern changed, and showed signs of dangerous instability in its snowpack, while Turnagain was getting lots of attention from skiers and borders.
We chose Hatcher area for lack of winds in recent days and the 4068 area as the bowl was relatively high and would thus be warm, not mention it was partially sunlit.
We were right on all counts, except the wind. While the last few days had been calm, the fifth Chinook of the 11-12 winter had hammered Hatcher and left upper-level snow quality variable. We enjoyed sun and a good uptrack through the day regardless, making a summit run and two runs in the 4068 Saddle.

Peak 4068, named for its elevation and lack of any other name, had a skinner to the top with one set of tracks off the top to the looker's left and another in the sun to the right.

Near the top, some of the locals were out sunning themselves.

Brian nears the summit.

From the summit, looking the Independence Mine State Park area. The squiggle lines in the valley floor are groomed XC trails.

Our tracks and the tracks of some others who followed off the summit.

We were treated to a gorgeous sunset.

This weather

2012-01-11T23:01:00.001-09:00

A full moon hovers clear above a snow-covered land. White mountains catch the light, tossing it out over the coated forests that carpet their feet.
In this magical land of colorful skies and fairytale forests, the denizens appear to live happily; frolicking little snow creatures that glide upon magic boards that whisk them wherever they wish to go.
But this land is not what it appears.
Over their shoulders, the snow creatures know, a wicked demon is watching and writhing, seething with fury, her anger grows more ferocious by the day.
Without a second's notice she'll spin upon them, throw her head back into the cold, night air obscuring the stars and the moon. With wild white hair flying as she shakes her head, the snow will rise up vertically in plumes from the ground upon it once sat, and the demon will shriek, a shriek that's pitch builds and builds. The white robes that cloaked he forests will fly away in a stinging spray, and a roars of wind bends tree to the point that they simply uproot from the frozen earth and collapse in defeat. The snow creatures cover their faces as the witch's hair whips their faces, running for the cover of their lowland retreats, praying that the rooves over their heads will stay put through it all.
-And that's just what the National Weather Service has to say about things lately.

Southcentral AK is getting pummelled this season. Some years are snowy, some cold, some windy. This year has been all of the above. Coastal villages of Prince William Sound have seen snow totals of over 20 feet. Such a number is not shocking for that area when talking seasonal totals, but it's not even mid-January.
Here in Los Anchorage we are at a cumulative 80 inches as of this writing, with a supposed additional 6-18 inches forecasted to fall in the next 36 hours. Average annual snowfall for Alaska's largest city is about 70 inches, and the all time record is around 132 inches, set in the winter of 1954-55. Snowfall is common well into April in these parts.
But the season is as fickle as it is long. We've also seen a surprising number of "Chinook" events - sub-tropical blasts of warm, wet air that regularly cause wind gusts to exceed 100 MPH along the coast and higher elevations. Anchorage has seen five of these thus far this winter, with several other strong fall storms that preceded that.
Additionally, temps have not shied away from the negative mark, and though no records are being set in that arena in Southcentral yet this year, the Interior regions of the state have dipped to the -50s several times thus far.

This strange combo has created a fairytale feeling for the environment, where conditions have gone from fairy tale perfect to nightmare in matters of hours.

Whatever it takes...

Here's a slew of photos from the last few weekends out and about.

December 31, 2011, Colorado Peak: "Skied with Dan and Brian (Mike forgot his boots). Four laps on main run using Pete's old skinner. Cold but fast (single-digit temps), though the snow slowed later. 4,500 vertical feet."

January 2, 2012: Tenderfoot traverse: "Skied a sunset run with Rachel. Went up Tenderfoot Creek and came down the ski hill."

January 8, 2012, Wolverine Peak's center ridge: "Brian and I got dropped off at Prospect Heights TH by Rachel with the intention of skiing Wolverine Saddle Bowl. At the rocks the winds was blowing and we decided to make a run in the hemlocks to see if weather would abate. Wind on the ridgeline was fierce and cutting, blowing lots of snow, but exceptional skiing on the westward side into the trees. Four short laps there before descending back down to the house, 10.7 miles, ascent=4.1k vertical feet, descent=5.4k vertical feet).

Home for the Holidays

2011-12-26T22:56:00.000-09:00

6:00 p.m. AKST Thursday, December 22, 2011: Snow is falling heavily across the Anchorage Bowl in Anchorage, Alaska. My planned 18-mile skate ski has been buried under the four inches of of snow that's fallen since mid-afternoon, and I'm now working up a serious sweat on classic skis, fretting, "Why does she do this to me?"

This tempest, she pulls at my strings. For weeks, she's screamed and howled, then showered me in love, only to throw another tantrum and leave everything in ruin.

The snow is falling so hard now that it's begun to accumulate between my glasses and the bottom of my cap. I reach up with a pole-strapped hand and flick away the icy mass several times, trying not to slip out. I suck at kick-waxing and I can't get enough kick but the fresh snow is slowing my glide.

This was supposed to be a quiet weekend. We were to go to Sterling and hang at the fishing lodge, get out of town for a few days and relax.

When I checked the weather less than 24 hours ago, the forecast was unimpressive to say the least.

When I checked it before I left for my ski, Anchorage was under a blizzard warning and on the Doppler, a blob clung tightly to what is the general vicinity of Anchorage and the Mat-Su Valley, while the normal snow hot spots and the Cen-Pen saw but a few passing whisps.

It was on. The storm had arrived, as high above in the Anchorage Front Range, the Chugach peaks that form the backdrop of everyday life for the vast majority of Alaska's population, the snow too dumped, and yet, after four storms blasted through in the previous three weeks - two with winds topping 120 MPH - not a flake was stirred.

On Friday morning the FR ridgetop weather stations revealed that the winds had not blown overnight, and the forecasts called for none. This is abnormal for the FR to say the least. In the driveway, a little over a foot of light density snow had accumulated overnight.

The thing about my driveway is, that with a short jaunt through a neighborhood trail and a few skiffs across one road, I can access all of the FR without touching another road. I can't say exactly where I live here, but, suffice to say, it's one of the best places I can imagine for getting out.

Once was a day, years ago, where almost all of my great adventures started from base camp home. Long bike rides, hikes, backcountry ski, you name it, I grew up at the foot of the Green Mountains, an old logging road lead from my front yard to where ever I wished to go.

Those years seemed a thing of the past, until I moved to, of all places, the confines of Anchorage. So, long before the sun rose on Friday, I set off to reclaim something I thought I lost.

The STA trails I mountain bike in summer (also out my back door) turned out to be one of the biggest challenges of the journey from home to summit.

Up early, I beat most of Los Anchorage to the trails, and was so "fortunate" to break trail for about three hours through all the fresh snow. The STA trails down low were perhaps the worst, as their trough shape caused snow to collapse on top of my boards.

Sunrise from "Dog Poo Overlook" just past Prospect Heights Trail Head.

Past Prospect Heights Trail Head I was sure I would find the track of a skier or two, eager to stride in the fresh snow. Alas, I was disappointed to find none, and realized I would instead have to break trail for another 2 miles before I would hook into Jack's trail leading to the summit of Wolverine.
Up in the cradling bowl of Wolverine Peak the snow had gone from a foot to about 2.5, and was dry and light.
In the flattish light, I watched Jack and Adrian make a descent. I was confused, they disappeared.
The snow was so light it just billowed into a giant cloud creating a continuous face shot the whole run. If we didn't breathe carefully or use facemasks, the powdery snow was easily inhaled.
It sounds terrible, but this is the kind of snow that only happens in dreams and big-budget ski flicks.
We were in neither, but incredibly stoked.

A beautiful sunset unfolded as the sun made it below the receding storm's horizon to reveal a foggy Cook Inlet and a distant Mount Redoubt.

Basically, my day started about where the long straight line that is Abbott Road ends, 6 miles as the trails wind distant from this shot.

Adrian begins his final descent through the alpenglow.

A didn't post a lousy picture, this is just what the skiing looked like. That's Jack in there.

See above comment.

Top of the Gasline, a straight descent with a few short rolls that spit me back out a short shuffle home.

Jack offered to give me a lift home, but gosh darn it, I was determined to ski from my home and back. So I headed back down, crosscountry snowboarding back down to the Campbell Creek crossing. I made a short shuffle back up to the Prospect Heights Trail Head, before re-assembling the board for one last descent down the Gasline Trail. From there, it was a short shuffle back to my house.

Hilltop Ski Area.

The trek home gave me the chance to take some pictures of a place I spend a lot of time, the Hillside Park at night. This is about a two-minute drive from my house, and these are the trails I ski nearly every night. The Hilltop Ski area is a little ski hill that runs in the afternoons and weekends, and has a very healthy business of young'uns tearing it up. Every now and then I catch conversations and shouts, "Hit it! Hit it!" "Aw siick!" that make me smile and remember when that was me and all my pals, terrorizing the Snow Bowl.

The trails are lite better than your average city street, and far better maintained.

Shuffling along through the neighborhood trail. My tracks were still unsettled, eight hours later. This is the snow you only ever hear about.

By the time I made it back to my backdoor, it was dark again, and had been over eight hours and 14 miles.

On Christmas Eve Day, having thoroughly tracked out the northerly bowl of Wolverine Peak, Jack Adrian and I went over to Rusty, a peak that forms the terminus of Wolverine's southern ridge.

A heavy fog covered most of Anchorage.

My body, decimated from the previous day, begged for rest, but snow of this quality is rare, and snow of this quality in the FR could only be described as a Christmas miracle. I passed on the backdoor departure, and Rachel gave me a lift to Prospect Heights. On the drive up, I realized how far, and how much elevation sat between!

The snow had settled a little overnight, but not much.

Light was flat, and though the snow was good, it was baseless. Our boards all found tundra and rocks. One left a deep, ugly gouge in the split.

I mostly took this for my dad as I headed home through the neighborhood.

The trails were packed in much better and my exit was far easier. I still skied down the Gasline and shuffled home, smiling the whole way, because I could.

On Christmas, Rachel and I relaxxed as snow feel outside. In the afternoon we carried on a Christmas Day tradition of poaching a ski run over at Hilltop.

Hoar frost that formed on the surface of the trees served as the perfect bed surface to catch the fat, light flakes.

I told her that her new goggles looked badass.

The runs at Hilltop are flat, very flat, but still fun.

Skiing off our little branch of the neighborhood trail to the Anchorage Ski Hut, AKA, our house. Snowing hard by the time we got home.

High in the mountains on Christmas Day, a wind blew, and though, by FR standards it wasn't much to speak of, the light snow was quickly transformed.
Jack, Eruk, Lucy and I hoped the northerly gully of Wolverine would collect it, but instead we found a thick, low-density slab up high.
It was a day for fat boards or one board. The split, with a touch of speed, lifted up ontop and I was able to make nice consistent turns. Skis, struggled though.

Lucy loves all snow.

Tracks are often a good indicator of snow quality. When they look like this, they can mean two things, the snow sucks, or the operator isn't smoothe, or sometimes both. Jack and his symmetrical mountain squiggles are the subject of a number of beautiful shots on this blog and many others, so, in this case it's the former.

In the morning Foraker and Denali were out, though they disappeared later as yet another storm worked its way in.

Between the northern sub-summit we skied off and Wolverine Peak, a herd of sheep were grazing.

The mud flats, low tide, lit up by a slow-setting December sun.

Labeled with different routes from the weekend.

Just because, fall multi-sporting

2011-10-12T22:26:00.000-08:00

Reports have trickled in since late August of winter's most dedicated fans cranking turns on the first snow of the 2011-2012 season since late August, from Hatcher to the Kenais.
I'm all for a seasonal lifestyle, especially with my summer sports. In Alaska, you can ski all 12 months of the year if dedicated, but in the middle of the cold winter months, good luck finding any soft, warm earth or even pavement to ride.
That being said, there are times of year when skiing and riding are both good, and plentiful, and this weekend that was the case.

On Saturday Mike C, Dan, Alex and I headed to Crow Pass hoping to find a little white on Summit/Jewel glaciers.
The smallish remnant glaciers are within two + hours of the Crow Pass trail head outside Girdwood, and are popular early season destinations for powder-starved Anchorage-ants.
We left under cloudy skies, and determined that given our general condition (suck, except Alex who was ready to rip after chasing the snow up high all summer) and visibility, we would head up and scratch out a run and get out if we were socked in.

I stoke this map from Jack, whose skied extensively in this area over the years. We did not follow Patrick's Line.

The skies parting.

As we neared the top of the Pass and our exit into the valley that cradles the two small glaciers, the skies began to part and we were stoked on the thought of good visibility in a place better known for soup.

Dan, on the glacier, Crystal Lake and the height of land for Crow Pass below. A small Forest Service cabin is just to the lower right of the lake for good perspective.

Dan in the mountain's shadow facing Eagle River.

Nearing the saddle between Jewel and Summit mountains. On the otherside was a bewildering 700-foot drop to the Milk Glacier that no picture could do justice.

My Survivor Man pack.

The first day of the season in one of lots of sore spots, feeling a little awkward, and unfortunately for me, forgetting poles. I ended up sufficing with a pair of weighty alders I broke down low. I cursed them on the hike up, but when we began to skin I didn't complain at all.

Mike.

Goat Mountain and the head of the Milk Glacier.

We were treated to fantastic views in all directions and 18 inches of consolidated, very stable powder, worthy of the best days of mid-season. Best of all perhaps, was that we had two runs in before the first party showed up. By the end of the day hordes were making their way up the trail, but we laughed as we descended, tired and content, that we had left little for the late-comers.

Alex skis hard in soft powder.

Contrasting seasons. The lower part of the hike (the trail is visible switch-backing on the lower left) was easy in sneakers.

The Berry peaks.

Tired and sore weren't strong enough words to describe how my body felt Sunday morning as I forced food down my throat in the pre-dawn murk, but another big day called to the south, this time nabbing the epic Lost Lake Loop with Adam R.
I've ridden this loop about this time of year in 2009 and '10, but the Eastern Kenai has seen significantly more precipitation this fall than in the past, including several storms that ranked as equivalent to Cat 3 hurricanes.
Needless to say, the trails are wet, but such is nearly always the case down there, and with cool clear nights, the ground was beginning to firm up.
Additionally, I was lucky to have co-adventurer (Rachel) on this trip who could split up the driving.

We started in a fog on the shores of Kenai Lake at the Primrose Trail head and rode south on the Iditarod Trail through Divide and down to Seward, making the return by going up and over Lost Lake.

In the dense forests of the Eastern Kenai's boreal rain forests, we climbed and descended low ridges, going in and out of the fog as beams of sunlight penetrated the canopy. In place where the light warmed the freezing earth, steam would billow up. It's hard not to feel a sense of magic on these woods.

Resurrection Peaks from Bear Lake.

Adam takes in the view of Resurrection Bay as we climb to Lost Lake.

The immense cumulative elevation of the ride wore at my already tired body and I hit a wall mid-way up the Lost Lake Trail. I reloaded the tanks, but the rest of the ride was slow-going for me.

Lost Lake.

The only snow we encountered was a brief section on the north-facing side of the plateau above the lake. Since we were headed down it was easy enough to ride through.

Adam, soaking in the view on the other side of Lost Lake, looking at the south-end of Kenai Lake before we make our descent down Primrose.

A near-full-moon rising over Pete's South in Turnagain Pass.

Is it next weekend yet?

Another column

2011-10-06T22:42:00.000-08:00

Summer is past, and the leaves are off the trees, the night falls earlier each evening and lingers longer every morning. Here's some thoughts on a season of warmth and green as we await the one of white, as published in the Redoubt Reporter: http://redoubtreporter.wordpress.com/2011/09/28/from-a-trail-called-life-different-paths-to-summer/

By Dante Petri, for the Redoubt Reporter

It’s been over three years since I last raced a mountain bike.
And three years later, with a heavier bike, possibly a slightly heavier body, and a whole heck of a lot less fitness than I had once, I finished the same way I did the last time I raced, in May 2008: Did not finish, though for very different reasons.
In three years it sure has felt like a long fall from the fall of 2007, when “Myrtle (the Broken Turtle),” my somewhat less-than-affectionate name for my not-always-so-trustworthy glory-hog bike, and I whizzed around the East Coast collegiate mountain bike race circuit picking up a few top-three placements and even a well-earned win. That was sort of a two-wheeled thesis defense at the time for my otherwise short-lived competitive cycling career.
It was a stinging sensation I felt in mid-August this summer, though, when a group of toothpick-thin, Spandex-clad bike racers from Los Anchorage smoked the heck out of me and my lungs right off the start on an afternoon race in a park just on the outskirts of the city.
This summer has been my first “real Alaska summer.” The word “real” is, of course, clutch in this phrase.
As far as I can tell, the last three summers were pretty real. But I told everyone this winter that this would be my first “real” one because for the last three I was living and working the fishing lodge/fish camp lifestyle.
Once the touristas started arriving to the Kenai Peninsula en masse in early June, my world stopped revolving around skis, bikes and mountains, and instead orbited around things like cleaning copious amounts of fish, managing what amounted to a small business processing fish, taking care of cabins that were always having issues, eating and sometimes even sleeping.
I learned in time how to better manage my life at the fishing lodge and take advantage of the lulls between fish runs and bookings to get out on occasional bike and ski adventures in June and early July, but once those reds showed up, my life basically ended until sometime in mid-August.
This summer, unlike the last few, promised a regular nine-to-five schedule in the city, with plenty of good backyard mountain biking and road biking, hikes a stone’s throw from home, and friends and places to meet them at all over town.
I definitely spent way more time turning pedals this year than I have for the last three summers, probably combined. It’s been really great.
For a while in late May through early July I was riding a Kenai Peninsula epic a week, it seemed, and I had hit all of the major and most of the minor rides the peninsula has to offer not long after the summer solstice. But something was missing, and I knew it.
No longer could I go throw a line in the water out my front step, and the feeling, or lack thereof, of that tugging fish on the other end began to gnaw.
When I worked at the fishing lodge, guests would always ask me, sometimes in envy, sometimes out of concern as I sliced through their endless catch, how often I got out to fish myself.
“More than enough,” was generally my answer.
If they looked confused I went on to explain that when all you do is fish and clean fish — and as a result smell like and dream of fish — one of the last things you really want to do in the rare, half-day off is fish.
Most of them got it.
But now I was at the other end of the spectrum. My driveway was paved in tar, not teal, glacial melt.
Sure, there’s fishing in and around the big city, but really, it’s hard to get that excited about glorified mud holes when you’re used to the expanse of the Kenai River.
So, at some point in July, I found myself throwing together gear for the weekend on a Friday evening after work, per usual, but this time it did not involve a bike. Just a weekend of fishing, cleaning fish, smelling like, and dreaming of, fish.
And that’s how the rest of the summer seemed to go.
I fished hard for a king, I flipped through the walk-on-water-thick and sometimes depressingly slow red run until my fingertips started going numb. No one had to ask me twice if I wanted to go wet a line, even in a 40-degree downpour at 10 p.m. And when I wasn’t fishing, I was helping my old friends at the lodge get through their workloads in exchange for the time on the water and their good company.
Now my freezer has a healthy orange glow, shaded green with fresh Matanuska-Susitna vegetables, processed by the hands of my green-thumbed girlfriend.
It stung the other week when I couldn’t hang with those Spandex-clad mosquitoes in the park on their bikes that cost orders of magnitude more than my car; bikes I admit I once might have been envious of.
And for a few fallible minutes, as I bailed out of the race and rolled along a quiet side trail back to my car, I wondered if I had made the right decisions with the short summer months. Perhaps I should have done things differently?
No, I probably did OK.
Those guys can keep buzzing around the park on bikes you couldn’t pay me to take to most of the places I like to ride, all for title of champion of the city that lies just 30 minutes from the rest of Alaska. I’ll eat the salmon and halibut I caught and ride a little slower behind them, I guess. Sounds more real to me.

Dante Petri is a backcountry enthusiast often blazing trails from the Kenai to Anchorage and beyond, whether on foot, bike, ski or anything else that gets him around. Read more about his adventures at http://atrailcalledlife.blogspot.com/.

From a Trail Called Life, a column

2011-09-07T22:25:00.000-08:00

As run in the Redoubt Reporter. Enjoy:

http://redoubtreporter.wordpress.com/2011/09/07/trail-called-life-%e2%80%98127-hours-%e2%80%94-crazy-is-not-getting-outside-safely/

By Dante Petri, for the Redoubt Reporter
Photo courtesy of Dante Petri. The Lost Lake Trail winds underneath a snowy Mount Ascension in October 2009. With views like this, who could resist exploring?
A few weeks ago I watched the recently released movie “127 Hours.”
It’s rare that I see anything on the big screen so, of course, I waited for this one to arrive on the shelves of the rental place. But seeing something that is even semirelevant to an outdoors lifestyle is, sorry for the pun, always a breath of fresh air.
The based-on-a-true-story plot follows a then 28-year-old Salt Lake City resident, Aron Ralston, on an epic weekend adventure back in 2003 in near Utah’s Canyonland National Park, and the near-fatal twist it took when a boulder slipped while he navigated a narrow canyon and pinned his right arm.
A far as the movie goes, it’s, as expected, about a guy who goes out to play in the wilderness, gets pinned by a rock, is stuck for a long time and eventually has to cut his own appendage off with a dull pocket knife to free himself.
As one could imagine, the beginning and end are good, but it drags a bit in the middle. Go figure.
I guess what I enjoyed more about this movie was the split it draws between viewers.
On the one side, there’s people who I might categorize as similar to myself — outdoorsy, adventurous, pent-up and caged-in by urban life.
I could certainly relate to Ralston’s frantic late Friday night packing, the drive out of the bright lights of the city and into the dark emptiness of the outside, tunes blaring through the car speakers, juices pumping in anticipation of an adventure-filled weekend.
I’m sure I’ve sensed that same limitless sensation he sought of an epic day, riding for miles, bagging peaks, skiing dream lines in snow conditions that should be illegal. Nothing could go wrong, life is bliss.
The Hollywood producers got me there. But they got “the other” crowd, too. That’s the crowd that watched the movie and went, “That guy is crazy!”
Maybe they said that when they saw him head off to sleep in the back of his pickup in the cold desert night, or maybe it was when he crashed his bike while not wearing a helmet. Their perceptions of his brash and foolhardy behavior were likely reinforced by his Mountain Dew-commercial style of mountain biking. And to ensure viewers that it was not just Ralston who was the crazy one, the producers threw in two clueless girls Ralston happened across who were lost in a canyon and needed rescuing by Ralston. Said crazy hiker girls even invited him to a party later that featured a giant inflated Scooby Doo.
Those crazy kids.
It all helps to affirm that the people running around in this wilderness are a bunch of dumb bimbos and gnarly soda-pop commercial stars, none of whom seem to be capable of good decision-making.
And look at what Ralston’s craziness got him — stuck between a rock and hard place, to borrow from the title of Ralston’s autobiography, and eventually without a fairly crucial appendage.
So what are we supposed to take from this flick, both us “crazies” and the “normal folks?”
Simple: Don’t go out alone into the wild lands without telling someone where you’ve gone. Just in case the previous 90 minutes didn’t already deliver that message, in the movie’s text epilogue on Ralston’s life as of late, the last line is that he never goes anywhere without telling someone first.
It’s like one of those ancient Greek sagas where some poor mortal had to go to the gates of hell and back just to learn a really simple lesson at the mere pleasure of some god. In this case, I guess the mortal was Ralston and the great learned god would be, what, Hollywood?
Well, forgive me father Hollywood, for I have sinned, probably a lot. In general, I’m not a big fan of solo sojourns.
I can’t explain it either. Some activities, like mountain biking, I can do all day by myself, and nearly prefer it. Yet backcountry skiing by myself gives me the heebie-jeebies.
In part, I know it’s because on an established trail, you’re never really alone, especially in the middle of an Alaska summer. I recall once when a kid taking up the rear in a group biking over Resurrection Pass shrieked in disbelief when I said I was the only one passing by.
“You’re alone?” he asked.
“Well, no. You’re here,” I shouted back.
The other aspect is mental. On a tight, winding trail, my thoughts are contained by the trees on either side of my handlebars and the narrow, twisting corridor ahead.
Alone in the quiet, open spaces of a snow-covered glacial valley, though, all there is to look at is enormity, everywhere. It’s hard not to feel like a speck of dust.
Danger lurks everywhere, too, and rarely out of sight — in unstable slopes, overhanging cornices, covered crevasses and tumbling boulders.
The fact that I’ve simply slunk through an open window into the home of the mountains around me is evidently clear, and all I hope for is to enjoy their furnishings and get back out without their notice.
If I do go alone I try to make sure someone at least knows where I’m at. But when you’re 25 and living alone, very far from what was once home, making sure someone knows where you are all the time is just not always possible. Heck, I’m not even always sure where I’m going sometimes.
It’s a big responsibility to go saddling someone with being your guardian, too, especially when they have lives of their own. And like wearing a helmet, or any other safety device, just because someone knows my whereabouts shouldn’t really be modifying my decision-making anyhow.
Most importantly is the understanding that things can go wrong in the blink of an eye, with your best friend at your side or all alone. It’s just the way it goes. Play it safe from the get-go, and if it does go wrong, plan to take care of yourself, like Ralston, because help may not be coming.
But what do I know? Sorry Hollywood, I’ll call you next time I can’t get a partner.

Dante Petri is a backcountry enthusiast often blazing trails from the Kenai to Anchorage and beyond, whether on foot, bike, ski or anything else that gets him around. Read more about his adventures at http://atrailcalledlife.blogspot.com.

The Russian Loop (Sharon S Rendition) (June 25)

2011-06-27T23:49:00.000-08:00

(This is the one of three posts to make up for a general lack of posting over the past few weeks. To see trip reports from Johnson Pass and Eagle River, view the previous two posts as well.

After learning of a convenient detour from Sharon S, I've been looking forward to riding what I've been calling the Sharon Rendition of the Russian Lakes Loop. The Russian is one of my all-time favorite rides, but it has a limited season and late June is typically its maximum before overgrowth makes its impassable and unenjoyable until mid- to late-September.
The Sharon Rendition of this classic starts from the Resurrection Trails south trail head, and heads north on Resurrection 4.6 miles in to the Junction with Bean Creek Trail. The recently rebuilt BCT takes you back to Bean Creek road, which eventually dumps out on the north side of the beginning of the Kenai River at the mouth of Kenai Lake. A short ride over the pedestrian walkway along the Sterling Highway bride gets you across the river, and 50 feet later, it's two pedal strokes across the highway to Snug Harbor Road.
This cuts out the ~5 miles of shoulder-less highway riding I used to do to complete this loop. (In the name of full disclosure, there is probably 1/4 mile ride of highway riding from the Russian River Overflow Parking Lot back to the car...we didn't even get passed by a car when we rode back...)

Brian, Ethan and I met up at 7:30 Saturday morning after a heavy overnight rain, and pondered the dark, misty clouds rolling overhead. It was too long a drive to risk getting rained out, so we decided to take along fishing rods as an alternate plan.

After driving through on-again off-again rain the whole way to Cooper Landing, we net Kjell at the trail head and found it was cloudy, breezy, and cool, but not raining.
The first half of the ride up Res and up Snug was mostly cloudy, but as we climbed blue sky started to appear.

Dropping down through the upper section of Russian Lakes Trail.

We found the trail was just past its prime in terms of overgrowth. The trail itself was perfect, not too dry, but really firm. It appeared the rain had not made it to the upper section overnight so in some places it was actually dry. Vegetation was handlebar-high in some of the usual suspect meadows, but as a whole was still OK. Riding would have been ideal for the last three weeks, but July 4th will be the absolute latest for sure, and I won't be riding it.

The shores of the Upper Lake.

Some fields that are typically really grown up were still surprisingly low, a pleasant surprise for sure.

Such a classic June on the Kenai shot.

A quick break on bug cliff.

The avalanche slopes were blooming.

We cleaned the 42-mile loop in 5 hours, 40 minutes, and that accounted for some messing around at the end to deal with a quick flat and hanging out at Russian River Falls. Ride time was probably 5 hours, which is pretty good.
Done early, we decided to give it a go on the Russian River for sockeye. The fishing was pretty slow, but the crowds were limited too and it was actually a pretty nice and peaceful experience, which s not something that can often be said for that area.

Johnson Pass, both ways (June 18)

2011-06-27T23:19:00.000-08:00

Johnson Pass is a Kenai springtime epic. The 23 mile trail's north end is largely open and gets overgrown as plant life kicks into photosynthetic overdrive, making it nearly impassable and unenjoyable. The north-end also sees more snow than the south-end, so its a narrow window to get in and out.
Often this trail is ridden one-way with a shuttle, and while that would yield a rather short ride compared to some of the other Kenai epics, the north-end in particular is rough and challenging in places and can suck it out of you.
Mike C, Ethan, Kjell, and I decided to hit it in both directions, starting from the south-end and riding north, planning to turn around at Turnagain Pass. The grind took 8 hours and change, though was slowed a bit by a major mechanical at the pass. I believe actual ride time was in the 6-hour neighborhood.

Ethan gets a lot of credit for planning ahead and bring a jug of water to leave at the north-end, which we had to drive by on the way to Moose Pass, so we could refill without having to risk drinking untreated stream water. Good thinking indeed, but his preparedness unfortunately did not benefit him.

Temps were in the mid-70s when we rolled out at 10 with the sun shining bright. We weren't too upset that a storm was brewing to the south.

Lark Mountain.

Johnson Lake.

We stopped for lunch at Johnson Lake. Only seconds after leaving from our break spot, Ethan's rear hub unexpectedly gave its last. Ethan was the hero of the trip, coasting (which involved a lot of walking and running) back to the truck, and hanging out in bug-infested Moose Pass while we finished out the ride. Oh, and that water, well, Mike, Kjell, and I were pretty happy to quench our thirsts with his good thinking.

The fabled Alaskan grizzly ground squirrel. Known for their fierce demeanor, they will charge unprovoked!

The north-end has some sweet old bridges.

Shoe for perspective.

On the return trip through the pass clouds had moved in. While the temp didn't go down, we appreciated the relief from the sun.

Kjell borrows a pair of binocs at the pass from a fellow traveler to scope a nearby slope for bears. None seen, but how many saw us?

Mike rides along the last five miles above Trail Lake with lupine blooming everywhere.

South Fork Eagle River with Amy (June 12)

2011-06-27T22:48:00.000-08:00

Amy S flew in from Middlebury on June 11 to head north and teach a month-long course for NOLS in the high Talkeetnas.
After making the rounds through Anchor-town Sunday morning, we headed toward the Mat-Su Valley where the NOLS Alaska branch is based in Palmer, with a planned stop to do a little warm-up hike.
We headed up to the end of Hiland Road in Eagle River to the South Fork trail head where we found the lot full. No surprise, free parking in Chugach State Park on a nice day goes a long way. The good news is, most people don't. Once we crossed Eagle River on the map marked in the map below, we didn't see too many others. I was vaguely familiar with the area. Jack and I made some turns there in December (LINK) and the valley has good touring when conditions are stable. Some of the farter back peaks are also Front Range mountaineering classics.
We hiked 5 miles back to the end of the glacial cirque. I had intended to shoot off into a side valley to a sheltered lake but missed the entrance.

The South Fork Valley viewed from a bench at the bottom of the hanging valley we hiked up.

The sub-summit of Hurdygurdy Mountain. Ya, that's really its name.

Looking back down the central moraine that leads to the top of the cirque.

Triangle Peak.

Calliope Mountain.

Multi-sport Memorial Day

2011-05-31T23:04:00.000-08:00

I admit that from time to time I find myself missing my old Sunday to Thursday work sched at the P. Clarion. The Friday for a Saturday just about guaranteed that I would have the trails or the mountains to myself for at least one of my off-days.
This past weekend though, I have to admit, working the more conventional Mon-Fri was pretty nice, as I was finally able to fully enjoy a Memorial Day weekend for the first time in many years.
In keeping with full entertainment value and capitalizing on the peak of the spring transition season, many sports were partaken in in the course of the three-day break.

Collin, Amy and I met up Saturday morning in south Anchorage, hoping that our somewhat later departure would put some distance between us and the mad rush of "Anchor-roaches" (can I still make fun of "Anchor-ants" even if I may qualify as one?) headed southbound Friday night and early Saturday morning.
The original plan was to head to the base of Manitoba Mountain for a bike-hike-ski mission, but headed through Turnagain Arm it was apparent that a gray and spitty system was making its way through and making things unpleasant at that.
In Summit Pass, with sprinkles falling, we decided to opt for plan-b, and take a ride up Devils Creek Trail.
The week prior saw temps rocket into the high 70s in Cooper Landing, and the meager snow pack wasting fast, so I was optimistic Devils Creek valley would be dried up relatively good for this time of year.
As we geared up, however, Collin and Amy discovered Amy was missing a very integral front wheel for her bike. Such is one of the pit falls of stuffing a car for a weekend of many different adventures: there's a lot to remember and plenty to forget.
Amy headed back north to retrieve her wheel while Collin and I headed up the pass.

Lupine shot.

Seasonal comparison (LINK) from last fall.

About 8 miles in with a vantage of the pass.

The trail just about qualified as bone dry except for a few wet spots and the usual stream crosses. We went in about 8 miles, crossing five snow patches in the process, before reaching a small bluff that overlooks the pass. From there, we could see that about another half-dozen smallish snow patches filled the minor gullies between us, but otherwise all looked clear. No major slides came down this year, as was the case last spring, leaving part of the trail blockaded will into June. The trail should be full clear to the Res Junction within a week or two depending on the weather patterns.

Every snow patch you cross on the way up is one to be crossed on the way down. Even though all of them were small, pushing you bank through 30 feet or a mile of rotten mank, sinking up to your knees is no fun. We agreed to call it when we hit patch number 6.

Chain action.

We regrouped in Cooper Landing where we found out that Amy had managed to get a hold of Michael, who was still in Anc, and got her wheel, allowing her to head to Alyeska and carve up some corn.
With rain falling in Cooper we headed for fish camp to sleep under rooves and in dry beds.

Sunday dawned with patchy blue skies and a promising forecast.
Kjell joined us and we headed to Cooper Landing to meet with Michael to ride the lower end of Russian Lakes Trail.
While earlier intel had reported a still snowed-in upper section, we later learned the entire trail was rideable. The lower section turned out to be a good option nonetheless.

Sun-blasted Skilak Glacier and Harding Ice Sheet.

Kjell grinds away on his new rig.

Bike deposit on bug cliff.

Collin, stop hogging the shot!

Another good seasonal comparison from exactly one year ago: LINK; what a difference a few feet of snow makes...

Monday, with skies clear and blue, and temps forecasted to get into the mid-70s, we did what any reasonable Alaskans would do: went skiing.

Collin and Amy hauling the skis on their backs up the mining roads to Manitoba.

Tele-Pete gets continual credit for his triathlon approach to the slope of Manitoba, accessing the mellow ski field via bike up mining roads and a hike to snow line.
Narv and I did this trip in early June last year (LINK). We found a bit more snow on the roads leading up the mountain and the snow line much lower then. In another week, this trip will be hard to justify.
As is, this was all about the tour and had little to do with the actual turns which, other than a few near the top, were mostly on rotten mank. Had we pulled ourselves out of bed a little earlier we might have actually found some slightly better conditions earlier in the day though. We didnt' descend until 5 p.m.

At the snow line, on the way up.

Juneau Creek.

Yoga pant ad?

Hiking back down to the bikes in the looking-lush south side of Manitoba.

Spirit Walker.

Is it next weekend yet? And can next weekend be three days too?

Pastoral setting

2011-05-24T22:54:00.000-08:00

I forgot two things recently. Actually, didn't really forget the first, but two weekend ago I made a "semi-solo" sojourn back to Pastoral Peak, but never got around to posting any photos. This past weekend I did, however, forget to bring my camera along on Sunday when Coast Guard Jared and I rode the south-end of Resurrection.
I thought as we left the lot that it wouldn't matter as it was spitty and gray in Cooper Landing, but of course, the weather broke up while we rode, making for some epic scenery of clouds parting over the still snowy mountain-sides.
Conditions were slightly better than expected though, but mostly typical for this time of year. The section of trail from Juneau Falls to Juneau Lake is still wet and sticky in the usual places with a few hike-a-bikes, mostly near the Trout Lake Junction. The climb out of Cooper as well as north of Juneau Lake to Swan Lake is excellent and dry, as was expected. We stopped at Swan Lake and enjoyed some sunshine while we had it, but the south-facing benches leading up into the pass looked greener than the valley floor and I'm sure we could have made it up the next pitch no problem before seeing snow.
The one big surprise was remnant ice cover on Juneau Lake. As we rode the shoreline stretch, a southwest wind was pushing the detached ice up onto the trail. Pretty trippy to watch as, though it moved slowly, the process was very loud and inched along steadily. Interestingly as well, Swan Lake was ice-free. I'm curious why that would be. I would think it would be subject to the same deep cold temps in the winter and probably even less wind to help break it up.

I went down to camp on Friday night to help Joe out getting things ready for the coming summer season. The big accomplishment of the day was getting the new roof up over the Hawaiian Hut's deck, with a lot of help from Adam and his neighbors.

Driving back to Los Anchorage on Sunday. The weather was typical for summer in Alaska, a little bit of everything.

On May 7, I made a "semi-solo" sojourn out to Pastoral Peak in Turnagain Pass. For a map and more on Pastoral itself, check out the TR from last May (LINK)

Jack hit Pastoral, solo as well, on Friday (May 6), but even though in retrospect I should have called in sick, I decided to be a good employee and go to work on what was a beautiful day. Jack tracked in five runs, and called that evening to report conditions that were about 95% as good as the previous year, and that was a week later in a snow year that was 50% under last year and 25% under average.

Unfortunately, Jack was out of the game on Saturday and gnarly weather was supposed to move in Sunday. Unable to get anyone to rally, I did something I don't normally like to do when it comes to backcountry skiing: I went alone.

I don't know why certain activities, mountain biking for example, I almost prefer to do alone (though company is always nice in any pursuit), but backcountry skiing alone just drives me nuts. Anyhow, I went for it.

From the parking lot, there were several groups headed up Taylor Creek, and initially I thought Pastoral was going to be a mini-Tincan, but at the top of the bench, the majority of the skiers headed up the flanks of Sunburst on a corn snow mission, laving one solo skier not too far in front of me and two other much farther up the pass.

I got up to the solo skier, who's name I think was Paul. Paul, in his 50s and an Anchorage native, has been skiing Turnagain for longer than I've been alive back when wooden skies and pine tar were the go-bys. We ended up syncing up, hence the "semi-solo" of the sojourn.

We reeled in the two others at the top of Taylor Creek Pass. The two, who looked about my age, were none to pleased to see that Jack had skied Pastoral hard the day before, nor that two others were overtaking them.

A look back at the east side of Taylor Creek Pass from the vantage of climbing onto the remnant Lyon Creek Glacier,

A few of Jack's tracks.

No camera trick here, this is an atmospheric phenomenon called a sun dog (LINK).

Add skis and powder for instant awesome.

The two disgruntled skiers at the Pass eventually headed for a mellow slope below Pastoral, though we were later joined by a couple who came in about the time we dropped off our first run.

With Paul's encouragement, we skied down the steep north face of Pastoral (picture below), a run we eyed last year as well.
Paul was going to call it one and done, but with the snow so good and the powder season in its finale, I got him to commit to one more, burning legs be damned.

The route is seen well from here. The trek in starts from Turnagain Pass (far left) through Taylor Creek Pass (the valley to the left), drops over and into the glacial headwaters of Lyon Creek, winding below this photo and around out of the frame to the left up a skyline ridge.

We skied under window of clear skys all day. To the east, a wall of snow moved back and forth all day threatening to overtake us seemingly at any minute with gusts of wind, but always backing off. The the west the sky was dark blue and looked like rain.

Center Creek Valley. A wall of snow moved back and forth threatening to close in on the us all day, but never did.

Tincan.

Looking back at out tracks on the north face of Pastoral from Taylor Creek Pass on the way back out. The couple that came up followed our track and were skiing this as I snapped the picture. You can see the woman dropping in near the top just below the rock band and her partner watching below.

Zoomed out, from the pass.

Paul, skiing down Taylor Creek Valley. Looks small from this view.

Browning out at the pass.

Letting go of winter is a hard thing to do. Skiing may not be over just yet, but other than throwing down mucho dinero for a flight into the Alaska Range, the powder season is.
Singletrack is good and all, but summer is too long, winter is too short; praise Ullr.

Tlingit Adventure

2011-05-17T00:17:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago Baker (LINK) sent out an email looking to see who might be interested in a guys weekend of sailing on Resurrection Bay.

Say what you will about a bunch of dudes on a boat in the middle of the ocean in Alaska, or the sport of sailing in general, but I'd heard about Baker's adventures on his 44' Jeanneau Sun Odyssey sloop, the Tlingit, and was pretty thrilled to get an invite.

I've never really had a very high opinion of sailing. I grew up on motor boats, and boats were soley for fishing anyhow. I've also been known to dish it out to some of my buddies who do sail, making sure to ask them if they remembered their sweater vests and what type of champagne they'd be sipping at the yacht club.

After a weekend of cruising around the Bay, I guess I had to eat some of that.

I was both surprised at the simplicity of sailing, and yet at the same time the skill and environmental adaptation it demands. The appeal was instantly apparent, and in some ways, at its root, is not a lot different than skiing moguls or trees. One the one hand, to do it right, you have to be thinking a few steps ahead while being very present in the now, and yet on the other hand, it's pretty easy to just cruise on bliss.

Also, our crew of seven sipped a lot of beverages for sure, but if anyone had champagne aboard it was shelved for IPA and Scotch. Go figure.

We headed out of the harbor around 8 on Friday evening, bound for Thumbs Cove.

Heading out of the slip in the Seward Harbor.

Quarters were close, real close.

A tug heading out of Seward. Mount Alice in the background.

Godwin Peak?

Josh (LINK) keeping us on the right course.

After anchoring in Thumbs cove we loaded into the dinghy, four at a time, and headed to shore for a campfire.

This would have been a fantastic picture, but it looks like my shutter cover jammed.

Baker had us up and at'm Saturday morning with french toast, complete with thick-cut bacon and real maple syrup. I especially enjoyed helping to sizzle the bacon on the the grill mounted to the stern of the boat. Nothing like standing around on the back of a boat deck on a beautiful Alaska morning sipping coffee, sizing up lines on distant peaks, and nibbling on fresh-cooked pieces of bacon.
Departing Thumbs cove we headed for Bulldog Cove.

Annie, hater of all marine mammals. We saw tons of seals, a few sea lions, gray whales, had several porpoises follow us, and crossed paths with a pod of orcas. Annie, at all of 25 pounds soaking wet, barked growled and snarled at all of them.

The Captain and his ship.

A commercial boat heads back into port.

Rugged Island.

I really liked this shot a lot, Pulling into Porcupine Cove.

We headed to Porcupine Cove for lunch, and then headed ashore. After combing the beach for a bit, Dan, Connor, and I scrambled through the woods up a small drainage to the bottom of a melted-out slide path.

Just behind the beach was a large pond that gets dumps of salt water during big storms. The outlet of the lake was a tie-dye swirl of settled sediments and disturbed algae. Pretty trippy.

Bushwhacking a short ways through a creek bed.

A view of the cove. The boat is just out of sight.

Tors near the entrance to Bull Dog Cove.

Baker is not just a skipper, but also a chef. No one complained of being poorly fed on the trip that's for sure. Dinner Saturday night was fresh halibut served to five star specs.

Though we had plans to head to shore in Bull Dog, rain started to fall after dinner, so we resorted to other activities...

Sunday broke gray and a little bit drizzly, with everyone feeling a little groggy. After a late start, we headed back to port, catching a steady tail wind along the way.

Arriving back in Seward.

Air raid: Bomber Traverse in an 11-hour epic

2011-05-02T23:57:00.001-08:00

Cooped up last weekend from lousy weather, I've been getting angsty for a big spring adventure to make up for the lackluster cold season and get the next one started off right. As the weekend rolled out Saturday already looked to be a loss as a little mini storm spit all forms of precipitation and wind on Southcentral, and the as-of-late unreliable forecasts showed only a hopeful glimmer for Sunday.

I had initially planned a little Valley adventure to the north with some skate skiing and road biking, but when I woke up Saturday morning I had a text on my phone from Jack about slamming the Bomber Traverse in one go on Sunday. That was all I needed to see.
A rest day was a good call and I kept it simple with only a short afternoon mountain bike ride up Canyon Road in a snow squall. Gotta love AK.

The Bomber Traverse is a Southcentral backcountry must-do. An all-season 18 mile trek through the southern Talkeetnas that rolls over at least two mountain passes and two glaciers, in winter it is often attacked as a 2-3 day mountain ski tour. Wwith the long daylight hours, Jack wanted to forego heavy packs and the leisure of time for a blitz style grunt.

There are many variations of the traverse, Jack printed out the above map of our route, which ran counterclockwise from the Motherlode Lodge (Little Susitna Roadhouse).

After departing our redevous in Eagle River at 7:30, Jack, Kruz, Eruk and I were on trail by 8:20, heading out from the Gold Mint trail up the 8-mile-long Little Susitna Valley.

For the first two miles we sought out the best lines on the otherwise well-tracked and iced-over trail, but after that, the alders started to open up and the valley floor became more accessible revealing prime crust conditions. With just a thin layer of fresh snow frozen to the otherwise frozen crust, it was hard to just have to trudge across on heavy boards knowing full and well skate skiing would have been rocket fast.

With firm snow we made good time headed up the Little Su.

We continued to work out way back up the valley toward the Mint Glacier (above), finally reaching the base of the cirque.

Two different sets (different size but never together) of brown bear tracks zig zagged back and forth across the valley. Early on we could see they were a day old with a fresh layer of hoarfrost in their beds formed overnight. Farther up the valley they looked fresh like these ones. Alaska is waking up. Aside from bears we saw plenty of Ptarmigan as well as Ptramigan sign and Eruk even came across a beaver.

Snow showers and squalls moved in and out all day.

Veering climbers left from near the base of the valley's head wall, we headed up a south-facing slope known as heartbreak hill that lead to a bench we were able to follow around a large and prominent knoll.

Backdoor Pass lies just out of sight around the large bulge of rock entering the frame from the upper left.

Though we had intended to climb to the Mint hut, we overshot and climbed about 2-300 feet above it, making it not worth our while to descend to it.

At four hours in, the steep and sun-cooked Backdoor Pass loomed above.

The Mint Hut is well-tucked away and secluded. In the short daylight hours of winter and in heavier snow years it has been known to elude weary skiers. We could claim neither, but we still missed it. Can you find it? Hint: follow the right edge of the large cliff in the center of the shot down. How's that for scale?

Mid-way up backdoor, hugging the wall.

From the get-go, I felt like we couldn’t get up over the top pf Backdoor Pass fast enough. Roller balls and old slough debris littered the steep slope. While that evidenced that it was likely stable, it didn’t make it an appealing place to hang around. Pair that with the sun beating away on it and I really wanted it to be over now!

We set off and I started tracking a near SFU line on the saturating snow trying to make the most of it’s natural elevation.
About a third of the way up Eruk, who we could see on the bench below, Radioed jack and said he was going to head back out.
At a crux point in the trip, we decided to go onward.
About two thirds up, Jack, taking advantage of some earlier ferckling about the route, as well as my sun-cooked and sugar-low brain, yelled that he thought we were headed up the wrong pass.
I took the hook, line, and sinker and nearly turned on my skins to glide back down and punch him in the face.
Continuing on, the shade cast by the cliffs forming the upper pass’ southerly wall, and the sound of crumbling rock on the sunny side, drove Kruz and I to transition over to kicking steps.
Though steep, the snow was more than deep and soft enough for even my soft boots to get good purchase.
Mentally getting out of the broiling sun probably made an even bigger difference.

The crux rock step.

I forgot my Mountain Dew and boom box, otherwise we would have had to call off the trip so I could 'sesh' this natural quarter pipe all day.

After popping over the pass at about 1:30 we were treated to a long sweeping view down the Penny Royal Glacier. We discussed moving southward to get at some higher elevation and more protected areas that probably would have held better snow, but after over 4 hours on the go, we were all ready for make a descent.

The top of the Penny. In retrospect we should have dropped continued to the upper sheltered section for better snow.

The Penny’s snow was wind-effected, with an inch or two of dust on top of a breakable crust. On a board it was quite alright as long as I carried speed, which was sort of a necessity given that most of the Penny falls at an angle of 25 degrees, if not less in places. We bottomed out and started our traverse back around the buttress that separates the Penny from the Bomber Glacier.

The transition point halfway between the Penny and the Bomber.

See the mosquito in the snow in the bottom left. That's the namesake of the Bomber Glacier; the wreckage of a B-29 Bomber that crash landed on the glacier in November of 1957. Read the whole story here: http://www.alaskahikesearch.com/hikes/Reedlake.htm. We never got closer than a half mile.

The Bomber Glacier climbs extremely gradually, but fools with your head.
Though we made practically no vertical change, we stared at our pass back over to Reed Lakes for about two hours.
Though sunny, we had pretty reasonable temps, and the closer we got to the pass, the better the snow quality seemed to get.
This fueled some angst on my part as I began to think we should have made the tour in the normal clockwise loop. You can imagine how that sat with Jack, whose skied these mountains for longer than I've been alive, when I told him so! It's OK, he had a another one in the bag for me.

The pass to Reed Lake is the lowest point on the ridgeline. Looks close enough right. Ya, that was our view for about an hour and a half. Take note of the shadow line.

Who needs art?

OK, remember the shadow line. This is about the reverse shot. One long beautiful slog.

As I stomped in the kick turns up the pass, praying I would hold my stance and not fall back down (I was feeling strong, but I didn't need this climb twice) Jack yelled about how surprised he was the snow was this easy to climb on.

"Then again, I'm not breaking trail," he added.
I shot him a look that said a few different things at once but mostly said, "No shit!."
I knew what he meant though and I had to agree, it could have been a lot worse.
The final pitch up the pass was just as steep as the Backdoor, but only a fraction of the vertical and on excellent snow.
A few brutal kick turns and one neat one that nestled into the side of a cliff face got us up and over.
Below we could see our route out, with the Reed Lakes dropping life a frozen staircase below.

Overlooking reed Lakes, a snow squall cut loose, cutting viz too, but raising the epic factor.

The drop down the wet and gloppy head wall had everyone on their toes, but Kruz made a few ski cuts and the slope held. It turned out to be really excellent fresh corn conditions all the way down past the first lake.

Looking back up at our tracks laid.

Reed Lakes falling away below us.

Once we made it to a certain point the angle of repose fell off at too low of an angle to keep boarding and I began a long tele-palooza descent. With such great snow and mostly gradual terrain, I had a blast just cruising along. I snapped it back together for the final descent down Reed Creek. As we neared the floor of the the valley the corn turned bottomless making the going pretty treacherous. If you could double pole and find an old ski track or snowmachine track though it was possible to keep up enough momentum to float.

We hooked into the groomed Archangel Road a couple miles later and rode that most of the way back to the road before turning off and skiing a gentle slope back down to the car on 8 inches or less of slush for coverage. It was almost easier to ski the dead vegatation.

At 11 hours round trip, we managed to capture ideal conditions through and through, nailing down a trip that takes most people two days at least, in just one.

I'll do it again.

An ode to the Serotta

2011-04-25T23:12:00.002-08:00

When a stranger asks what I do for fun, I'll probably respond that I ski, snowboard and mountain bike, likely in that order.
In the past few years that's actually become quite fitting of the order that, at least those three activities, would fall into as far as priorities go in my life.
And yes, the answer leaves a lot to be desired if you read this blog. No where in that response is there for example, mention of hiking, fishing, or hunting.
Then again, usually when someone asks a question like that, let's be honest, they're probably looking to make conversation, not trying to get a biblio in one breath.
Anyhow, the point is, there's one activity that has always been absent in that answer, and it's sort of ironic when I think about it: road biking.
For example, if this stranger I'm having a conversation with were to have asked me if I rode bikes, I would have said, "ya, I mountain bike."
Mile for mile though, I probably should have answered that I ride pavement.
Despite a long-standing dislike of roadbiking and roadbikers through my younger years and into the summer following my freshmen year of college, since the fall of 2005, most of my mileage has been on the inside of the fog line (or at least withing a few feet of it anyhow).
After I got into racing in college I learned that as much as I hated roadbikers and their rainbow spandex suits, being a so-called "dirt and singletrack purist" wasn't going to lead to any wins.
I gave in slowly at first, fitting my old GT hardtail with slick tires and exploring the roads of Saratoga County.
The big change came in the winter of 2006 when Ben Serotta of Saratoga-based Serotta bikes gifted several of his company's coveted frames to Skidmore Cycling.
Included in that gift was a supple practically made-for-a-mountain-biker steel Fierte that was passed on to me.

The Serotta, in its infancy in my form room in early winter of '06. I was beside myself when I got this frame.

Though I was on the road, no pun intended, to building up my own skinny tire rig before this, my limited student budget was making it tough to do.

The Fierte, valued at $2,500 for just the frame alone, got me started, and early that spring a former Trek rep who lived in the area held a blow-out style yard sale that allowed me to pick-up more parts for dirt cheap. All in all, I was able to put the Serotta together for a grand total of about $750.

The Serotta in early summer '06. Just looking at those tires and big trucker bars scares me. Also, can't see it, but those are Sora shifters. Can you say thumb blisters?

Since then I've probably cranked out 20,000 miles or more on it, chewing up two drivetrains, two wheel sets, a seat post, and a saddle.

Manhattan, somewhere, a hundred miles down, fall '07, T_Roe on my wheel.

The Sera's wheels have spun over the hot metal of a trainer on cold winter days, slipped on ice and been coated in heavy wet snow in early spring and late fall, ridden the streets of downtown Manhattan and been mired in muck in remote Alaska.

A typical sight in the back room at 99 Lawrence in '06 and '07.

That doesn't even begin to scratch the surface either. If that bike had a glory period it had to be the summer of 2007 when I relentlessly attacked the Middlebury Gap, doing double gap out-and-back rides and uphill time trials nearly setting new PRs weekly. That November would have been something of a golden end to that season as, after the trails froze up but the snow crept slowly south out of Canada, Andrew and I coasted on strong seasons on frigid long epics though the southern Adirondack Park every weekend before setting a new course record at that year's "Sweat'n Ice Century."

Headed down the Brooklyn Bridge in fall of '06, about mile 110 of a 115 mile day.

Since then, my riding has come down in what was largely a planned descent from that peak.

Indeed, these last few years in Alaska paired with my recent lifestyle has not been kind to the Serotta.

The uninspiring roads of the central Kenai Peninsula made road riding more of a chore; the dust and grit on the highway further ground it down; and a short season paired with a seasonal fishing lifestyle kept it shuttered up inside for most of the year anyhow.

Rolling into the finish of the MS Century on the fall of '07.

Late this March, I finally took stock of the Serotta, sitting in a corner of my apartment only pulled out once a week for a spin.
Roadbikes are the stoic breed in the two-wheeled family. They run for thousands of miles requiring only occasional maintenance until one day, they make a noise. You fix the noise, the bike goes back to running. a far cry from their attention hogging mountain bike cousins who squeak groan and cry for time in the stand often and endlessly.
When I looked at the Serotta now though, tears just about ran from her drop bars.
The carbon seat post had a crack that ran about two inches long and though showed now obvious signs of straining, was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off on the next section of washboard dirt road or a big effort.

Road bike purgatory, note the head tube, fork, brake and seat post are coated in snow. April '09.

The wheels were both showing their age and neither had a full season left in them.
The 2x9 drivetrain had stopped shifting cleanly sometime last fall and the teeth were worn down and stained black with crud. Finding 9 speed components rings wouldn't have been impossible, but as I learned when I tried to hold the line with eight speeds a few years ago, resistance is futile. In this consumer-driven world more is better, whether you like it or not.
All of that could have been dealt with for about $750 though, more or less, but there was one other major problem.
Starting last spring, and again in the fall, but particularly this past winter on my weekly spins, my knees have been bothering me.
Not in a dangerous, or frightening sharp-pain or tearing kind of way, just, as was obvious by anyone who might have watched me ride, that I was too drawn out and I was sitting too far behind the pedals, even though my saddle was as far forward as the rails allowed.
That, was the frame, and you can't fix that.

February '10, ya, that's gravel and ice under those tires.

I don't know why that didn't bother me for the previous four years, maybe I was too young and dumb, or maybe I'm just getting old and weak, but knee pain is not something to mess around with.
A year ago, this might have posed more of a financial issue, but I'm in a very fortunate position now in that regard, and after five years of hard service, rebuilding a bike that no longer really fit me for the third time in its life just didn't add up when compared to the price of buying something new that did fit.
On Sunday night I was thinking about all of this and more.

Alaska hasn't been all bad for the Serotta. Kenai Spur Highway, spring '09. (Photo courtesy Moon).

A brand new, jet black, sleek, carbon fiber Scott CR1 Elite leaned against a nearby wall. With less than 100 miles on it, it was already well-coated with muck from Anchorage's Upper Hillside backroads and snot drip marks dotted the top tube.

As I finished disassembling the Serotta and cleaning accumulated grit and grime from its hard to reach nooks and crannies, I wondered what road it would head down next.

The future, already as dirty as my car, though worth about the same...

Sunshine and powder

2011-04-19T22:33:00.002-08:00

It sure feels like it's been a while, but the Kenai Gods were smiling upon the mountains this weekend.
Blue bird skies and plentiful sun and north-facing powder runs were to be had in both Turnagain and Summit passes.

I met up with the Anchorage crew on Saturday morning. Initially we thought about making a trip back to Pastoral Peak (LINK) , but with not a single spot left in the Taylor Creek lot, the typical access to both Sunburst and Pastoral, we realized other probably came to the same conclusion. Sarah had skied Corn Biscut the week before and reported great conditions so we drove a little farther down the road and found the Corn Biscut lot was empty. Score.

Heading across the powerline clearing. Lips is in the background.

Down low the snow was baked rock hard and some skate skiers have been getting after it at highway elevation, however, higher up, the crust is still punchy.

Pancake eyes the goods on the north side of the ridge.

Grand Daddy and the Grand Daddy Couloir beckoned, but were not for the day.

We stuck to the north side of Corn Biscut, putting in three powder laps. One other part of three showed up but never went higher than our lowest point, and stayed on the west face harvesting corn. When we left around 5 the harvest was perfect, not too crispy but not over ripe or bottomless either.

Josh lays into it.

Saturday was a major kick in the tail for my whole body. Just as last winter made me strong in the backcountry but feeling short on the skate skis, the opposite has been true of this one.

Nonetheless, Jack and I met up Sunday morning and headed south.

We drove through Turnagain and looked at Corn Biscut, but so did everyone else I think. We put in some spectacular lines there on Saturday no doubt and people saw them. I was thinking maybe jack and I could go back and snake out a few more Sunday, but with six cars in the lot at 1130-ish, we kept driving.

We decided on Tenderfoot Ridge, recalling the epic day we had back there last April (LINK).

Down at the small parking area this little puff ball came running over from Summit Lodge or one of the private cabins nearby. He, or she, seemed playful and friendly, and decided it was coming along.

The damn thing ended up following us all the way to 4,000' when we reached what I refer to as Tenderfoot's lower summit. I don't think that's what it had in mind when it took off with us.

It really didn't expect to see us drop over the north side into one of the dozen or so couloirs that go down into Butcher Creek either. The light little dog had no trouble staying afloat on the sun-crusted west face of Tenderfoot, but on the powedery north would have been wallowing. After some indecision, the little puff ball scampered back down the ridgeline to home where it apparently pestered another skier.

What an adventure that thing got!

Jack approached the Tenderfoot's Lower Summit. Three skiers had gone up the ridge the day before and tracked out a couloir just on the other side of the minor flat knob Jack is approaching. We dropped into the couloir Jack appears to be looking down in this shot. The slightly skinnier one just past that actually wishbones into the one we skied, but is a bit steeper and a lot tighter on the entrance. We saw later that the one the three guys had skied the day before was rather discontinuous, and ultimately we picked the best of the few in this are of the ridge.

When Jared and I trekked up Butcher Creek last year (the valley to the left) I specifically remember that of all the couloirs and gullies that fall off this ridge, everyone but one goes, though some are thin, some are discontinuous, etc. That one that didn't go though, cliffed out, and where it was I could not recall. Based on our ski back out and what I can remember, it was farther up the ridge mixed in with a set of gullies that come right off the Lower Summit, most of which aren't very attractive in the first place.

Headed down our couloir, the snow was hollow sounding, with about 4-6 inches of stale powder on top of a 4-5 inch layer of very breakable crust on top of 18 inches of bottomless sugar, on top of the bullet proof layer. We got out of there fast. No collapses, but it felt ready to go and I didn't like it at all.

We headed back down the valley and put in an uptrack on what I refer to as Tenderfoot's Lower North Face, the partially treed broad northwest-oriented slope of the ridge that drops down to a table above Butcher Creek. It's a great run with a little less exposure and a longer line than the Bad Place over on Tri Tip next door, which, for what it's worth just looked ready to rip and take anything in its path with it.

Jack carves.

Making lines on the mountain pop.

The lower north face had about a 10-inch deposition of great powder burying the thick layer of breakable crust and the sketchy sugar layer beneath that. Snow quality was perfect for an April north face run.

We would have had the area completely to ourselves, but about mid-afternoon Mike Hancock of Soldotna came up to make a few runs. Our climb synced with his, and when he said he planned to head back down the west face for a sun run, we just about dragged him down the north for powder. He didn't seem too upset. I posted a couple pictures below that he emailed me.

We exited around 7 after five laps. to maximize powder we went out the north exit, which is a bit flat and a bit woody but a lot of fun. We skied straight onto corn, bypassing the usual inbetween suncrust where the powder has melted out, however, the thick layer of sugar is causing the bottom to fall out in many areas. Jack got taken by surprise when one of his skis plunged deep into some rotten snow and went face first. Though much lower than where Jack fell through, even on a board I began to wallow if wasn't careful to stay on areas that have already been skied. Some more warm temps should take care of that.

One last look back.

I always appreciate getting to see the mountains through other people's lenses, and better yet, a few pictures of yours truly on my own blog. Thanks again Mike, hope to see you out there again.

I don't know why, but, is it next weekend yet?

Turns on Peak 3 After 3

2011-04-07T23:01:00.005-08:00

For the last three years I've enjoyed the later half of the year's bountiful daylight to do long bike rides, twilight skate skis, and even late evening hikes after work. One activity has managed to slip from that list season after season though, carving powder, or corn, or really any snow at all. Visible daylight currently stretches until about 9:30 at the moment, at least on clear days, which is more than enough time to get in a lap or two if you can hit the sloped early enough. I've made an effort in the past to make this happen. Last season I planned out an afterwork corn harvest in the Mystery Hills off of the Skyline Trail. My hope was that I would be able to leave work early, and with gear packed, blitz for the hills and scurry to treeline. The problem was that last year, work was an hour drive from the trail head. From there it was about a 45 minute hike, hauling the snowboard on my pack, to the col at the top of the Skyline Trail. Because the area is so steep, gets little snow, and the trip would occur in mid-April, skinning from the road wouldn't be possible at all. Doing the math, if I left work at 4, I could have theoretically be skinning by 6, and summitted by about 7, best case scenario. Depending on the days temps, I could have then put in up to two runs before I would have had to hive back down. Bottom line, not really worth it. unless you can break at noon. Those dynamics have changed. On Wednesday morning we picked up a few fresh inches on top of some recent snowfall over the previous few days. By the afternoon it had cleared into a blue bird day, and with nothing much going on at work, I took off at 4. At first I had considered spinning the skinny wheels on asphalt for the first time of the season, but when I finally caught a glimpse of the mountains wearing their rebuffed white coats, another set of wheels got spinning. Luckily most of my backcountry gear was already packed. I called up an unnamed source for directions on where to go, and he wisely pointed me to Peak 3, an easily accessible sub-summit and well-known Front Range hot spot. The summit of Peak 3 rises to about 3,900,' which is about 2,000' of vert from the tiny parking area at the end of Canyon Road. The skinning begins a less than 20 minute drive from my house. That's pretty sweet! Peak 3 is the back peak. Though heavily skied, there were fresh turns to be found on both sides of the major ski field. Down low the snow was soggy and lumpy. At just about the hemlock line (3,000'), however, the consistency markedly improved. South-facing aspects were notably cooked by the sun, but just a few degrees more exposure to the west protected the snow and kept it skiable all day. An unnamed skier throws up a few face shots near the summit. Peak 2 in the foreground, and Anchorage's favorite day hike past that, Flat Top. Denali and Foraker poke out above the clouds. Anchorage's favorite glacial valley (Powerline Pass). At the bottom of my first lap clouds from the incoming"mega storm" (LINK) rolled in chilling the air but also preventing the sun from cooking any more snow. Sunset over Anchorage. I'm more used to looking up when I hear a plane, not so much off to the side! They seem awfully low when they come in over the Chugach, but maybe they were just checking out the snow conditions because they planned to ski after work too?

Kruiseing the Kenai Krust

2011-04-03T11:51:00.015-08:00

It's the time of year when legs, strong from a winter's worth of skiing, pair up with the crystalline ice structure known as crust snow, to make for epic adventures on skate skis. I took a trip down to the Peninsula this weekend to get some car work done and put some miles away on skis. Chalk another one up for the small town by the way: affordable car care and reliable trustworthy mechanics seem to be easier to come by. I guess when you're only working with a small population base it doesn't pay to become known as a rip off. After the suby had its recently discovered gas leak repaired, I headed back to the lodge. The ice is out on the river, probably for three weeks or so now, but the shore ice builds up thick through the winter, due mostly to groundwater seepage that pours across the mostly exposed river bottom, and glaciates, forming a thick cover. Typically, by breakup, the shore ice is about 4-feet-thick at camp. The surface of this ice is more crystalline than most other waterbody ice, perhaps because it forms gradually and from the top up not the bottom down. As it melts it has more of a course structure that suits the gliding nature of skate skis well. I've tried to take advantage of this in the past, but last winter for example, the inside bend just below camp was washed out during breakup, and it wasn't possible to ski around the corner. I could have just walked through the woods obviously, but the woods aren't exactly all that open, and though the river is mostly uninhabited by people though the winter, the few that do live there don't tend to take kindly to trespass. This year, however, the bank ice hung on just below camp, and after scouting it out on foot, I decided to put on the skis and see how far I could make it down river. Since I started by first skiing upriver to the confluence of the Moose, that's where my ski started for the sake of the map. I made it about 10 miles downriver to what's referred to as upper, or second powerline. Down river from there the shore ice appeared narrow and broken for a long distance, so I called it good and turned around. Surprisingly, skiing back upriver was easier thanks to a scoot from the winds, beginning to build with an incoming storm. The river is a quiet and rather wild place this time of year. Most homes are empty, and due to the generally fast nature of this stretch making for poor winter trout fishing, few if anyone fishes it after mid October. This all makes it ideal for migrating waterfowl. I claim to know nothing of birds, though this is a swan, I can safely say that much, but there were hundreds of ducks of many sorts all along my ski. Many would come bursting out from under the overhanging shore ice where they had taken refuge. The hundreds of eagles that line the bank are clearly tired of picking the bones of freeze-dried humpy carcasses and much prefer fresh duck.

For the most part I found wide open stretches of ice. Several spots, however, were a bit tight. One unforeseen challenge was that when the river went out and the shore ice collapsed, it caused the large plates to settle in a staircase-like manner, where the block upriver of the one below was anywhere from a fraction of an inch to a few feet higher . On the way down these little drops were were pretty fun, but on the way back up I had to be a bit more careful in my route decisions or do some fancy footwork.

This was the trickiest spot along the route thanks to a clotheslining willow overhanging tilted ice. There were very few spots that there was any actual danger of taking a tumble into the river, but of the few there were the consequences were high. In retrospect, wearing a pair of self-rescue ice picks would have been wise.

A juvenile bald eagle is sitting on the large up-thrust of ice across the river. Note the old snowmachine tracks on the plate ice. Also note how much thinner the river ice is compared to the bank ice, not to mention that you can't plunge into a moving current on bank ice. I would not recommend skiing the Kenai when frozen solid as it's nearly impossible to tell the difference between river ice and bank ice. While the plates in the picture above are thick enough to hold a cross country skier, and obviously a speeding snowmachine, falling through would mean almost certain death. ---- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Kasilof Karl and I were hoping to carve powder on Saturday, but a dismal Friday report from Pete told us we'd be better off looking for another adventure. Creative Credit goes to Karl for heading to the Skilak Lake area in search of crust. When Karl called around noon, winds in Sterling were, blowing a steady 10 mph and building, with gusts in the mid-20s. "Well, were going to get blown around wherever we go," we agreed; so why not go to one of the windiest places around, Skilak Lake. Drained by the Kenai River, and fed by Kenai as well as Skilak River, the 15-mile-long, 4-mile-wide and 528-foot-deep lake is the rearing ground for millions of sockeye. It's east-west orientation also makes it an amplifier for east winds blowing out of the Sound.

When we got to the lake, winds speeds were blowing a steady 15 with gusts up to 40 (read stopping power). Leaving from the Lower Landing, we hugged the northern shoreline, taking advantage of of both the lees provided by the minor points and bays, as well as the better surface condition of the ice. The western part of the lake was more smoothly polished by the accelerating winds and too far out from shore it offered nothing for the skis to kick into. The patches of white looked like standing water, but was actually snow that had fallen Friday night. Heavy and wet, it was worth avoiding.

Looking north, we stared at this point for about an hour and 20 minutes. Once we made it up against the knob that protrudes into the lake we took shelter and had a snack. Despite the severe headwind, we made pretty good ground, and as we moved east, the texture of the ice improved, becoming more crusty and better for skating.

Yours truly, facing toward the Skilak River inlet. The winds were fiercest here, channeled through gaps in the mountains and driven by the frigid air pouring off of the Harding Ice Sheet to the south. After another hour of skiing we made it to within about 200 yards of the inlet of the Kenai River where we could see lots of open water. That was good enough. We had basically been climbing for over two hours non-stop, and hadn't gained a single foot of altitude. Now we had a long descent awaiting us. In 20 minutes we made it back around the point where an hour earlier we had eaten.

As this wind blasted us further ease we hit the polished blue ice negating the need to even skate. All you had to do was stand up straight. If you lifted your arms you would actually accelerate, but if you tucked, the normal way to build speed, instead you would slow down. We were back at the car in 50 minutes after leaving our turnaround spot.

Above is Karl is skating along into the wind. Since it is only flat and the surface is ice, even with a stiff headwind, its still possible to keep up a pretty good pace.

Above I buzz by Karl.

Karl shows that you don't need vertical terrain to crank turns, just a patch of snow and some skis to crank on.

My favorite of the day, I always like ski POV videos, plus, watching the ice zip by and seeing how Karl is just standing there getting blasted not skating and only making one half-hearted double-pole really shows how strong that wind was.

Well, is it next weekend yet?

Rachel's visit and related adventures

2011-03-22T22:33:00.004-08:00

Rachel came to visit last week. It was too short and I'm none too happy about her return to the east, but no surprise there.

We spent a beautiful extended weekend down in Homer at the beginning on her trip soaking up the plentiful sun and skiing.

Hope, and Resurrection Pass across an icy Turnagain Arm. (Courtesy of RS.)

Iliamna, seen from the Ohlson Mountain Trails. I know the white spruce, and glacier-clad mountains are a giveaway, but some of the vistas above Homer remind me of the rolling pastures I grew up with back east. The open park lands on these low rolling domes don't harbor hers of bovines though, just a few lanky-legged moose here and there. (Courtesy of RS)

Winter-rates allowed us to stay at Lands End, named for its location at the end of the Homer Spit, the end of the North American continental road system. (Courtesy of RS)

(Courtesy of RS)

While we were in Homer Karl called up to report that he skied the Kachemak Nordic Marathon the previous Saturday and the trail was as good as he had seen it in year. Despite the lack of snow this winter, the high winds over the past few weeks had helped to do much of the groundwork for the groomers, who just had to polish it off for the race.

He and Pete came down and Rachel put up with our obnoxious behavior by giving us a lift from the end-point at the Baycrest trails and dropped us off at Ohlson where she could ski in peace!

Mili's World. Pete, with Iliamna in the background.

As usual, Karl is all smiles.

So is Pete.

Karl pulls a few Gs flying up out of "Milk Toast." If this picture looks like a play on lighting and angling that wasn't the intention, it's actually just one of several steep-sided half pipe like gullies the Marathon connector trail traverses. The Marathon course is a little different, lulling skiers with magnificent views across Cook Inlet and Kachemak Bay, then suddenly diving through gullies, zig-zagging through tight corners, and watch out for that giant collapsed sinkhole that wants to swallow up your skis.

We took out time and enjoyed the long ski, but at the end, Karl and I got a little too excited for the long descent down to the baycrest trails and "lost" Pete, who ended up having to find his way out on a let's say, scenic but rather odoriferous route. Oops. That was my bad! It worked out OK in the end though, Karl and I repaid him for his troubles with a cold one at Fat Olives where we all met up after.

TOA 2011

2011-03-08T23:39:00.001-09:00

For the short on the long in this year's Tour of Anchorage, read the previous post. For the long on the long, read below.

As I recall writing last year, the passing of the Tour of Anchorage always seems to come too fast.
I still opted again to ski the 50KM event, which followed a nearly identical course to last year.
The major difference course this year, however, was related to conditions. We’ve had a dearth of snow all season, it had been crystal clear and dry for the two weeks leading up to the tour, and a gusting north wind has been blowing on an off at speeds topping 50MPH over that period.
The shallow snowpack was bone dry and mixed with everything from just a typical fine deposit of dust, to near-beach like conditions along the Coastal Trail on the approach to Kincaid.
The abrasive sand and snow helped to grind off wax and reduce glide, while certain areas of the course seemed to have been more chewed up than what I’ve seen in the past two years. The tour is a major ski race and certain parts of the trail were slapped repeatedly by the skis of 1,400 participants this year.
That’s skiing though. This isn’t running on a track or swimming in a pool.
Temps at least were quite reasonable if not a bit warmer than expected, starting in the middle teens and rising to the mid- to high twenties by early afternoon.
Additionally, there were no major winds during the race.
I had a lot of ground to make up going into this year’s tour. Last year, I skied in at 3:13, and knew I could have shaved an easy five minutes off that time had I not been enjoying the scenery so much.
Additionally, I didn’t put in nearly as many longer skis last year, and my comment on sight-seeing is mostly in jest. I didn’t have a very good idea of what a good pace was last year until I got to the finish and realized it had been too slow.
I was really hopeful that I could set a pace and push my time to between 2:55 to 3:05 this year.
This season I’ve been feeling much stronger, managed to get in more long skis, upped my classic skiing, which has helped my skating technique, and the tour trails are now my home turf. No need for a scenic tour this year.
On race morning I showed up without 5 minutes to start but was ready to go. For the third time now, I had basically no warm-up; and for the third time, I realized that that’s OK, there’s more than enough time to warm up on the course trying to break free from the start wave.
Lined-up to go, I got in an outside track behind Soldotna’s Carly R. I’m still weary of Carly after she came up and crushed me at last year’s Tsalteshi 30KM. I always expect to see her pass on some inside corner just as my legs give out.
I managed to go into that “blur zone” waiting for the gun to go off, watching my hands and arms tremble with all sounds coming in warbled.
All that energy went to use pretty quick and helped propel me up to the front of my wave, the second pack (skiers in the tour are sent off in waves of 50 every two minutes to limit congestion on the narrow trails.
Getting ahead on the gradual climb that leads to the base of the Spencer Loop was a planned attack. Last year, skiing in one of the later waves and not knowing what the trail had in store, I took it easy on the climbing and ended up caught in a giant line of, let’s say, gravity-challenged skiers. The long climbs are one of the few places in the mostly flat course that a little skier like myself can really make up any ground, and getting caught in a pack will put the kibosh on that pretty quick. There’s also the added risk that someone will take you out on the descent.
I ended up climbing most of Spencer on my own though, with just one skier from my wave clinging tightly to me while we picked off some stragglers from the first wave. At the top of the second and third climbs that make up the three prominent climbs of Spencer I reeled the first wave’s main pack to within sight, but couldn’t close the gap before they would crest the climbs and speed away.
Spencer and the Hillside trails went by without event, as did most of Far North Bicentennial Park and Campbell Tract.
I started passing 40KM skiers almost immediately upon entering FNBP, which went to show that while taking off earlier in the 50K may get you out in front of the other 50K racers for the climb, you end up slamming into the back of the 40K much sooner while they’re still somewhat clustered.
Mainly however, I just kept the pace strong and took advantage of my cold-condition waxing and the cold snow in these areas that made for smooth gliding. I figured I might not be so lucky later.
Sure enough, heading along Tudor Road and over top the overpass to the University, the open trail conditions were noticeably slower.
Where the 25K joined in, the trail was almost ankle-deep or worse sugar from being torn-up.
While these slog conditions near the University ultimately let up within a kilometer or less, it was draining and sign of what was to come.
At that point too I could see was that despite my efforts, I was running a time of 1:45. I knew right then if I could match my time from last year in these conditions it’d be a good race, but I was going to have to work for it.
The shaded trails near the University turned out to be reasonably fast, though I son began to notice the tail end of the 25K races, adding to the congestion.
I also began to notice that I was picking off more and more of the first wave of 50K skiers, and actually ended up in a line-up of about a half dozen 50K skiers in the middle of the course.
The run down Chester Creek Trail seemed to blur by as I ticked off the major underpasses one by one, and soon enough I was at Westchester Lagoon. Checking my watch and seeing that I was at 2:15, I knew for sure that a 3:00 ski was going to be impossible.
I squeezed back a Gu and nearly tripped over my pole in front of a photographer near the lagoon too. I’m eagerly awaiting to see if that will show up anywhere.
As expected, the conditions along the coast were less than immaculate, and from the lagoon to about the 10KM left mark, conditions varied from OK to “what am I doing here?”
In some places, so much sand had been blown off of Knik Arm that adjacent to the trail, you could not see snow, it was completely coated. All of the sand that had landed on the trail was tilled up and mixed in. On a hill that descends from one of the airport’s runways I actually had to skate down it was so slow.
Skiers were dropping like flies left and right, more than usual for this area, because of the sand and torn-up conditions, and I knew I was in more of a survival ski mode than a race mode.
Somewhere just before the 10K left mark though, conditions improved, and by the time I saw the 10K sign, my legs were feeling recovered.
I put it into high gear.
I knew that if I could hold a steady clip to the 5K mark I would gradually wind down my pace. This way I would still have just enough juice to make it up the long and always torn-up climb to the stadium.
The plan worked well, and 20 minutes later I was at the 5K mark; except that I’d burned a little more off my legs than I probably should have. Just about at that moment, a woman from my wave flew by. Where she came from or how she had that bolt of energy so late in the race, I don’t know, but I latched on and drafted off of her into the lead-up to the climb, giving my legs a chance to breath just a bit. Funnily enough, the guy who had tailed me the whole way up Spencer clipped on behind me. I had seen him over my shoulder from time to time through the race, but now he was onboard.
As we hit the climb up to the stadium and the sugar snow started sucking my legs down. I knew trying to make a heroic climb was worthless, and the girl who pulled me and the guy from behind moved up, but stayed just in sight. As the snow bogged my skis back down and my legs began to burn again, still at the bottom of this known and tortuous climb, I remember feeling a burst of liquid squeeze out my eyes and wondering what it was. I knew in my mind, but I just kept focused on the trail ahead. That tank still wasn’t empty.
As we passed the 2K left mark where the grade of the climb backs off, I watched the guy from Spencer fire off and pass the woman. She tried to give chase, and for a second I thought about joining in, but of the last 2K, I knew half of that is still climbing, and my legs were burned and just glad to have an easier grade to work with.
I decided to bide my time and wait until the 1K mark, at which point the course flattens out, making a long horseshoe approach to the finish.
Legs screaming, form probably looking god awful, I pinned it at the 1K sign, determined not to leave a single drop in the tank.
I passed the woman and she briefly gave chase, cheered on by some friends of hers, but the older guy who had tailed me was too far out of reach to reel back in.
Oh well, with my legs screaming on fire at this point, I knew I got exactly what I wanted out of that race: to be absolutely dead, but not until I passed over that line.

Tour: short

2011-03-06T20:14:00.003-09:00

OK, here's the short on the long.

Distance: 50KM

Time: 3:17

Placement: 98th of 224

Conditons: Imaculate in some place (in the woods and on areas not torn-up by 40K and 25k skiers), lots of mashed potatoes elsewhhere, hellacious wind-blown sand mixed into the snow on the coast.

Rundown: Hardest tour conditions yet seen, my time was four minutes slower than last year, but my placement improved by 40 spots - a direct reflection of effort - and this year's field was comprable (about 10 less) to last year's. Most important, unlike last year, I didn't leave a drop in the tank and skied my best. Still fun.

More some other time.

Yanked from the Tour's site, lined up to go, I'm on the far left behind Carly R, also in a TTA suit.

Lost: The world is a quieter place

2011-03-03T22:27:00.003-09:00

John Haines, the state's former Poet Laureate, and the author of a work that I give a lot, if not all of, the credit for my residence here, died today.

I've blogged about Haines' "The Stars, The Snow, The Fire" as being a major inspiration that ignited my interest in the 49th state.

The state’s two main papers ran short and to-the-point obits. From the outside, their brevity might seem disrespectful, but Haines style was to do more with less when it came to words, so perhaps it’s fitting. The obit in the Fairbanks Daily Newsminer (LINK) is worth a read for its choice, but raw quotes from friends of his.

Haines lived and wrote of an Alaska that was caught between booms, a place that doesn't quite exist anymore, or is harder and harder to find.

Nationally, his work is generally unknown. Though not Alaska-raised, even in his adopted state, his name is still heard less often than other Alaskana writers; residents or not.

Haines was a critic of American literature and poetry, and made no lack of effort in calling for a less surficial approach to the art.

In “The hole in the bucket” in his “Living Off the Country,” Haines started the piece by writing: “American poetry lacks ideas. Like all large statements, this one covers a lot of ground and leaves plenty of room for error. I make it if for no other reason than to see what response I can provoke.”

Haines dedication to capturing Alaska on a page is noteworthy as well though, and something he dedicated much of his life to.

In his “The Writer as Alaskan: Beginnings and Reflections,” found in “Living Off the Country,” Haines wrote the following:

“The Alaskan writer faces a double task: to see to feel, and to interpret the place itself, and then to relate that experience to what he knows of the world at large. Not simply to describe the place and what is in it (though valuable, this has been done many times already); but to give this material a life in imagination, a vitality beyond mere appearances. This alone allows the place to be seen and felt by an audience whose members are everywhere. It is not, in the end, Alaska, a place where few people can live in perpetual self-congratulation, but humankind we are talking about. What we do and say here touches everywhere the common people.

The Alaskan writer faces in addition a difficulty which is everywhere around us, and whose effect can be seen in much of the writing today. The way we live nowadays seems to prevent closeness to anything outside this incubator world we have built around us. Within it, individuals face an increasingly impoverished inner world. It seems all too characteristic of us as people that we tend to limit and confine ourselves, to specialize and restrict. We prefer anything to openness. The sort of intimacy, of being available to the land in Alaska, to the things it can reveal to one willing to stay, to observe and listen, this is prevented, or at least it is blunted, by the life most people come here to live, a life no different than one they would live anywhere.”

From my standpoint, Haines’ achieved his goal in moving his multi-dimensional Alaska to the single dimension of a page so well, it ultimately moved me.

Below is a somber excerpt from the aptly-titled chapter, "Lost," in Haines' memoire, "The Stars, The Snow, The Fire."

The excerpt, truthfully more about death and its many forms found in Alaska, also does well at describing the loss associated with death, and the mystery that envelopes it.

"A drowsy half-wakeful menace waits for us in the quietness of this world. I have felt it near me while kneeling in the snow, minding a trap on a ridge many miles from home. There, in the cold that gripped my face, in the low, blue light failing around me, and the short day ending, in those familiar and friendly shadows, I was suddenly aware of something that did not care if I lived. Or, as it may be, running the river ice in mid-winter: under the sled runners a sudden cracking and buckling that scared the dogs and sent my heart racing. How swiftly the solid bottom of one's life can go.

Disappearances, apparitions; few clues, or none at all. Mostly it isn't murder, a punishable crime - the people just vanish. They go away, in sorrow, in pain, in mute astonishment, as of something decided forever. But sometimes you can't be sure, and a thing will happen that remains so unresolved, so strange, that someone will think of it years later, and he will sit there in the dusk and silence, staring out the window at another world."

"This city is honestly a warzone" A firsthand account of the Christchurch quake

2011-02-24T22:00:00.004-09:00

What follows is an email from a Kiwi friend of mine, Becki, who goes to school at the University of Canterbury in Christchurch, New Zealand. I knew Becki mostly through Narva, who forwarded me her letter, sent to friends and family shortly after the quake. The descriptions of the devastation in Christchurch are powerful, and yet some of the best illustrations of what's actually happened there that I've yet seen. With her permission, I've reprinted it below.

"Hello to my amazing family and friends. Thank you for your messages and support. Really wanted to let you know what it’s been like, so thought this would be the easiest way. Please forgive that it’s sent in group messages, but explaining it a dozen times over would be too time consuming and emotionally taxing. Anyway, here's the deal.

My flat is standing, but nothing inside it is. The fridge was thrown across the kitchen, ALL our plates and glasses smashed, everything thrown from cupboards and broken on the floor. The fish tank emptied its water all over my uni notes and textbooks. My bedroom is in pieces, drawers smashed and broken picture frames and potplants everywhere. I'm staying with friends because my street is within the boundaries of the city that have been cordoned off by police. Entire cars have been sucked into sinkholes only a few doors down from my place, and the roads are buckled and have splits in them a foot deep.

I was at uni when (the quake) hit, I dove under a table, but the wall beside me split and water and sewage pipes burst. I looked out the window and the seven story building next to us was swaying so much that its windows were exploding – I thought it was going to come down onto our building. We got outside before the next aftershock hit, which was so bad we could see the road rising and falling in waves, and a few trees near us very nearly were uprooted. We've had nearly two dozen aftershocks since then.

The mates I'm staying with and I pushbiked to check on family and other friends, all of whom are ok. We moved much faster on bikes, all the traffic lights are down and the roads were bumper to bumper with cars. Saw lots of traffic accidents as we went – people are scared and driving like idiots. Every sewer grate had liquefied silt spewing up out of it, people’s whole front yards were buried in sand and flooded. Every road has cracked, even in the suburbs, and every crack has sewage seeping up through it. This city is honestly a warzone.

I don’t know when I'll be able to go home. My house keys, laptop, uni work and my car are all trapped inside the university cordon so I can’t go get them until further notice, and I can’t go home because the cops won’t let me. I have my cellphone, my wallet, and a change of clothes. I'm safe though, so that’s the main thing. We're some of the lucky ones who got power back on last night. Over half the city still has no power, and 80 percent are without water. We have bottled water so we should be ok for a few days, and we dug a latrine in the backyard. Power means we can at least watch the news bulletins – 38 confirmed dead, hundreds still trapped. One-hundred and twenty were rescued overnight, but a large number of those needed limbs amputated in the field in order to free them.

I’m still in shock to be honest. Nothing seems real. Major shakes every hour or so snap you back into panic, but luckily the house I’m staying in has suffered no damage – it’s a wooden one so it flexes with the movement. As I type this we're getting another aftershock. Damn them! The main thing is that we're safe and unhurt. It’s a daunting thought, how long it will take Christchurch to pull together again. If it wasn’t for my studies I'd probably be moving. Mind you, it may be time for a holiday; campus is closed until further notice.

Love you all, and thank you again for your support and prayers.xxxx Becs"

Echoing my complaint that the media has given this disaster incredibly short-shrift, one friend I already passed this email onto said, "That was definitely different from how the (Wall Street Journal) described it."

As of Thursday afternoon Becki reported she had left Christchurch and was back in her hometown at the top of the South Island until she has a home to return to in CHCH.

For better coverage than what seems to be available Stateside she recommended http://www.tvnz.co.nz/.

If you have a minute, now would be a great time to make a donation, no matter how small or great. Donate to NZ Red Cross, or donate to NZ Salvation Army's Canterbury Earthquake Appeal. Both have easy online options.

Thank you for your help.

A taste of what's to come?

2011-02-22T22:22:00.006-09:00

Before this post gets going, I just want to take a moment to mention that, while the news is old now, the very reason this blog is even here, or the place really, has been swept off its feet by a devastating earthquake.
I can only imagine. CHCH was by far the nicest place I've ever lived, and I'm concerned as to how it will rebuild itself. It's easy to say "donate," that's probably enough, and I plan to, and hope some readers who feel so obliged might follow suit. But filling out some online form and clicking a "submit" button just isn't all that satisfying when you have a lot of memories tied to where that money is going, and knowing that no matter how many times you click that button, it may not ever be the same.
I want to be there now, doing anything, doing something, not clicking keys on my keyboard though.
I should say also that the disaster in CHCH hits home not just because it once was home, but also because just a bit less than 50 years ago, the city that I now call home was basically leveled by a quake, and may very well suffer a similar fate again someday.
It seems, however, that disappointingly, a hot-headed and soon to be out-of-power third-world warlord's speech has managed to syphon off most of the global media's attention from NZ. Neato.
I'm still with ya m8's.

On a much less somber note, the Kenai Gods were smiling this weekend. Friday saw the arrival of a rather strange but cold little snow storm that brought percipitation in an odd pattern.
The storm tracked up Cook Inlet, but instead of depositing it's load in the Western Susitna Valley or the Anchorage Bowl as such storms usually seem to do, it spun down Turnagain Arm and dropped a foot or more in Indian - not exactly an area known for heavy snows.
Even more strangely, a band of percipitation became sandwiched over Summit Pass. Typically these Cook Inlet-track storms deposit little if any snow in the Kenai Mountains. In this round however, Summit picked up 12-16 inches by Saturday morning, yet neighboring Turnagain Pass, which ussually picks up three times or more what Summit gets, only got half of that.
Best of all, unlike the majority of storms that have come through the region this winter, this one was unaccompanied by wind or rain. Indeed, the temps were pretty bitter and the snow that fell had a dream-like quality, literally exploding into billowing clouds when torn through by board or skis.

With the avalanche forecasters raising the skull and cross-bones in Summit on Saturday morning, I hitched up with Jack, and headed to Pete's North at the south-end of Turnagain. There we rendevouzed with Josh O, who was accompanied by the "Seward Crew."

While Jack and I were generally out of sync with everyone else on the mountain, we traded intel with Josh and co. and stories as our laps crossed.

Over on Lipps, a little abstract ski art to add to my collection.

Josh defines "blower pow."

The trees are the keys. Down in the woods the snow was deposited at least a foot deep. In the alpine the snow as shallower, and as the day wore on and the wind picked up, the ridge lines were blown clean.

Nature's snow guns. Jack is blasted by a constant jet of snow, funneled up the slope and through a cut made into the cornice near the summit of Pete's

With unbelievably rare consistent snow conditions from summit to highway-level, Jack, and I took advantage of the well-established uptrack and pumped in five laps that tallied apx. 1,500, 1,200, 1,200, 1,000, and 2,500 feet, for an epic 7,500-foot day. Temps at launch at the highway were single-digit, and wind gusts at nearby ridgetop weather stations reported winds topping 40 mph.

Even as my legs throbbed on the drive home, I knew damn well these were the best conditions of the year and reports from Summit, compliments of Tele-Pete, told me I'd be a fool not to go Sunday. With not too much convincing, Josh signed on for more.

We headed for Sugar Ridge, which is actually the lower part of a thin ridge line that runs just east of Ravens Ridge and forms the long northeastern shoulder of Halebop (LINK).

While winds had knocked down overnight, they were predicted to pick up again through the day, and Sugar sits in the lee of Halebop and Raven's, and is also well-treed and lower angle, meaning it offered protected skiing in lower visibility conditions with lower risk in regards to Summit's stability concerns.

Temps were a bit more comfortable in the high teens, and heavy fat flakes fell through most of the day, yet, in classic Kenai style, the sun was almost always shining, even as the snow fell sideways. The shoulder of Colorado had the same sun lighting it all day, though no opera music emanated from the clouds as the picture would suggest.

A "Dante line" through the trees.

Since Josh still hasn't updated his blog, I stole two of his pics from the Facebook of yours truly. He gets credit for both.

Is it next weekend yet?

15 Below

2011-02-12T19:26:00.001-09:00

Wow the temperature dropped

30 degrees Friday night from 15 above to 15 below. Ohh.

Cat Skiing

2011-02-08T21:57:00.005-09:00

Last week Dan H, who I met a few weeks ago skiing on Pete's North, shot out a message looking for extras to fill seats on a cat skiing trip in the Girdwood area.
He didn't have to ask me twice.
Cat skiing, for my non-snowsport enthusiast readers, has nothing to do with felines, but instead involves catching a lift up the mountain, generally in the backcountry, on a converted snow cat fitted with a cab in the rear for hauling passengers instead of grooming equipment.
Girdwood-based Chugach Powder Guides (LINK) runs just such an operation less than an hour from Anchorage with two machines that depart from The Hotel Alyeska's backdoor and take skiers and riders into the snow-hammered slopes of the Winner Creek area.
The price of admission was better than right for this adventure, and while it was still more than twice the cost of a lift ticket at the ski resort, and well over 100% more than the cost of a self-powered day in one of the passes, it was still a neat and new experience not worth passing up. Unlike the former two options, this offered relative exclusivity (our crew was comprised of 12, and CPG's second cat was operating in the area with another group of roughly the same size), as well as the ability to cram in more vertical feet than would be feasible this time of year under human power. Our total vertical for the day was 11,200.' Such a day under self-power would be a truly epic feat, possible only in April or afterwards.
Dan deserves a great deal of credit here too, not just for handling the logistics, but also for putting together a group of 12 skiers, tele-nuts and single-planker-wankers, that were about as close in abilities as such a group of that size can be. While I don't remember half of everyone's names, everyone was incredibly courteous and friendly. Our guides actually made fun of us through the day for being so courteous to eachother and trying to make sure everyone got a chance at first tracks.

Our two guides for the day in the orange jackets (whose names' I regret to say I've also forgotten) prepare the group for the first run. As with the fishing industry, not all guides are created equal, and sometimes a truer test of quality is not whether they can catch fish, but can they find the fish when the fish are thin and still keep the clients happy. Our two CPG guides had far from the greatest conditions to work with, but they sniffed out what good snow there was for us, kept everyone together and safe, and kept the attitude light and positive all day. You can't ask for a lot more.

The weather was perfect: temps in the high-teens to mid-twenties, blue sky most of the day and breathless wind. Unfortunately, calling the snow wind-licked would be an understatement. Wind-slobbered would be more fitting. Much of the snowpack looked either like this (a mostly supportable wind crust ontop of some cush powder) or was rain/wind/melt crusted in the trees. There was a narrow sweet spot inbetween where the blown powder was deposited, but not affected by the recent warm temps.

Unloading for another run.

Inside the cab. Skylight windows, buckets seats, and tunes to go with. That's a lot more comfortable than skinning.

Michael enjoys the view out over Turnagain Arm.. The cat could get to some pretty tight spots and plenty high-up.

Dan tears down a slope.

John B. makes some choppy conditions look smooth.

John again.

Dan lands a 2-3 foot drop off a wind cornice.

Getting the low-down at the top of a run called Rock Star, which proved to have some of the best snow all day.

A maritime mist rolls off the Arm and into the valley below. The peak to the center-right has some excellent looking epic-day lines.

Last run.

Glad my computer cooperated to get this post out!

Risk

2011-01-10T22:07:00.004-09:00

Tonight’s post kind of has to do with risk.
The inspiration is based on the weekend as well as my recent (as in tonight) viewing of “Wall Street Money Never Sleeps.”
I’ll save you some time right now and tell you that you don’t need to stop reading this post and go see the movie.
Risk is all about reward.
This evening, for example, I texted Bernie – who also goes by his real name of Andrew – for a movie suggestion to watch while spinning.
He did not suggest Wall Street: instead, he recommended “American Fliers.”
I didn’t really want to spend any more time in Block Buster than I had to looking around though, so I settled on something in the new releases section.
While Michael Douglas is indeed a very talented actor, he can’t make up for a sappy story line and a lot of unnecessary, weird and cheesy digital effects that drag down the sequel.
The movie did make me want to go to the bank and withdraw every dollar to my name. After watching that, I’d feel a lot safer with it shoved under a mattress than in the hands of some Wall Street sociopath.
Investment risks aren’t ones I tend to think about on a day-to-day basis though.
I’m a lot more concerned with things like the current weather pattern and mountain snowpack stability.
In this word too, however, there are risks as well.
The Chugach National Forest Avalanche Information Center has been advising skiers and riders to stay off of risky lines for the past week now, warning that stability is a major concern right now.
Sometimes though, you just end up taking a risk anyway, because it’s there.
That was the case this weekend. Pete and I met up on Lips on Sunday, and despite a plan to just stay low in the alders, we ended up venturing high.
And while up high, I couldn’t help but notice how good the front face of the cliff banded aspect looked.
Neither could another group of four that trekked up later in the day.
That group was out in front of me as I prepared to make my second descent, and ended up laying first tracks on the face.
Not surprisingly, this wiped away the sense of caution I probably should have had as I dropped in behind them a few minutes later, farming their tracks.
My lack of caution resulted in my careening over one of the exposed rock bands.
In the flat light, I couldn’t tell the difference between the larger cliffs that jut out from the face and the fall line I should have been chasing. I was lucky, the band I went over was just a little one and when I saw what was about to happen I accelerated and aired to avoid nailing any buried ricks that might have been lurking underneath.
The problem, however, is that the reward was high.
The run was sweet, the payoff was great, it was a hell of a run and I paid no price for my carelessness, except for the sobering realization that I got lucky.

Sunrise in Portage.

Pete turns through the Alders.

Greg of Girdwood.

Lips' skyline ridge.

Pete, looking for a line to the moon?

More Pete.

Not the least: The rest of the East

2011-01-04T21:43:00.007-09:00

This post comes to you from the north again. I arrived back in Anchorage Sunday night after a very long couple of flights from New Jersey.

Here's what followed from the last post.

On the 29th Andrew and I did a skate ski in Goshen. It was Andrew's first time out on skinny skis this year, and we found overall pretty good conditions.

Romance Mountain, seen from Goshen Dam.

Andrew is all smiles.
The skate was my last outing on skinnys for the trip, and I have to say, perhaps one of the best presents I got this year was from mother nature. The snow was exceptional for my trip and I was able to put both my classics and skates to work. On top of this, I was pleasantly surprised to find that all the old trails were just as fun as I remembered them to be. We here in the north may be blessed with a long season, but many of the trails I ski here simply don't hold a candle to the "character" of VT trails. Here, ours are bulldozed smooth, crowned for easy skating, wide for long diagonal strides, and groomed meticulously. In VT, you're always on your toes (or heels) hopping over water bars, nimbly stepping over rocks, roots, and big sticks and hanging on in soft corners. The trail corridors are often narrow too, a single lane for the most part with high sides and a low bottom, and the trails, well, they run through those open stands of hardwoods like dark maple syrup dribbles and winds its way down a stack of pancakes in no particular hurry. I foresee an East coast trip in the future that will focus more exclusively on skinny skiing.

Red light district? On the 30th we headed back down to NJ, and on NYE day, Bernie picked me up on his way back into the NYC.

Manhattan Municipal Hall.

Brooklyn Bridge.

NYC had more snow than Anchorage, a fact that many found to be pretty funny. A big blizzard had dumped a pile of snow on the region and many cars still looked like this one even a week after the storm.

We spent NYE in Brooklyn, meeting up with Bryan and Abby. Rachel took the train in later and met up with us.

Team photo.

A failure at trying to document our purple wine-teeth proved successful on other fronts.

The skyline from the Brooklyn Promenade.

Brooklyn Bridge, just a few minutes into 2011.

After a night of celebrating, we took the very long train back to NJ, starting with a subway ride from Brooklyn.

Sheba is always in a mood to play.

New Years Day was a quiet one spent in NJ. We hung around the house for most the day and ended the trip much like it started, with another excelent dinner with Rachel's folks.

Always!

Phoenix.

It's hard to believe that 11 days could go by so fast or so well. I'm feeling pretty lucky right now to have spent the holidays with so many great friends and family, and while I was hoping the trip might cure some occasional but recurrent homesickness, I've found myself wondering how things are going back there a bit more as of late, while still appreciating the things that make living up here so good just a bit more too.

Thanks all again for a great trip, hope to see everyone up here or back there soon.

Vermont, so far...

2010-12-28T14:24:00.008-09:00

...so good.

The one thing to be counted on when it comes to Yankee winter times is that there's not always much to be counted upon, at least for snow.
This year, New England, and much of the northeast, has had a wintry holiday, thankfully, and while there's lots of travelers who probably don't agree with me, I can't complain.

After 12 or so hours in the air or in line on trip that departed somewhere in the nether hours between Wednesday and Thursday in frigid Anchorage, I landed in New Jersey on Thursday afternoon.
A delicious dinner was waiting with Rachel's family though, and all's well that ends well, even when it comes to holiday travel.
Rach and I awoke Christmas Eve day and hit the road north to East Middlebury.
New Jersey was still looking rather brown when we left, and actually some yards even still had a green-ish lawns, but as we headed up the Northway, we started seeing more and more signs of winter.

We made sure to stop off in Saratoga to have lunch with Scott and make a drive-by of campus before heading on our way.

Right around the Vermont border, as usual and I'll say confidently to no surprise of my own, snow started to cover the ground - thinly - but consistently.

Anyone want some alpacas? I didn't even notice the sign when I snapped the picture, but now that I have, I couldn't resist posting. I hear they make great house pets.

Quintessential red barns in snowy fields with snowy mountains in the backdrop.

On Christmas Day, itching to ski like a kids with chicken pox, Rachel and I went to the Middlebury College Snow Bowl, which was closed for the day, to ski: yours truly on skates and Rachel booting up for some alpine turns.

I forgot to grab the camera, but Rachel skied one full plus two half laps down the Lang through the solstice Vermont dusk, while I skated halfway up three times. I forgot that going backwards up ski hills, no matter how small or easy the trail may be, is still pretty gruelling work.

On the 27th, I met up with Amy and pup, Cassie, to do a tour in the foot of snow that had fallen the night before on trails in Ripton.

Trail breaker.

Snowy roads.

Amy skis on by on the way back down to the car. Cassie, in tow, spend much of the day breaking trail for us, leaping through the drifts that sometimes were knee deep.

Lead dog.

Mom and I had a sunny ski at Breadloaf on the 28th

Vermont trails.

They're pretty great.

I'll be back in AK on the 2nd, with a follow up post next week.

See ya next year.

Tis the season

2010-12-13T22:06:00.007-09:00

It's that time of year again. My sympathy for store cashiers who have to listen to those same Christmas tunes all day is at an all-time high, it's darker than night most of the day, colder outside than the North Pole, and the snow is sugary sweet.
This and next weekend will be the two shortest of the year, but I sure didn't let this one get away.
I headed to Lips in Turnagain Pass with Josh D, "Denny Laine" and Brian on Saturday. We were met up by Keith and Mike who brought a Peninsula Posse along.
The lower reaches of Lips was an alder-hell, we need another big storm to knock things down, but once we made it a couple hundred feet above the highway elevation it opened up. We ended up spending most of the day in the alpine on Lip's south face, making three runs in snow that varied from sweet to scritchy. On the way out we found excellent snow on the low angle terrain in the alders, though the eventual exit was pretty tough trying to work through the alder prison. No photo evidence from this adventure, I forgot to grab a fresh battery.

Sunday I met up with Pete and Kasilof Karl under the the slopes of Colorado Peak in Summit Pass. We were joined again by Keith and Mike as well as Steve and Greg.
With a strong inversion in place, a thick layer of fog had formed at the pass, and for the first 45 minutes we broke trail in surprisingly deep dry fine summit powder wandering through the cold mist.

When we finally broke out we were treated to a fine view.

I don't know what caused Karl to make this funny face, but I love it. This and the next picture sum up the whole day.

I know why he was making this face.

Pete. While the northerly gully Jack and I skied (LINK) last February looked good, sun is a rare thing this time of year, so we proceeded to do our best to track out the main face from the hemlock line (apx. 2,800') down. The aforementioned elevation was where the snow went from good to variable to tundra in less than 100' vert. Interestingly enough, on my second run, I came across a skier wearing all read (not Pete), who no one else saw. When I told Karl and Pete about this mysterious figure in red, Karl wanted to know if maybe he was being led by a red nosed reindeer and had a sack over his shoulder. Now I'm not one to believe in miracles, but on the next climb we saw ski tracks heading into the northerly gully, and about five minutes after passing by it's entrance, we heard a bellowing "HO-HO-HO" coming from down the mountain.
True story, and said gully has since been officially named, "Santa Claus Gully.

One another note, we missed a National Geographic photographers dream scene when we found the site of a face-off between a lynx and a wolverine on the backside of the prominent knoll on Colorado's main face slope. It appeared that the two found each other, exchanged fighting words, pranced around making two large circles in the snow, before they each went their own separate ways. I can only imagine what that would have looked like with the moonlight reflecting off of the white peaks and snow clad pines in the background while the two predators sized eachother up, snarling and gnashing their teeth.

Pete again.

Pete, again, with the same smile. Must have been really good snow.

Spirit Walker Mountain, Lower Summit Lake below.

Hale Bop towering above Raven's Ridge (LINK perspective shot, standing under Hale Bop last May).

Summit Pass-north in the shadow of Fresno Ridge. Everyone was feeling it after run three, and while the rest of the crew bid their farewells and headed downward, Pete made his puppy dog eyes to Karl, pleading that we make a half ascent to top out for a longer exit run in the waning twilight. Karl, exhausted as he was, couldn't say no, and up we went, for a twilight exit.

Moon rising over Hale Bop.

Past sunset.

People from other places ask, "How do we survive the long winters in this place?" Funny thing is, I wonder the same thing about them.

Front range frustration leads to summit success

2010-12-06T22:58:00.004-09:00

Jack and I ventured to the South Fork area in Eagle River just north of the city on Saturday in the hopes of finding front range goods.
Jack welcomed me to my first front range adventure in what he said were rather typical conditions for the wind hammered mountains that tower over Anchorage.
We found a scant few inches of dust on top of a bullet proof crust from the Thanksgiving rain event.
We climbed through a low saddle into a bowl that I wouldn't feel comfortable identifying here for fear of calling it the wrong name, and ventured to a summit above.
The first dozen or so turns from the top were not too bad, but then the crust become too prevalent and unsupportable, making the rest of the steeper part of the bowl pretty terrible. The low-angle terrain in the basin however, was not too bad, though was scary thin.
It was powder mining, make a few turns on a vein of powder that had been deposited in a minor depression, make a few scritchy turns on the crust to the next vein, and so on.
We did two laps in the aspect before venturing back through the saddle and down the otherside.
It was a bit of a throwback to east coast turns, between the thin cover, bipolar puckerfactor-to-bliss-to-puckerfactor decent.On the final run out we we hugged the alders and the gullys, running over blueberry bushes just like I used to in the blueberry meadow on little Hogback Mountain in Goshen Vt.
Knuckledragging down a hiking trail back to the parking lot, hopping and jumping to avoid rocks, I swore I'd find green mountain licence plates on the cars.

Jack about to descend into the bowl. The South Fork of Eagle River Valley is over the ridge. We came through the saddle in the center and out run ended just about where the photos does in the gully below.

Views of Anchorage to the west.

Jack, silhouetted across the bowl. On the second climb up the bowl Jack and I attacked different sides of the climb, though we topped out at the same time.

After two weeks with no turns, even in the not-so-great conditions it felt to get out and carve.

On Sunday Jack and I headed south to Summit Pass, meeting up with Michael and George in Girdwood, and redevousing with Josh O at the Fresno Ridge lot.

Down low we found significantly more of the supper light dry snow deposited on the same crust.

Jack

Michael.

George.

Josh.

George, Michael and Josh were feeling the burn after the second run and the three decided to descend out. I might have been feeling it a lot more too and join them, however, my skins started loosing sticktion on the second climb and I was forced to stop and try and rejuvenate them, ultimately taping the tails to keep them from peeling back. The near TSF saved me from grueling trail-breaking while the other four plowed through putting in a new uptrack.

Jack and I made a third run, not leaving too much daylight on the table.

Is it next weekend yet?

(No Thursday blog since this one came so late in the week. Check back Tuesday morning.)

Right, it's Thursday, blog day

2010-12-02T21:37:00.004-09:00

As I was munching on my dinner, feeling content in the wake of my debut after work ski here in Los Anchorage, I realized that today is Thursday, and I normally post to this here blog on Thursdays.
The change to a Monday-Friday schedule may take some getting used to, and perhaps the blog will have to adapt as well. Time will tell.

The past week and a half has basically been lots of just that actually, adapting that is.
I was being introduced to some new coworkers a few days ago and someone made a comment about how I was adjusting to the move, sort of in jest. Most of the other recent hires have been brought up from Outside and are learning to adapt to short daylight, sub-zero cold and half-ton ungulates mulling about in major intersections in the middle of the day.
While I've seen all those things before and then some, Anchorage is a far different world from the central Pen. My new drive to work for example, is but 10 miles, not even half what I used to commute, yet takes about as much time on the way home as the former. I spend most if it in bumper to bumper traffic surrounded on all sides by tall (relatively speaking) buildings and flashing lights.
Right, then there's the job, which, though familiar, involves all new processes and systems in languages of code or organization it will take time to learn.
If that sounds scary, or intimidating, it is; but it's exciting too, and feels better by the day.

Last Wednesday I headed back down to the Peninsula borrowing Joe's truck to haul up the rest of my stuff with and enjoy a holiday and long weekend with friends.

My humble contribution of a salad to compliment an excellent meal prepared by Keith, Edie and John at Kieth and Edie's new place on Kalifonsky Beach.

On Friday morning Keith and I took their dog Maya for a walk down the beach where we enjoyed some great views of Redoubt.

Then the fun began. We set up Keith's new trap thrower, compliments of John, on the bluff in the backyard. It took a while to get a handle on the skeet, and with a couple different guns, each one shot a little different. Once I got a handle on one though, it was a blast, no pun intended.

Christmas card material.

We were soon joined by others including Kyle and Emily, who brought a second thrower.

We couldn't have asked for a better day.

Despite only a supply of wet fuel, Kyle got a blaze going in the fire pit.

A pretty good day. We shot off 200 some odd rounds.

Well, here it goes

2010-11-21T14:00:00.003-09:00

Well, my search for housing in the metropolis of Anchorage was a success. The suby is packed up outside and I'll be on my way as soon as this post is published.
I don't know when I'll have the Internets set up and I doubt I'll be posting on Thanksgiving, hence this mid-afternoon post on a Sunday.
It may be a little quiet here on the Trail for the next two weeks or so as I settle into a new, more urban lifestyle.
It's hard to believe how fast it's all happening too. I just packed up the majority of my life and stuffed it, in a rather organized fashion, into the back of my car with a little too much ease.
I can't help but feel a bit emotional right now.

Well, here it goes.

House hunt

2010-11-18T22:45:00.002-09:00

I'll be spending my weekend in Anchorage looking at housing options. It's more than a little weird to have to think about many of the amenities I've grown used to, and whether I'm willing to pay for all of them, or which ones I could do without.
It's also been interesting to see how fast good housing gets snapped up in Anchorage.
Hopefully on Monday I'll be posting with some good news on this front.

The big announcement

2010-11-15T22:22:00.002-09:00

Over the last few weeks I’ve been failing to deliver here on the Trail.
While word has spread in the real world, thus far, the virtual world has mostly been deprived of the most recent and I would say biggest development in my life since I moved here.
Two weekends ago on my drive back from splitboarding in the pass with Josh, I was officially offered a position as a technical editor with an engineering and consulting firm in their Anchorage office.
The job offer, which I accepted, was not by any stretch out of the blue.
With some help from two relatives in the City of Brotherly Love, I’ve been in the back and forth process with the company for the better part of the last three weeks.
That all ended last Saturday, and this Saturday I will be in Anchorage looking for a new place to live.
The new job starts on Monday, my final day at the Clarion is Thursday.
Everything seems to be developing at the speed of sound, almost literally, which, after all this time, is both welcome and overwhelming.
I’m ripe here for some long winded reflections, and the thoughts are many on what’s ahead and what I’m leaving behind.
In little flashes, I’m reminded that the things that I’ve been doing on a regular basis for the last 2 years and change are all about to end, whether it’s the long sunrise commute to work, the views of volcanoes directly across the inlet I’ve enjoyed on my road bike rides or the daily ventures on the ski trails I know like the back of my hand.
It’s hard to say what I will miss most. There are so many things, and so many people, I dare not venture to say in public what or who they would be.
But I know for a fact that the quiet I’ve found after long days in the office on the starlit ski trails is certainly up there, and as of late, with all that’s going on, my after work skis have been all the more bittersweet.
As I’ve skated around in the dark these past few nights, John Cougar Mellancamp’s, “Small Town,” keeps playing in my head.

This past weekend I synced up with Jack and crew on Tincan. Visibility was nil, but the snow was sweet.

After making one run "on my own" in the company of a not oversized Friday crowd on the upperbowl, Jack and Crew emerged from the trees for their 4th lap I think. From the top, two of Jack's friends descended back to the car, while Jack and I did one more, making it back to the cars with not much daylight left to spare.

Winter on the river

2010-11-11T22:51:00.004-09:00

Clarion photog extraordinaire, Scott, and I hit the upper-middle of the Kenai River today with Tony Eskelin, a sport fish bio with Fish and Game in Soldotna, to look for some of the rainbow trout Tony has tagged with radio transmitters.
This is part of an ongoing department study to follow where there fish are moving through the year as they feast on salmon, hunker down through the winters and spawn in the spring.
I've seen Tony working more than few times this year, as well as other Fish and Game bios out tracking the kings that were tagged as part of a separate study, so it was pretty cool to head out on the boat and hunt down some of the fish.
The method Tony is using is similar to one I saw employed by the department in another study (LINK) they were conducting on invasive northern pike in a lake in the northern Peninsula I wrote about last February (ARTICLE).
Despite a forecast that called for the Kenai to get railed by a surly storm said to be packing a wet and warm punch, temps were pretty reasonable with calm winds and even a few peaks of sun, making for a pretty nice day out on the water.

Scott looks on while Tony hones in on a tagged fish.

A few hardy anglers are still out working the waters.

Looking up the now iced over Lower Killey.

First turns on Tincan

2010-11-08T22:44:00.003-09:00

Josh O (LINK) and I hit Tincan on Saturday on the fat boards, marking the official first turns of the season for yours truly.
A big storm has walloped the Peninsula since late Friday, dumping heaps of snow even here in the normally skimpily covered lowlands of the Central Pen.
Based on a trip I made two years ago to Carter Lake about this time of year after a nice white gift from the Prince (LINK), tele-Pete's Friday report that Summit Pass was rocking two feet at the highway and finally snowtel gauge reports, I wanted to get some turns at Carter before the area opens to sled heads.
We launched from Sterling around 9, but the sky was falling, and the drive between Sterling and Cooper Landing was the worst I've seen it. The pavement was nowhere in sight and sometimes it was hard to tell if we were even in the right lane. Fortunately we were the only people dumb enough to be out driving so there were few knuckleheads to contend with.
When we finally made it Tern Lake, the weather had lightened up some, and we could see Carter probably wasn't going to go. There was less than a foot at the road at the junction of the Sterling and Seward, and looking up the flanks of the nearby peak, the cover looked too thin.
We decided to head for Tincan, where knee deep snow was reported on Friday.
Tincan, along with being an early season mecca, offers some of the only tree skiing around, which is key when visibility is lousy.
Somewhere between Summit Pass and Hope Junction the snow turned to rain, and continued even as we climbed into Turnagain Pass.
Undaunted, we pulled into the Tincan lot which was, as expected, overflowing with every kind of snow enthusiast.
Making our way through the crowds and the freeze line, we soon found improving snow quality.
While visibility made it seem unworthy our effort to climb to the top of the bowl, AK Jack reported even better snow up high.
We were happy to make three tree runs, working our way progressively north, in snow that was at least mid-thigh deep or better.
What a way to start the season.

Josh prepares for the first descent of the day as snow continues to fall in earnest.

Winter sked

2010-11-07T22:37:00.002-09:00

It's that time of year again. First tracks were laid on the splitty this weekend and the lowlands are disappearing under an ever deepening blanket as I strike these keys.
That means Sunday nights are for waxing planks, not for waxing poetic on the Internets. Come back Tuesday morning for photos and a short trip report from the first outing of the season.

Game on?

2010-11-04T22:25:00.003-08:00

Snowtel sites across the Kenai Mountains reported the first significant snowfalls of the season this week, with a bulk load coming in Wednesday night via Prince William.
Down here in the lowlands, the first fall of the season came Monday night, and when I awoke on election day, well, let's say, I didn't have much of a decision to make.
While only an optimistic 2.5" covered the ground in Sterling, it was voluminous snow, and the warm sun came out, quickly nuking the top centimeter giving it a nice crunch.
I popped into my rock ski/classic fish scales and headed up the hill for a 45 minute or so tour around the neighborhood, making use of stray tire tracks as a classic track and working on getting my stride back underneath me.
The bright sun, snow covered trees and white washed roads were just what I wanted to see.
Since then, it's sort of precipitated every which way between snow and plain rain, but there's still snow on the ground, and there's no better base than a bomber layer of white ice, so,
GAME: ON.

Tuesday, just before sunrise.

2010-10-31T23:40:00.002-08:00

Hectic weekend these past few days. I did make it to Anchorage to pick up a new pair of skate ski boots and poles. I was too busy with other activities that maybe I'll post about here one day, but not today, to get out and do much more.

2010-10-28T22:09:00.001-08:00

I pumped out 5,000 words today at work for three separate articles and I have to say, those are about all the words I have.

Late season on the Russian

2010-10-24T22:14:00.005-08:00

We seem to be having an Alaska version of an Indian Summer up here. By northern standards that means temps in the mid-40's or better and not raining. Kjell and I rode the Russian Lake Loop on Saturday in a really nice window of clear weather.
We started out with the plan that we would ride to the top of Snug Harbor Road to the top of the Russian Lakes Trail, and head down the trail to test things out.
Freeze-thaw conditions can make trails unrideable, so we figured that if we got a mile or two in and were spinning our tires on slime and much, we could bag it and still do a 35 mile out-and-back.
Leaving the Russian River overflow lot a little after 1, we made good time on the road and climb up from Kenai Lake, reaching the trail head in an hour and 20.
After a short break, we took off down the trail.
My hope was that the Russian's tendency to stay on well drained soils and side-hill across slopes would mean that even though the temps are swinging back and forth across the freezing mark everyday, it wouldn't have an affect.
My hunch was dead on. To add to that, even when the sun comes out as it did, it's so low in the sky now it can't get the power to really nuke the ground.
The trail wasn't quite frozen like concrete, but was more than hard enough that we never had an issue where we were spinning tires in sticky muck. I was actually a little nervous there would be slime ice on the dozens of little old bridges. Fortunately that was never a problem.
The riding turned out to be about as good as I think I've ever seen it on that trail. The notoriously obnoxious vegetation was withered away and the trail smooth and dry.
The only thing lacking was the normally lush verdant views and wildflowers that make the trail such a great early season ride.
Not lacking, however, were bears.
I was thinking that they might have cleared out of this very 'beary' corridor now that the fish are all gone.
While they were mostly moved out of the lower valley, the bench between the intersection with Resurrection River Trail and Upper Russian Lake was thick with bears. If someone stumbled upon the trail from the wilderness, absolutely nothing would tell them that it was actually a human path. It literally appeared that a parade of bears had marched through there.
Someone might want to leave those bears some pepto-bismol too

Click to enlarge (CTE)

Riding up Snug Harbor Road. Bone Peak beyond.

Shot Peak across an unnamed pond near the crest of Snug.

Bone, from the same pond.

Cooper Lake, looking back a mile or so in on the trail.

Jeezum Kjell, slow down, you're breaking the bridge! (CTE)

There's a section of trail that's slowly been getting washed away by a creek that jumps its banks every chance it gets. Last time was up here in June and riding in reverse, we plowed against flowing waters and I recall that the little waterfalls had plunge pools underneath. As I came down this time I barley dumped it into a 4 foot crater at the beginning of the wash out. After that I figured I'd be safe and dropped the little guy above this hole thinking this one would be the same. Oops! (CTE)

Cooper Mountain above Echo Pond.

Peak 5107, possibly AKA, Menker Peak?

Through the cotton woods below Upper Russian Lake. (CTE)

A view along Russian River.

A view to Lower Russian Lake.

(CTE)

So even though I had to work on my actual birthday, I was thankful the Kenai Gods let me ride into my 25th year the day before.

Careful

2010-10-21T23:17:00.003-08:00

For the gods of the Kenai's ears are sensitive and their demeanor wicked.
It's the season of in between, one where the snow has begun to accumulate again in those hinterlands winter retreats to through the summer, but has yet to swoop down upon the lowlands.
One should always be careful what they say and what they write, for the gods are fickle and cruel.
"Looking forward to a white winter?" They'll ask, laughing as they smite thee with a wet forty-degree rain.
Just as they have been know to unleash horrendous blizzards in the months of April and May when the sun starved denizens of this land look hopefully toward the heavens for a reprieve.
Now is the time to wait quietly, enjoy a nice weekend if it comes, roll up the sleeves to catch the dimming rays of light, and try not to sigh too deeply in the morning when the mercury has not fallen below the red line drawn across the integer, 32.

Lazy weekend

2010-10-17T21:56:00.002-08:00

Nothing exciting to report this weekend, but it was a good two days to catch up on rest, knock out a few projects and smoke two loads of fish.
Nothing says fall in Alaska like the sweet smell of a smoker mixed in with cold winds, rain and snow.

The call

2010-10-14T23:53:00.001-08:00

It’s 6 p.m., the sun is falling behind the snow covered mountains, a bitter northwind is freezing my thinly covered arms, and I still can’t see the crest of this climb.
For the better part of the last 6 hours my legs have been spinning a set of pedals connected to gears that move a chain that in turn spin another set of gears which finally grind my whole back wheel over the three inches of crusty snow.
It’s early October, I’m trying to make it to the high point of a moraine south of Lost Lake.
I knew when I set off on this ride it was going to be rough, and now, I just want it to be over.
The 30 some odd mile Lost Lake Loop, cut into official existence last summer, is living up to all that I have made it out to be.
I launched from the trailhead around noon thirty and set off up the Seward Highway to Bear Lake. Once in the woods the wide ski trail narrowed down, and narrowed down some more, until it finally devolved into a rugged single track trail traversing the steep eastern shore of the lake.
Out in the glass flat water, salmon, small silvers, or pinks I don’t know, are leaping to the surface.
I’m hoping that I won’t find any fish pigs on this ride; it’s not the time of year to hang around with them.
The trail’s pretty nasty, and short sections just aren’t rideable, while others are just a pleasure.
Eventually I arrive at the lake’s northern shore and hook into another ski trail. A long and sometimes un rideably steep climb awaits.
Most sections could be pedaled I suppose, but skinned pine logs jut laterally across the trail in places to drain the intensive rains that fall here, and their surface is smooth and slimy.
My back tire, which already struggles to find traction on the Eastern Kenai Peninsula with it’s relatively low profile tread meant for the more typical dry western single-track conditions, stands no chance at these grades on such a surface.
The long climb makes my heart run hard though, and in the not even 40 degree air, the heat dissipates easily.
Eventually I level out, the trail begins to duck and weave in some places.
Now when I point downhill and see those same wood lined water bars, I feel it, you know, it, climb up the back of my throat.
If my front tire jumps to the side, the resulting impact will be swift.
There’s little to see above me, or side to side, except everything I guess.
For the most part I’m surrounded by a boreal rainforest.
Every so often I notice a small pond, and even less often I’ll cross an open swamp on a long bridge.
Some of the bridges have even been built with steps as they change elevation. My favorite of them all will drop down several decks before climbing back up them. Each flat is at least the length of a bike.
Somewhere in a hollow, I make a drop and in the distance, through murky distance I see an orange and black creature trotting toward me.
It’s a dog, a German Sheppard. I hoot, and not a second later I see the florescent colored jackets of the dog’s two legged companions in tow.
They’re about as surprised to see me as I them.
One shouts, "What a nice day," as I say hello and pass by.
"It sure is," I call back, knowing this could be one of the last like it.
It’s somehow comforting to see them, yet this is a generally unknown trail. Perhaps I’ll see many.
Fifteen or twenty minutes later I know I must be getting closer to Divide, the separation of the massive Snow River drainage and the small creeks that fall to Seward.
The trail is dropping elevation from the ridge I’ve followed, and in a moment of absence, I’ve failed to notice I’m about to roll over a solid foot to foot and a half root drop.
I hit the brakes.
Shit.
The front wheel drops with a thud into some deep muck and comes to a halt.
In a fraction of a second my back tire comes off the ground and I find myself suspended in this awkward position.
I hold there for a moment, senses I don’t have to control anymore are firing away trying to pull me out of this mess. My left hand is flicking away at the front brake trying to adjust one pivot point while my lower body is gently nudging to the left in an attempt to carefully drop the bike sideways so that it sets back down, off angle, but back on the rear wheel.
Too late, I cross over the point of no return; snap-snap and I click my feet from the pedals and leap forward into the muck, nailing the handlebars on the way down.
Damn, I suck in some wind.
The crash will hurt me more mentally than physically. This is a long ride and I can’t afford to psyche myself out like that, but now my mind is already working on that problem, and trying to figure out how I could have saved that situation.
I guess that’s why I’ve only crashed once this season, right?
Next time though, I need to be on it, and roll that drop with speed; pay attention.
To add to the sudden burst of anxiety a fresh set of grizzly tracks appears on the trail in front of me. They’re pretty good sized.
I heard the highway a few minutes ago, but now I don’t hear it anymore, and the bear seems to be sticking to the trail that I’m buzzing right along.
Around the corner I see a silver object through the trees. It’s the small trailhead and the truck of the same hikers I saw earlier I assume.
I’m pretty happy to be off that trail all of a sudden. It’s already been two hours.
On the side of the highway I sit down and pull out my sandwich.
For nearly five minutes not a single car goes by. Then one does. Then nothing.
I’m on the road now, headed back in the direction I’ve traveled, only to shoot back off, on the west side of the highway now.
I follow an old double track trail for a short ways before it dives back into the forest.
It’s drier here.
The wooden drainages aren’t slick at all. A few of the long bridges are covered in a cold sweat that makes the tires sweep from side to side at points, but it’s much easier going now.
This section will go by faster, but it’s far more draining than the last.
Sometimes just a vertical foot or two, sometimes dozens of vertical feet, will be burned up on a descent, only to have to make it up again, over and over.
The climbs seem to outweigh the descents 5 to 1 though.
There are more lakes in this section too. A few provide glimpses to the snowy mountains where I’m headed.
As I ride along one lake, the tall white stocking legs of a moose catch my eye across the way.
How many moose do I see in a week? I don’t know. They’re more of a nuisance and a safety hazard.
But this one is huge, and in the broken glimpses I get, I see it’s a bull, adorned with a healthy set of antlers.
He’s grazing in a swamp, the last of the autumn leaves shaking around its forested edges and the brown grass waving at snow covered peaks beyond.
It’s too perfect.
He knows I’m here too, making a loud grunt at one point while looking my way.
Why make enemies?
The ride goes on for an hour and change before the trail again begins to make a long descent.
Around a corner I sweep to the junction of the Primrose Trail.
After another break, I begin the long climb to Lost Lake.
It’s quarter after 4 as I leave.
This is the do or die point.
I could have just followed the rest of Primrose back to Kenai Lake and taken the highway back to Seward, or even ridden the last section in reverse.
Now I’m committing to make it the next 14 or so miles back to Seward in the wilderness, come what may, with three and a half hours of daylight and unknown high elevation trail conditions left.
It’s instantly amazing though, the difference between the much older Primrose Trail and the fresh loamy trail I’ve been on for the past few hours.
Sure, the Primrose is steep, and in some sections just unrideable, but for the most part it’s lower section rolls much more smoothly under my tires than anything I've done all day.
Somewhere just below 2,000’ I see my first patch of snow on the side of the trail.
Climbing steadily it doesn’t take long before it consistently coats the ground nearby, but the earth of the trail itself is still snow free for some time.
I eventually hit a fairly long stretch that is too ledgy and steep to ride and requires a good deal of hike-a-bike.
When I finally get out of it, I’m at treeline, and now I’m riding, sometimes on a frozen hard trail, sometimes through a miserable crust snow.
I start to think that I’m making a big mistake.
The snow is horrid. It’s been nuked by the sun, but has now refrozen into a crust that breaks with a loud grinding sound under my front wheel and saps energy from my already destroyed legs.
If things get worse, if my bike breaks down, I’m in real trouble.
I contemplate turning back around. The descent down Primrose won’t be much fun, it’s just a rough drop, and it’ll be too late to take the single track even part of the way back to Seward.
The idea is gone. Whatever. I’ll make it out.
Time seems to slide by slowly in the graying light.
This is normally the fastest part of this ride, other than the speedy drop back down to Seward on the Lost Lake Trail.
In sections, where the trail is snow free, I accelerate.
At one point the tension lifts.
Mud and snow flies from my racing wheels as I ride through this alpine wonderland.
I crash through the icy white and rebuild my speed on the exposed but mostly frozen glacial gravels.
The fun ends eventually.
I finally dip down to the outlet stream of the lake.
The wind is cold as I hoist my bike and walk over the one rail bridge.
On the other side, I feel drained. I lean into the hillside as I try to pull on my arm warmers and a jacket. I need sugars.
I start to eat a protein bar, and as I look around, I see fresh bear tracks in the snow. They look to be black, they’re small. It’s probably a bear looking for a den site.
The wind seems to blow a little stronger, and I suck down some water to soak the dry and unappetizing bar.
It’s been hours since I saw another person. I haven’t heard anything else today besides the sighing of water coming out from the loam as my wheels pressed down upon it, the occasional grunt of the changing gears of my bike and the thoughts in my head.
It’s unreal.
I bite off another piece and again soak it.
I can’t afford to stand around. I’m wasting heat, but I can’t chew fast enough damnit.
I look again at the bear tracks. I won’t see anyone else today I think, maybe real close to the bottom of the trail, but that will be it. It’s too late.
Ten minutes later I’m at the halfway point between Primrose and Lost Lake trailheads, and squarely at the bottom of the long climb up the moraine.
The climb is always a long one, deceiving in height, but it’s smooth and steady when it’s not covered in snow.
This time, it will take a good ten minutes, but I’ll pedal its entirety, despite winter’s attempt to keep me from doing so.
I don’t care anymore. I don’t know what it is my body is burning. I don’t know why I keep going. I don’t even know why I do this stuff in the first place.
I do know though, that not a half hour after I pull over the top of this moraine, I’ll be back down at my car, and there, I’ll just wish that I could do it all over again.

Lost Lake Loop '10

2010-10-10T23:05:00.003-08:00

As promised:

Old-growth forests outside of Seward.

Sorry, he was pretty far away.

Getting dark above treeline.

Mt. Ascension.

The downside of running

2010-10-07T23:33:00.000-08:00

So it’s officially changed seasons up here.
Well, so much for wishful thinking anyway.
It is that time of year though when activities that were good and fun in the previous months are no longer so, and those that will be fun in the months to come are still sorely lacking an important medium: snow.
Until that stuff starts shaking loose from the clouds, I’m in an awkward and annoying period of limbo.
As I’ve said in this blog too, while skate skiing is fantastic training for pushing pedals, it’s not a mutually beneficial relationship, so I can’t just keep riding my bike into the waning daylight until the trails are groomed with perfect corduroy.
On Monday I headed into the woods with ski poles all the same, picked a hill and did what might have been construed as some sort of ancient rite before the forest spirits, but is otherwise in small circles referred to as “hill bounding.”
Basically you pretend you’re skiing by, ya, bounding up a hill, practicing different techniques.
It’s actually no easy task.
As the name implies it involves hills; and the incorporation of poles means upper body and core muscles get used in ways they haven’t been in a long time.
The hill bounding, however, I can mostly tolerate because I know I’m strengthening stabilizer muscles that I’ll be happy aren’t floppy and weak like the rest of my body the first time I get out on skis.
Ditto for the indoor circuit training we do afterwards.
But with the specific ski centered training also comes running.
Snarky comments about running being an activity that I only participate in when I’ve got a hungry bruin that want’s my rumpsteak on my tail aside, I actually do try and make a habit of running through most of the year at least once a week.
At that level, it’s OK.
But now, I feel like I’m running a lot, or, at least 2-3 times a week, so I guess that’s a 200-300 percent increase.
Let me say a few nice things about the sport that is running.
It is a heck of a workout. I feel muscles flushing with blood and lactic acids that I don’t usually notice in other activities. You never stop while you’re out there either, and during the week any activity I can do that works me hard in a short amount of time gets points.
It’s also slower, and great for enjoying the scenery. I couldn’t believe the things I was noticing this week on a pleasant afternoon on trails that I’ve skied and biked literally hundreds of times.
I also like the sense I get running uphill.
I’m not sure about that either, but there’s just something satisfying about chugging away up a long climb.
But once up top, well, it’s all downhill from there.
As I see it, I guess, humans evolved to the place that we currently hold on the food chain not because we kept running downhill, but because we learned to take advantage of our gravitational conquests.
I don’t climb mountains all winter to walk back down them.
I don’t ride up long glacial valleys so I can hop off and walk my bike back down either.
If there was any confusion about that please know now that it’s all about that ride (board or fat tire) back down.
But every time I beat my throbbing legs over the crest of a hill on a run and a small wave of euphoria washes over me, it’s robbed by the prospect of knowing that the plodding will just go on.

Cyber snow junky

2010-10-03T21:52:00.004-08:00

As the snow starts to fall on the upper elevations (somehwere someone made first tracks this weekend and it wasn't me!) I'm going into hyper-active snow watch mode.
This is an addictive habit that might have been a lot harder to feed only five years ago and non-existent at the beginning the decade.
Thanks to the wonders of the Internets, however, I can follow every flake of snow that settles and every line carved in that snow almost anywhere in the Kenai’s or Talkeetnas.
Take a look at the right side of this blog and you'll see a list of fixxes, I mean links, that get me through my week.
Sure you may have thought they were a neat array of other web sites to check out, but between avalanche advisories, trip reports and up to the minute web cams you're looking at a cyber dope dealer that serves a la carte.
It's pretty phenomenal how well technology is stealing the mystery out of weather prediction.
This is particularly evident in the array of remote cameras and weather sensors located in all parts of the state.
From the comfort of my living room, in one click I can determine that despite the fact that it's clear and beautiful here in Sterling, in Summit Pass it's socked in, calm and pouring at 1,000' above sea level.
With a second click from by 'favorites' tab I can find out that just 2,000' above the afore mentioned sensor, the temperature is below the magical number 32 degrees Fahrenheit.
Yet another click and I can see hourly images captured from another ridge 30 miles away in Turnagain Pass that show snow piling on the tundra.

A view from an FAA web cam in Palmer this afernoon. Looks nice!

This weekend I learned of yet another site managed by the Federal Aviation Administration with web cameras all over, and I mean ALL OVER, the state. It's awesome.
On Saturday afternoon, trying to decide if I should call the day a loss to the buckets of rain falling outside my window and hop on the trainer for an indoor spin I Iinstead, checked the camera in Anchor Point, an hour and 20 minutes south of here, around noon.
The skies were clear, and to the view south looked great.
The National Weather Service radar showed the storm tracking north, and I knew if I held onto my figurative handlebars, the skies would likely clear here in another hour too.

A snowy view from another FAA cam west of Lake Clark Pass taken at 4:30 this afternoon.

Guess what.
They did. And while it was nothing to write home about, at least I was able to avoid yet another ride on the trainer and get outside for a couple of laps around Tsalteshi.
In the months to come I’ll save myself a great deal of consternation and heartburn as I flip through my browser tabs in the dark hours of winter mornings reading ‘snow-tel,’ temperature inversions and gauging visibility in the mountains an hour and change away before my eggs and bacon are even out of the fry-pan.
Is bacon grease bad for keyboards?

Moose River rescue

2010-09-30T21:52:00.002-08:00

This is a strange place, a place where you can find yourself 15 or 150 miles from the nearest person and be in pretty much the same pickle. Earlier this week two canoeists found themselves in the former, about 15 miles to be precise, from where I'm comfortably typing this post. The two were airlifted to safety via the wonders of cellular technology. I've posted the article below.
I should note that I left out a small detail in the story that was picked up by a very vocal Alaskan journalist (LINK) and my conclusion to his question, though unconfirmed, is that the first person who makes it 15 miles up the Moose River can claim their prize, though after the description of the conditions, I can't imagine there'll be too many volunteers.

"Float trip ends with copter ride
By Dante Petri Peninsula Clarion
Two canoeists were plucked from the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge on Monday after calling for help.
Patrick Leadbeater, 68, and his daughter, Janelle Leadbeater, 25, both of Honolulu, contacted Alaska State Troopers around 11 a.m. using a cell phone from the banks of the Moose River, about 15 miles upstream of the tea-colored river's confluence with the Kenai River.
Leadbeater, who was reached at Central Peninsula Hospital in Soldotna on Monday afternoon, said the two had fallen behind schedule on their trip from the west entrance of the Swan Lake Canoe Trail system to the outlet of the Moose due to strong winds and less than ideal traveling conditions.
Troopers responded by dispatching a helicopter stationed in Soldotna to the coordinates Leadbeater provided, and later sent a LifeMed helicopter after locating a suitable landing site for the chopper nearby.
The older Leadbeater was transported to CPH for treatment while his daughter was taken by the trooper's aircraft to Kenai, according to AST Capt. Pete Mlynarik.
Leadbeater said he and his daughter set out on their trip a week ago on the afternoon of Sept. 20.
The route, which can be traveled to connect to the Moose River for a multi-day trip, is located in the refuge's northern lowland region and can be accessed via Swanson River Road in Sterling.
They had planned to be done well before Monday, with their flight back to Hawaii scheduled for Sunday, Leadbeater said.
"We'd already been held back on Swan Lake for two days because of gale force winds," he said. "We were getting low on food and water."
Leadbeater said when they reached the Moose River on Sunday afternoon their troubles really began.
"The water was very low and it was really quite difficult moving," he said, referring to deadfall that blocked their passage. "We decided to camp for the night. That's when we got into trouble."
Leadbeater said that while setting up camp on a rough patch of ground that was not a designated campsite he fell, "a couple of times."
When Leadbeater fell a second time he said he needed help from his daughter to get back up.
He said Janelle was also wearing thin from the lengthy trip.
"My daughter was not real bright this morning," he said. "It's just the extra days and the temperatures got down, I think they had an effect on her."
Temperatures dipped to 21 degrees in Soldotna on Monday morning, according to the National Weather Service.
When the two got up on Monday morning, Leadbeater said: "I was simply unable to proceed, so we called 911 to ask their advice."
Leadbeater said that he had been given medications for his back injury and expected to be released from the hospital by Monday evening.
"It doesn't appear to be anything more than a real severe muscle problem," he said.
The two have rebooked their flight home to Hawaii for Wednesday.
Leadbeater, a veterinarian, said he had wanted to do this particular canoe trip for a long time, and that he had vacationed in Alaska before.
He said as well that he's done numerous camping and travel trips around the country.
While they were prepared for cold temperatures, Leadbeater said he did not expect to encounter the difficult canoeing conditions.
He said he only asked about current stream conditions from the outfitter he rented the canoe from in Sterling.
According to Scott Slavik, a backcountry ranger with the refuge, crews did some work on the canoe trail system over the summer, chiefly improving portages between lakes, but they did not do any work removing deadfall from the Moose.
He said that typically for the trip the Leadbeaters set out on, he would recommend three full days and two nights.
He noted, however, that the area is a designated as wilderness.
"There's an expectation that as you enter those areas that there's a need for skill and an acceptance of risk," Slavik said on Monday. "

Johnson and Crescent

2010-09-26T22:39:00.006-08:00

With the autumnal equinox past, the clear days and nights no longer mean warmth. As the sun's rays weaken by the day and the window of light grows shorter, these high pressure systems that sit tight for weeks become synonymous with cold snaps.
Just this morning the mercury made it to 27 degrees and Anchorage saw flurries.
In the mountains fall has hung on for an exceptionally long time but a kicked up north wind is shaking loose the leaves, and higher up white is becoming a common sight.
This weekend I put in two mountain rides.
On Friday I met up with Adam R about mid-day and we headed up to the south end of Johnson Pass. (MAP LINK)
With another week without rain the trail was just a little bit better, though the carpet of yellow and orange was noticeably thicker.

A peak at Lark Mountain through the trees.

(click to enlarge) This ride Adam and I did go all the way to the pass. Here's a shot on the way back passing Jonson Lake.
The ride was a good mix of bantering and hammering, and Adam was great partner as he pushed me on the climbs while I pushed him on the descents.
Though we had comfortable temperatures in the pass, on the way back down as the sun set the cold air felt especially biting.
Interestingly enough, we also noticed about 6-7 miles from the trailhead on the way back there appeared to have been a skirmish between a moose and an unidentified attacker between the time of our passing.
The trail was covered in moose fur and big skidding hoof tracks, but with the soil so dry and neither of us having any intentions of hitting the brakes, I couldn't make out what other tracks, if any, there were.
While moose are in rut now, I wasn't under the impression that their battles involve much more than horns. Had it been a bear going after a moose, which seems very likely, I would have expected to have seen some large claw scratches in the ground, even traveling. Maybe wolves?
It's a little mystery that I guess I may never know the beginning or end of, but I can say I'm glad we didn't round the next corner and find a big griz sitting on a fresh moose kill.

On Saturday, still feeling a good buzz from the previous day's ride, I headed up Crescent Lake Trail on my own.

(CtE) The 12 mile round trip ride was just what the doctor ordered I think.

In a slide path where snow held through much of this cool wet summer (Photo flashback LINK) I found a vertical line of vegetation that, having only been out of it's icy lair for a few weeks, was growing like it was late June. Here a Pushki, or cow parsnip, most of which have been dead since late July, is still blooming. It was quite the contrast next to all the dieing growth.

Looking back down the Crescent Creek Valley.

The long ridge of Wrong Mountain.

Wrong Mountain.

Peak 5320, the high point of the Wrong Mountain massif though not the official summit. Notice the dusting of snow.

Peak 4730 south across the lake.

The forest service cut a new access path to the beach at the outlet of the lake so hikers and riders don't have to walk next to the cabin. With the water down, I ride along the shoreline, dipping into the shallow waters to get around a few patches of willows, to the campsite beach, to make a nice loop.

Somehow this picture sort of described my state of mind for the half hour or so I spent on the beach. Not focused, but not unhappy about that either

Is it next weekend yet?

"Super" Harvest Moon

2010-09-23T22:22:00.003-08:00

LINK