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  1. #26
    adam is offline The Shred Pirate Roberts
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    Hey Carpathian, if I come to Alaska will you take me to places that are good for skiing?

  2. #27
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    Quote Originally Posted by TGR420 View Post
    dude, you should just make your own movies. If we are such posers and dicks why do you care about being in our film. Oh yeah, and the Alyeska people did not have money for you, which is irrelevant anyway, regardless of Jackson Hole or anyone else. Seriously, I think you rip too hard and it would turn the industry upside down for you to make Jeremy Jones and Seth Morrison look like posers. Actually, I saw your face melting youtube clip and you already did. Slap a name on that and print some DVD's. You already own it.
    Ahaaa! Fish on! I sense your sarcasm...

    I humbly defer to Morrison and Jones. But if I could ski 95% of Morrison and snowboard 95% of Jones would that be cool? I can spin, not much for flipping.

    That is my point exactly. I think he should just showcase himself in his films. They are more relevant and more in synch with the progression of ak big mountain riding. Why dick around with our kiddie porn, when Carp can just do it better from a film making and riding standpoint.
    Like many skiers on here, I give a lot of inspirational credit to you guys. Sarcasm or not, it would be easier if you just said you suck GTFO! I also respect how you created all of this from scratch with hard work and vision.

    My problem has been that my vision was too intertwined with the notion of skiing with TGR as if it were the definition of success on skis. I apologize for being a douche but I had to drive the conversation to this point so that I can let go and move forward.

    Whew! That was not so bad.


    XXX I can probably get you a couple of planks. Trade you for a bag of Smoke?

  3. #28
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    Quote Originally Posted by TGR420 View Post
    That is my point exactly. I think he should just showcase himself in his films. They are more relevant and more in synch with the progression of ak big mountain riding. Why dick around with our kiddie porn, when Carp can just do it better from a film making and riding standpoint.
    Quote Originally Posted by Meanfruit View Post
    Are we a little sensitive today? I think there is room for all sorts of cool movies of charging skiers, be it 10 second clips of AK style charging/carving@ 50 mph by Carp or 5 second clips of Meatdrink chucking himself off every bloody cliff in the lower 48. Its all self gratification anyway, be it watching or performing. Personally, I like to watch

    I am dead serious bro. I think he has it all right there in his world.Seriously, read carps stuff. he has already got it going. what would be the point of him showing up mac and seth in our films. he knows he can do it and already has the clips to prove it. the point is mute.
    "Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention to arrive safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming: Wow!!! What a ride!"


    "We been runnin' these goddam hills for dang near, huh?"
    Sturgis Uncensored

  4. #29
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    Quote Originally Posted by carpathian View Post

    XXX I can probably get you a couple of planks. Trade you for a bag of Smoke?
    game on

    hey how did you like the brownies ? you disappeared after eating that one I gave you

  5. #30
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    Quote Originally Posted by TGR420 View Post
    . what would be the point of him showing up mac and seth in our films. .
    It was never about showing anybody up. I just wanted to get in on the energy of jumping out of the heli with the best skiers in the world day after day. If I ripped a line and Mac was stoked to go rip another, harder line... that is the point. Or vice versa.



    These two shots are my biggest multi stagers. TGR420 you do know how to stroke an ego. I like the 'it is not you it is me' argument. Very diplomatic.



    That is pretty mind blowing if I go from off the radar to over qualified in one thread. But I hear what you are saying. Thank you for your time and consideration.

    XXX I ended up swimming in the river.

  6. #31
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    Quote Originally Posted by carpathian View Post
    XXX I ended up swimming in the river.
    I thot brownies are great for the river in my play boat ... just let that current take you

  7. #32
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    ^^^XXX, My handlers say that I can't talk about 'the Smoke' or 'brownies' or
    'smoke infused brownies.' As a role model I now have to start acting like one.

    Kids, the surest way to hone you skillz on the skis, besides endless hours climbing and skiing in the dark lonely mountains of Alaska, is to get on a bike. Preferably a bike with lots of travel so you can jump off of things. By the time you get back to snow, you will kill it.

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ifpsxr9COWs&feature=channel_page"]YouTube - Whistler Bike Park Action[/ame]

  8. #33
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    fuck ya ,I remember that "having kids" phase ... well sort of

    don't worry about being a role model cuz they will rebel anyway ... one of mine turned out smart and the other one is religious

    take me to the river,wash me in the water ...

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25E0ACkA6uo"]YouTube - Talking Heads - Live in Rome 1980 - 06 Take Me To The River[/ame]

  9. #34
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    Going with the flow is not always so easy. Here are a couple of older mixes. I prefer to see skiing as art and have only recently become unstuck on the idea of making it a business. There are a couple of TGR classics in there.


    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vJPviuX-nw&feature=channel_page"]YouTube - YIN/YANG in Skiing[/ame]



    “He leaned forward then and held his gnarled hands out to the firelight, and the flames threw his shadow, magnified, onto the thick logs of the cabin wall. Then he began to weave a tale of high mountains and proud men that rode among them, like princes surveying their estates, like lords high up in their strongholds, where only the wind could touch them, and the world was free of pain and sorrow, and we were always young.”

    Men for the Mountains, Sid Marty

  10. #35
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    Quote Originally Posted by carpathian View Post
    I prefer to see skiing as art and have only recently become unstuck on the idea of making it a business.
    Art should be for the singular desire to create (IMO). (Again IMO) art and business don't mix so well. I've tried it (not with skiing - I'm not all that good) and really really didn't like it. In fact I hated it.

    Yet another kick ass vid, BTW.

  11. #36
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    Quote Originally Posted by bio-smear View Post
    You could get a foot in the door, start at the bottom by writing copy for the website. I like your tone, your lackadaisical but honorable pomp. Your spelling and punctuation are good.

    You asked for it...

    I just took a swig of my fireball whisky and it starts to take the chill off. It started snowing today after 2 weeks of –25C. My brain feels tired of scheming and studying. I have been cramming for the last 2 weeks so I can pass the BC Fallers Standard exam. I am challenging the test based on my experience on the chainsaw.

    With each step along the way I have stretched myself into opportunities only found by stretching the truth. I landed a job cutting seismic lines for a mining outfit based on my experience falling ‘danger trees’ on the local ski hill for firewood. The deal was sealed when the prospective boss told me that he was not going to check my references because he and the referenced guy did not get along for some reason.

    Go figure, so there I am busting balls, learning on the fly and just getting by, by playing it cool and knowing just enough to make it seem like I know more. They always end up catching on though. But by then, you prove yourself trainable and capable and hardworking and you keep your job. And besides, after a summer of insane long hours on a fishing boat in Alaska, I figured I could do anything for 8 hours.

    My wife Vesna and I just returned north to live in Smithers, BC as refugees from the madness of the lower mainland if not the Pacific Rim in general. We are hunkered down around a wood stove in a small cabin located just 5 minutes drive from town. It seems to be the perfect place to homestead in a semi urban environment. It is also the perfect place to raise a family and make a living in the harsh world of ‘bush work.’

    As it turns out, Vesna is 6 months pregnant and I am scrambling to make some cash. Though I had sworn off running a chainsaw after 400 days of work over 4 seasons, I find myself in the middle of climbing the corporate ladder of the chainsaw world.

    In the world of chainsaw operators the firewood collecting, line cutting and slashing is at the bottom of the barrel. It may be tough and grueling but you only top out at $300 a day while cutting millions of small to medium sized trees.

    In the world of chainsaw operators, unless you have your ‘fallers ticket’ you are an amateur. In the chainsaw world of British Columbia in specific, falling trees has been a way of life. Basically the bigger the trees the more money you earn and the more danger you put yourself in, naturally.

    I have been reading and re-reading the official government issued hand book that lays out in detail all of the do’s and don’t associated with falling trees. Today I went out with my friend to collect firewood and as excuse to practice falling some bigger trees.

    I was taking my time making conventional undercuts and trying to line up the back cuts perfectly. On two of the four trees I did not cut enough holding wood so that left me standing there with two buried wedges and a tree that was not budging. I was able to make sketchy secondary cuts to the undercut of the first tree but that was not working on the second one.

    It was a heavy leaner and I was trying to get it to fall 90 degrees to where it wanted to fall. Both wedges are buried and I am making quick cuts while staying ready to dash an away given a moments notice. That is a good way to make the tree jump off the holding wood or spin around 180 deg and go in the opposite direction. I was nervous. Nick came over to offer a push and examine the cuts. He pulled one of the wedges out and just as I turn to grab my saw and BANG! The holding wood exploded under the hanging tension and the tree power slammed to the ground, luckily in the intended direction. I scrambled to the ground and fell and lost my helmet. We were both safe but as I sat there all disheveled I began to have second thoughts about this tree falling business. $600 a day or not, risk versus reward?

    I have to make a living though, there is a looming recession you know. These troubled times… So we bucked the tree up and loaded it in the truck and here I sit with my bottle of whisky, listening to the fire crackle.

    It is really snowing out there and windy too. The ski hill up on Hudson Bay Mountain is getting hammered. The snow is cold and deep and you can have it all to your self with no frenzy and no rush. Did I mention that I really like skiing? I do very much. But does it pay the bills? Is it going to put my kid through college? Does saying, “Fuck it all, I am going skiing!” relieve my karmic debt? What about a maxed out line of credit?

    It is really snowing now and the fire is roaring in the stove and in my belly. I know falling large trees is dangerous. But so is skiing big mountains across Alaska and BC. Cliffs, avalanches, exposure and ice all conspire to wipe you out. You risk it all for nothing if not for the relief at the end of another dangerous day in the mountains.

    I figure it all comes down to gravity. It is all around us and treats everyone indifferently. You can go against it and be punished or move with it and be rewarded by ease of motion, existential bliss. The gravity pulls the tree to the ground on to a cushion of needles or it crushes your leg. You can jump off a cliff with skis on your feet and sail away with the wind or land wrong and crush you leg under you own weight. That gravity is a tricky one.

    Most of these following stories are related to gravity in one way or another. The highs and lows of living under the most natural of influences. The weight of a river, the weight of a huge snow-pack, the weight of the ocean as pulled by the moon. I have been strongly influenced by her pull and release if not outright traumatized at times. But you would never guess as I struggle to remain objective in experience and description.

    It all comes down to the cliché of finding oneself. But what happens if you keep digging and when you finally blast your senses clean, there is nothing there at all except feigned emotions and a deadpan sense of humor?

    I am ready to have a baby. To see the world fresh again through the eyes of an infant and to always be thankful for every breath I take.

  12. #37
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    good writing Jake ,you should submit some articals to Northword

  13. #38
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    Story of Carpathian Skis

    Growing up Fishing

    I can remember being scared at a young age. Our family was constantly out in search of adventure in the form of salmon fishing. My dad is a zealot to this day when it comes to the pursuit of the picky eating, hard fighting Alaskan Silver salmon, also known as the Coho.

    The technique out in the ocean is a pretty standard troll maneuver. You rig the herring on a double hook setup so that the little fish in spins in a natural manner as it is towed through the water. The fishing line is attached with a quick release mechanism to a thick cable that carries a ‘cannon ball’, a heavy lead ball used to keep the bait from rising to the surface. You putt around in circles trying to not run into one of the hundreds of other recreational fishermen, all spinning circles in the rolling north pacific.

    Once the Coho swim up into the fresh water streams of their birth, you have to use different techniques. It is a true art in tricking the Coho into swallowing a hook once it has reached fresh water. Out in the ocean the Coho is a on a seafood diet. In the rivers it they turn a bit more cannibalistic, eating any eggs they see floating around. (part nutrition/part rival elimination)

    To catch a Coho you hide a tiny hook deep inside an egg cluster. The salmon will come up and nibble, nibble very gently. The tip of the fishing pole will show a subtle tip, tip, tip. Suddenly the fish will decide it is good to go and he will turn to swim away, still not swallowing the bait completely. As the fisherman, you are paying the utmost attention to that moment when the fish turns to swim away and then you set the hook!

    On one hot weekend in mid August, the whole family was slaying salmon two hour’s upstream from the mouth of the Little Susitna River. This particular trip was unique in two ways. It was the first time my dad had tried to navigate across the treacherous Cook Inlet and it was the third time out time out in our new boat. My dad had just finished building the boat in our backyard in Anchorage. We had taken the boat out on two previous test trips on warm and relatively safe lakes, but this was different. The upper Cook Inlet is colored brown as it is choked full of sediment from the run off of hundreds of glaciers. Along with shallow sand bars and huge tides, the area is prone to strong afternoon winds.

    The boat was 20 feet long and made of wood and fiberglass. The original plans called for an open skiff design but dad added a cabin that would sleep three. The next step in construction was to build an adjacent roof over the steering consol and four seats. This was a minor thing to be dealt with later as the season is short and the fish were plenty.

    The trip across was smooth and pleasant. We gained an amazing and rare perspective on Downtown Anchorage that most people never see. We headed west until we came to the tip of Fire Island then we turn due north. We could see mighty Mount McKinley towering on the horizon as the mud-banked mouth of the Little Su gradually took us in.

    Soon we were S-turning upstream in a river with steep sandy cut banks on the outside of each turn. We were in the huge alluvial plane that grew under the constant melt of the Alaska Range. Two hours from downtown and we were a world apart. We spent two glorious days catching six fish a day times five family members. The boat was already paying for itself ten fold!

    Even though we were an hour upstream from the ocean, the strong tidal currents eventually made there way upstream quite far. In this case, the boat had spent the nights on a mud bank, waiting for a ‘wet-exit’ on Sunday afternoon. Dad was a bit anxious to get back across the inlet before the winds came up so he had the prop churning basically in the mud, trying to dislodge the boat as soon as possible. Soon enough we were zipping down stream with 30 fish, three kids and a dirty dog.

    We came around the last bend in the river face to face with a steady three-foot chop. Apparently, as the tide was coming upstream the tailwind following us out of the north was pushing up against the water, standing the waves into very short length, tall waves. Soon the waves were stacking up into 5-6 foot waves as our little boat pounded into the brown froth. We drop over each wave and with a resounding THUD; cold spray would shower everyone on board.

    My mom quickly took to the familiar crying/fetal position as the oblivious kids looked on. I remember the dog not looking very happy, as she had to slip slide around on the cold deck with the fish sloshing around in bloody water. Dad had to cut the throttle to half speed as he assured us that we were fine and had to just get behind the lee of Fire Island.

    Right about then, the 60hp outboard died. It stopped propelling us home, if you will. We floundered for a minute while dad cursed. He turned the key and the motor started and then died again. Dad was trouble shooting “ Fuel, air, spark…” The outboard started again and he realized that the little stream of coolant water that should be squirting out the back was not flowing save for a small dribble.

    “The mud!” He exclaimed when he figured that the mud from the riverbank had clogged the coolant system somewhere and the engine was overheating. So there is my dad hanging out over the back with a small poking tool, as the boat is pitching and rolling and about to become a headline. Finally he dislodged the blockage and the stream of water burst forth as the motor sprang to life and the family cheered. Another hour of pounding and we were safe in the lee of the island.

    A year later we were aiming to follow the same route across the inlet and up the river but this time a thick fog rolled in and we became disoriented. The waves seemed to be inexplicably growing in the fog as the prop started to bottom out on sand at the bottom of each wave. I took to the cabin with my brother and our friend as our dads tried to figure out what was going on. Just then the fog lifted and we realized that we were in between Fire Island and the mainland in shallow choppy water. Abort Mission!

    Repeatedly the compass proved to be troublesome. Something about certain motor RPMs would send the compass spinning, like we were in the Bermuda Triangle. Once we were out deer hunting on Culross Island in Prince William Sound in late October. On the day we were to leave we awoke to find Culross Passage under a half inch of ice. I was up on the bow with an oar trying to break the ice in search of open water. Eventually we found open water and were zipping across College Fiord when the motor died. At least it was calm this time, eerily calm. It was flat water in all directions and clouds surrounded us on the distant horizon, no land in sight. It really did feel like the Bermuda Triangle. The compass even started to spin, even though the motor was not running! Soon enough dad figured out that the carburetor must have been icing up due to the cold moist air and we were able to cruise back to Whittier at half speed.

    If the family was not out defying death in the boat on the weekends, we were probably at the baseball diamond. Both my brother Josh and I were obsessed with playing baseball for about 10 hours a day. It was either homerun derby in the backyard or huge neighborhood pickup games in the cul-de-sac. There were three cul-de-sacs in a row with three different groups of kids. We would sometimes go to the second or third cul-de-sac to play the ‘home teams’ but the best games were always on our home turf. Sometimes we would play until midnight under the midnight sun with parents hanging out the windows or sitting on a tailgate, it was a classic small town Alaskan scene.

    Both my brother and I got on real teams and climbed onto the all-star roster. My dad would be the umpire and I would get so mad when he would call me out trying to steal home.

    Like most things, baseball became more and more serious as I apparently was being groomed for the pros as a first baseman. It became too much. Our all-star team was coached by an ex-triple A player and present day drill sergeant at the local army base. He single handedly turned baseball into an extreme sport. With six hour practices and running endless laps and drills and more laps. I later think he was insane, but as a kid I took the beating as part of the game. His son played catcher and he would tie him to a tree with his catcher gear on and throw pitches at him to prove that it does not hurt to get hit by the ball. If you ‘pulled your head’ from a ground ball or a curve ball or a fastball for that matter, you had to run laps.

    He was a beefy guy and a solid pitcher. He would be drilling fastballs and we would hit them. He would intentionally bean you and make you run laps if you flinched. In the end it took the fun out and lucky for me, my parents were not the crazy overbearing types forcing me to play.

    Around the same time in the 9th grade or so, I was going through the same process in the world of hockey. I was burned out and sensing something else out there in the mountains and wilderness at the edge of town.

  14. #39
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    I really like that story. Totally reciprocate your feelings about fun sports becoming competitive too quickly also, had the same experience with hockey.
    Talking shit about a pretty sunset.

  15. #40
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    Gotta say this beats the hell out of Witherdouche's ignore list or the tenth "can you please ban......" whine thread.

  16. #41
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    Death March

    It could be the English explorer in me, but I soon developed a wanderlust and love affair with the mountains. I would sit in math class and stare out the window at the front range of the Western Chugach, as seen from Dimond High School. I had climbed Flattop Mountain a few times and had ventured over to the lower flanks of O’Malley Peak once or twice. What I saw intrigued me. For every peak I went up, there would always be another row of mountains sticking up higher and even more alluring.

    From Flattop you can follow the ridge back to Peak #2 and #3, Ptarmigan Peak then descend to Power line Pass. Should I go up Avalanche Peak and back to the parking lot or head south, up and over North and South Suicide Peak and come out at Falls Creek? Maybe McHugh? Maybe Indian? Or you could climb O’Malley and cross ‘the Ball field’ and descend to Williwaw Lakes? Or cross over to Wolverine and Knoya beyond. With peaks named like that who could resist the call of adventure?

    I could not do all of these trips by myself. I needed a partner who was tough but not stupid. Timid where need be, but aggressive otherwise. I met Abe my sophomore year at Dimond. I had just joined the cross-country team and was looking to broaden my horizons.

    Abe had just moved to Anchorage from the small town of Girdwood, much to his dismay. The Girdwood kids all stuck together. Located thirty minutes south of Anchorage the tiny ski hamlet known as Girdwood was named after a Capt. James Girdwood back in the mining days. Geographically it is worlds apart from Anchorage with steeper, closer mountains and about 20 times more precipitation. Interestingly enough, the little valley is also the farthest northern reach of coastal rainforest stretching from BC and California beyond.

    All the Girdwood kids went to school in their own town up until 8th grade. In the 9th grade they had to ride the early morning school bus all the way to Dimond High in south Anchorage. To me the Girdwood posse was clearly the coolest clique in school. Girdwood was cool to me because that is where Alyeska Resort is located, Alaska’s only five star ski resort. So logically, most of the Girdwood kids were raised on the ski hill by their ski bum hippy parents if they were not enrolled in the once prestigious but now defunct race academy.

    Lots of kids tried to infiltrate the posse to no avail. Abe and I was each other’s savior, however and since he was in, I was in. He was my ticket to Girdwood and the mountains in general and I was his ticket because I had a car and was willing to drive him wherever. We started by climbing every mountain that you can see form the highway between Anchorage and Girdwood and beyond.

    We would do a circuit from Alyeska over to Max’s Mountain one day. From that route you can see Big League one range back so we would do that one the next day. And the next day we would link off of Big League and go back one more ridge to Wolf Peak or 4710’. Day after day for several years we would do battle with the mountains, head on.

    We were never fond of over-nighting or doing anything that absolutely required using ropes. Didn’t want to haul the gear and it was more fun to be scared shitless on exposed terrain without the proper gear. We would push back the boundaries of the 24 hour day under the endless sunlight of the summer months and in the winter we would push into the dark winter days, regardless of weather and fatigue.

    We started calling a good trip a ‘death march’ because you felt like death at the end of it. In the beginning, a death march was defined as 9 hours and/or 20 miles and/or 8000 vertical feet climbed. For a couple of idyllic summers we did back to back death marches for days on end. It was never enough.

    One of the first classic trips we did was on bikes. It was mid February around 3pm when I called Abe to see if he wanted to go ‘bike around’. So we are cruising along through the neighborhoods on the hard packed snow with plans to loop by the junior high or something when I got the idea to bike to Girdwood. Neither of us had biked the 35 miles before but what the heck? It was a school night and snowing lightly and getting dark… seemed like a good as time as any!

    We were 10 minutes from my house and we set off into the great unknown. We followed the freeway down to Huffman where we jumped on the notorious Seward Highway. We were doing all right. Even though Abe’s tire went completely flat 5 minutes into our new adventure, he was keeping amazing time. We got to the Potter Train Station about 5 miles later and decided it would be best if he just took the tire off the rim and ride the rim the rest of the way.

    I clearly remember Abe standing and pedaling as his rear rim spun out on the snow as big rigs were blasting by kicking up huge trails of snow in their wake. He was able to go pretty fast though, despite the weird humming sound reverberating out of his wheel deep into our ears. We chugged south for two hours into a steady headwind until we got to Bird Creek. It was actually dark at this point and I think some motorist might have been worried for these two lads obviously out on a limb.

    Another two hours of pedaling in the dark snowstorm and we limped into Girdwood, triumphant. We stayed at a friend’s house and rode the school bus to town early the next morning like true Girdwood kids.

  17. #42
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    Several months later we would bike the same route in pleasant summer conditions in half the time. Since that was so easy we then hiked Alyeska backwards, as in walking backwards. Now that was a real quad burner. Abe and I grew to trust each other in the mountains. Soon we would have other guys who wanted to go on trip with us and we would do our darndest to scare the shit out of them by free soloing some exposed ridge line or break them down by shear exhaustion.

    Many people did not come out with us again. But for those that did, we were all rewarded by the camaraderie and spirit of adventure.

    One of the few times we packed over night gear, we were sorely beat down. We planned on following the route from Anchorage to Girdwood through the mountains. My brother and I had done the route the year before; roughly 15,000 vertical feet climbed over 38 miles and 18 hours. That was a solid death march but our plan this time was to camp along the way over three days and take our time in the wild country. I even went so far as to bring my dad’s 12-guage shotgun because we were going head long into grizzly country.

    We started hiking at 8pm along the Power line Pass trail with the idea to head up and over Ship Pass and camp at the base of Avalanche Peak. About an hour into our hike I had the bright idea of just hiking nonstop through the night. Abe and our new friend Todd thought it was a great idea so we picked up the pace. We had huge packs for no reason now but that was all right, it would just add to the experience. Our minds kicked into autopilot and we marched. Up and down 2000 feet. Up and around the north flank of Avalanche Peak. We descended 2000 feet to traverse Indian Valley headwaters. It was around 1am and basically dark now as we waded through the chest high grass and shrubs and tundra. We were deep in bear country now with it being August and the berries were ripe. I actually swung the shotgun down into ‘Vietnam patrol style’ as giant bears leapt out in our imagination from behind every bush.

    I would say the low point was around 4am as the sun was coming back up in the far northeast. We had survived the night and were poised high on a ridge top looking into the headwaters of Ship Creek, Bird Creek and Indian Creek. I was choking down an Oreo and trying to fight off a headache when we saw a huge grizzly 1000ft below on the alpine snow, right on our route. We descended and yelled and threw rocks and the bear spooked pretty easy. Problem was that he spooked and ran down valley into the high grass and shrubs, still on our route.

    The next couple of hours were kind of intense as we navigated around the top of the shrub line keeping an eye out for a brown killing machine heading our way.

    Eventually we came to a junction. We could keep heading east up to the top of Ship Creek and over Moraine Pass and then Crow Pass and out to Girdwood. This was our planned route. Or we could turn south and follow the Bird Creek drainage all the back to the town of Bird, located 11 miles north of Girdwood along the Seward Highway.

    We opted for the Bird Creek route, though it was a new route. The map we had said that if we kept following the trail it would lead right to a nice river crossing. Then trail descended from the alpine to the shrubs and then into the actual forest. The trail was holding up and seemed to match the map and mountain contours. We should be coming to the crossing soon. The trail begins to split and wander through the boreal swamps and oxbow ponds. More bear country as evidenced by the remnants of a signpost. Apparently some aggravated large bear had taken his anger out on the unlucky post. It was shredded leaving no indication as to which way we should travel.

    A nice little ‘left arrow’ or ‘right arrow’ would have been handy. We were exhausted and had to rely on dead reckoning. Going up stream meant heading in opposite direction of our overall destination. Turning right would take us in the direction of our goal but with no guarantee of finding a safe crossing. We were tired so we gambled and pushed right.

    Ten minutes later the trail decomposed into a faint game trail. We were too tired to gamble again and turn around so we pushed on feeling the slight rise of panic in the gut. The problem is that Bird Creek is deep and fast and cold. And somewhere around here it all poured over a huge waterfall. Another problem was this shot gun I was hauling. We were glad to have it so many hours ago back in dark of night but now it was a nuisance, as it seemed to hang up in the thick alders along the creek. We could climb the flood bank and walk in the real forest with ease or stay near the creek to assess for potential crossings.

    It was 8am and we could see the real trail on the other side, mocking us. The delirium had set in nicely. We fought to keep in the game and fantasized about what food we were going to eat when we reached civilization. Eat spaghetti and drink water.

    Finally we found a spot that seemed reasonable to cross. I waded in and battled to the other side as the water came to my ribs. Todd followed and now it was up to Abe. The water came to his chest and he was struggling and only made it when I leaned from Todd’s hand with a stick reached to Abe barely… barely… He was slipping away and barely made it! After we crossed safely, we saw to our horror that the huge waterfall was only 50 yards down stream around the next bend.

    We were still ten miles to town but we were saved! Four hours later, on the 16th hour of our trip, we staggered into the last 100-yard stretch, in this case it was the driveway of a friend who was going to get a surprise visit from three very haggard dudes. And in good death march fashion we sprinted the last bit just to make sure we were really tired.

  18. #43
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    Quote Originally Posted by TGR420 View Post
    the point is mute.
    That's just uncalled for.
    Congrats, mags! We collected 1030.68! for birdman!
    Quote Originally Posted by Tuckerman View Post
    No is that like whne I come on your mosms face whle you lick my ballsss???

  19. #44
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    First Two Avalanches

    A few months later Todd and I we getting pretty excited about the dawning ski and snowboard season. It was still early season, in late October as I recall, but the snow was already piling up on the slopes above Anchorage.

    After school one day we drove up to the Flattop parking lot and decided to go and snowboard on the lower flanks of O’Malley Peak. It was an easy walk across the flats as we made our way to the start of the pitch. Did I mention that is was blowing about 100mph? It was quite windy and the snow piled up quickly in the leeward slopes of any feature.

    We hiked up the wind-scoured tundra immediately adjacent to the slope we wanted to ride. We had a random friend along for the hike and it soon became clear that he was not cut out for the team as he lagged behind as we charged forward into the storm.

    At the top of the run it was blowing so hard that it was difficult to put our boards on and prepare for the descent. We were ready soon enough and all three dropped in at the same time. We were cruising along moving with the wind and having a grand old time when all of the sudden I saw the snow open up before my eyes as I plopped in behind the now sliding snow. I was skipping and sliding on my butt on the tundra as the 4foot thick chunks of snow crumpled apart and flowed down the mountain, luckily in front of all of us!

    “That was a close one” we all agreed as we made our way back onto the tundra and walked the rest of the way back to the car.

    The next day Todd and I figured it would be fun to head back into the mountains even though the wind had only just died down a couple of hours before. So again we trekked from the parking lot right after school. This time we wanted to go up towards the top of Flattop Peak and build a jump of some sort on top of this huge roll I knew of.

    It is pretty ridiculous that we were even out there and that our objective was to hang out on the most dangerous aspect of the entire slope. We hiked up the main trail for a bit until it wrapped around through a gulley with our intended run looming just overhead, completely snow loaded from the day before.

    The pitch was very steep but relatively short and very broad left to right. I knew that under the steep roll it was actually a cliff face that had been completely blow over by the wind deposited snow. We boot packed straight up the face, quite excited to build our jump. Right at the top of the apex of the roll I had a funny feeling… I looked up and quickly realized that the entire slope stretching for hundreds of yards to our left and right was sliding down into the terrain trap gulley. By the time I actually did look up, we had already slide some 300 feet. It was disorienting because the whole slope was sliding as one big chunk and by my perspective I could not immediately tell. Kind of like knowing that the world is spinning but you can’t really feel it!

    Anyway, I looked up and saw the entire buried cliff become exposed and realized that the snow slab must have been 20-30 foot thick. Lucky for us the chunk we were did not break up completely and was about the size of a motor home by the time we slide top a stop. I was till in mid stride and Todd was buried to his waist as we surveyed the carnage all around. The snow had piled up some 30 feet deep across the whole gulley.

    We called it a day and went home to think about what had happened.

  20. #45
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    Sunshine Ridge

    I have been chopping firewood all morning. I am driving 12 hours to Canmore, Alberta tomorrow and I need to leave Vesna with enough firewood for the intended six weeks I will be away. I finally managed to get myself a job with one of these ‘fall and burn’ crews. We basically ski-doo out to the sites where the pine trees have been infected by the mountain pine beetle. We cut the trees down and burn them to nothing in hopes of completely eradicating the pest beetle.

    I am slightly nervous being new to the fall and burn game. I will also be getting on the job training to cut bigger and bigger trees and eventually get my fallers ticket. I figure it will all work out. It is funny how you can talk and talk about doing something and eventually someone will hear you and help make it happen.

    I had driven the Seward Highway perhaps a million times. Each and every time I would crane my head out the window and look at all the potential mountain adventures to be had around every bend in the road. One route I looked at many, many times was called Sunshine Ridge. I had actually climbed the route several times with a climbing rope but I always dreamed about doing it free solo, with no rope.

    It is a easy 5.4 route that you can do in running shoes if you want but rock shoes are preferable. It is real blocky and ladder like as the near vertical pitches are no more then 30-40 feet at a time. The overall exposure is sure death though. And it would be a slow death as you feel fifty feet at a time and then the last one hundred vertical feet to the highway below.

    For years it seemed, I would idly say that I wanted to free solo the route someday. It was always someday until one day I was riding to town with my new roommate, Andy.
    Andy was technically crazy, having spent some six months in the local institution because of ‘the aliens and voices and portals etc.’ He was friendly though and we got along.

    I was repeating the harmless daydream when Andy asked if I had my rock shoes? He knew I did because we were on the way to the indoor rock gym. “Let’s do it!” he said and my stomach dropped in that sickened sort of way it sometimes did when I knew I was getting into new territory. ‘I guess that is what you get for hanging out with crazy mountain people,’ I thought to myself as Andy pulled the car over without hesitation. He said he had free soloed the rout 8-10 times and I figured no one better to mentor me into the higher dimensions of mountain travel.

    I knew Andy was not “crazy” crazy, but more “crazy like a fox” so I trusted his judgment. At the time he had been mining gold from Winner Creek every day. His setup included a dredge pump that floated in the icy water as he donned a dry suit with a weight belt and descended to the sandy bottom of the vertical walled potholes that formed under the main waterfall. After the rock gym he was taking his gold to his buyer who ever that was.

    The first feature on Sunshine Ridge is the scariest. You scramble up a side gulley and traverse on lose ledges around the corner onto the ridge proper. You are a solid 75 off the pavement, as you turn vertical up a wide crack system for 30 feet to the first safe ledge. Andy’s advice was to always have three points of contact and to go slow and think about each move with the utmost care.

    I followed Andy step for step in the buffeting winds. I never looked down save once or twice to make sure I was really doing it. The second half of the six-pitch route has several places where you traverse left or right out over adjacent vertical faces of rock. Scary indeed.

    Once we completed the climb and descended down the easy trail back to the car I was a changed man. I knew the mountains could catalyze positive growth in myself and in others so I took to the task of initiating my friends on Sunshine Ridge the way Andy had done for me.

  21. #46
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    Glacier Creek Climbing Compound

    I lived in the house with Andy and two other bachelor types for about 8 months. I moved out on February 10, 2000. On February 8, 2000 I had decided on climbing Mt McKinley the following spring, so I figured I needed more ‘hands on’ winter camping experience. The roommates turned out to be flexible and they found my replacement in two days.

    My plan was to move into the squatters cabin I had built two years prior, during my senior year at high school. Todd and I had built the original structure and we called it the Glacier Creek Climbing Compound or ‘The Compound’ for short. It was perched in the trees on a cliff 50ft above the green waters of Glacier Creek, two miles up Crow Creek Road in Girdwood Valley.

    We were climbers and figured The Compound would be a good place to hole up if not live for free with a million dollar view of Alyeska. The structure was built with 2x4’s, plywood and tar paper/tarp combo for the roof. My parents called it a ‘tar paper shack’. They seemed more skeptical of my romantic notion of living in the woods.

    I was not a bum though. I had a full time job as pro ski patroller at Alyeska Resort. It was perfect. I was outside in the elements all day doing avalanche ski cuts in the early morning then on to high speed Groomers during night skiing.

    At the end of the day I would change and dry my ski gear in the locker room. I would usually hang out at friend’s house or the bar until I managed to force myself to drive up the single lane gravel road, stop the car and turn into the dark woods by myself. I don’t care who you are during the day; the woods at night can really play on your imagination. After a couple of weeks I became used to it and stopped carrying my shot gun to and from the car.

    I was not the first or only person who had decided to live for free in the expensive resort town. People had been squatting in Girdwood for 20 years. The government would on occasion go though and run the hippies out but they keep coming back.

    I met Hans on the ski hill. He too was living like a king in his own palace up Crow Creek road. He was closer to town but further from the roads, if that makes any sense. He had just moved to Girdwood from Anchorage where he had been a real bum for the last 6 months. I guess before that he played French horn for the New York symphony or Manhattan School of Arts I think. He just decided to pick up one day and move to Alaska to be a bum. Like literally dumpster diving and killing all day at the public library. He was a smart bum and more importantly, a bum by choice. He hosted a radio show on the local pirate station. He would play classical music with intelligent commentary and the occasional quote from Nietche.

    Hans was obsessed with the quest for knowledge in general and I was obsessed with the quest for climbing new mountains so we got along. I would remind Hans to keep his hands forward and how to stomp a cliff and he would remind me to question reality.

    I knew Hans had normal parents back in Tacoma who missed him. But as Hans put it,
    they were ‘too normal’ and he would get annoyed that my parents were too normal and I would get irritated because I did not know what he meant by that.

    Hans’ tree house was impressive. It was forty feet straight up in four trees. Apparently he built the entire structure by himself using ropes to hang from and to haul all the plywood and 2x4’s. I went out to visit his place a few times and each time I was stricken by fear just climbing the rope ladder to the hatch in the floor. After a couple of seasons he felt that the building was unsafe because of the wind always blowing the trees around and loosening all the nails.

    He moved closer to town and built a pyramid out of canvas and 2x2’s. Around the same time he shaved all the hair on his head including the eyebrows so we started calling him Mummy.

    My place was on Glacier Creek where Hans’ place was on California Creek, a small tributary of Glacier Creek. At the back of California Creek drainage is ‘Fishes Breath’, a huge pyramidal shaped mountain with the most aesthetic smooth flanks on any mountain in south central Alaska. People always said that it would take two days to climb and ski but I guessed 6 hours. The mountain is called Fishes Breath because a miner, back 100 years ago, was prospecting up the drainage and came face to with a huge Grizzly bear. He was so close to it that he could smell the rotting fish on its breath.

    Mummy and I skied up to the base of the prominent east-facing ridge in two hours. I told him that if he broke trail up the whole ridge, we would call the route ‘Mummy’s Ridge.’ He thought that was a good deal and proceeded to boot pack straight up the ridge for the next hour and a half. I even offered to help when he became tired but he refused and we topped out in three and a half hours from the road. The thing about Hans was that he was guaranteed to crash on every single run. No joking. At the bottom of most every single resort run, he would roll in late and all covered in snow as if he just rag dolled half the mountain. This run was no different.

    To a skier, the untracked snow is like a palette on which we express our art in the form of the ski turn. Hans was like one of those artists who would cover a room in canvas and start kicking over cans of paint if not throwing feces on the wall…

    Since he broke trail he obviously would have first tracks on the coveted slope. He dropped in and did not turn for what seemed like forever. The slope turned out to be three times bigger then first appeared, as Hans is a small speck still straight lining across the 45deg astral plane of white light.

    Right on cue, he explodes into a ball of snow and ski gear. One ski took off and Hans was left sliding on his butt the remaining 2000ft. I zippered about a million powder turns and checked on Hans who was super stoked on breaking through another boundary of the imagination.

    Life was not always so rosy in the pyramid. I guess during construction Hans had used real black tar as an adhesive for his canvas walled building. He became dreadfully ill with a lung ailment and had to crash on a friends couch. In effect he was living inside a cigarette. Once he had healed enough to do something about it, he organized a house burning party. He burned his house and most possessions to the ground.

    A couple of days later, there was Hans’ smoldering building on the front page of the local newspaper. A local do-gooder was appalled to have come across the charred remnants so near his home and business. In reality, the whole valley could have gone up in smoke so the government initiated another seek and destroy mission aimed at pushing the squatters out.

    Luckily the Compound is well hidden and stands there to this day.

  22. #47
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  23. #48
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    Abe and Hans did not always get along. Hans was too pompous and self-righteous to ‘come down’ to Abe’s sophomoric humor, which I appreciated. One night Hans invited Abe and I come on his radio show as guests. I was driving and Abe pounded about ten beers over the previous hour leading up to the show. So with classical music playing softly in the background, Abe is explaining in great detail the explicit specifics of his latest sexual encounter. I remember bits of “reverse cowgirl… in mom’s living room… porn on TV… mom comes home…”

    Like always I was immensely entertained by all of it. The station manager, however, was not and Hans was fired the next day. I think it was the 'sex with a watermelon' story that was the clincher.

    It was around this time that we started skiing with Fred Bull. I met Fred at one of his infamous house parties. Fred lived with his bachelor father and they had a blast for a few years at least. His dad was the owner and creator of the Iditasport Adventure race series. Contestants would either cross-country ski, snowshoe, run or bike the same route as the famous dog sled race called the Iditarod.

    The course goes from Anchorage to Nome over 1000 plus miles in the dark of winter. Fred was somewhat famous in the obscure endurance/mountaineer circles of Alaska and I was honored when he came to me and said, “We should ski.”

    I agreed and we set off on many a night of drinking followed by early starts and long days in the dark mountains. I did a lot of skiing in the night with Fred. Sometimes we would go all day and come home in the dark. But sometimes we would not start climbing until eight o’clock at night. Fred was not a ski bum. He loved to ski every day possible but he also had a strong work ethic and would not be caught not working. He was a carpenter by trade and built like his name suggests.

    I was working on the ski patrol all day and was just bursting to get out into the backcountry whenever possible. One season we went night skiing about three nights a week. A good headlamp can go a long way but intimate knowledge of the mountains objective features is worth way more. It is amazing to follow the tunnel vision of a light beam as the cold powder cushions every turn.

    One night we climbed up the south side of Max’s Chute in a snowstorm. The lights from the day lodge parking lot barely illuminating the snow as the wind blew. The chute is pretty straight forward as far as ski cuts go. So one by one we zigzagged across the chute and yelled directions into the night, hopping from safe zone to safe zone.

    Another night we skied the Headwall in early season conditions. The main chute was narrow and rocky with mandatory cliffs in the dark. On the smooth face below I remember seeing an avalanche tear away to my right, so I veered left and continued with my turns. The next day you could see my tracks with a fairly large slab and debris at the bottom.

    In general our confidence grew. We had to make rules though. You could only drink as much as you climbed i.e. 1000 feet equaled one beer. 2000 feet equaled two beers etc until you reached 5000 feet climbed. At that point you could really party. The thing is though, once you climbed 5000 feet, you would only have two or three beers anyway before you had to go to sleep.

    Fred taught all of us the skills for endurance winter backcountry travel. Attitude is everything. Prior Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance.

    We came up with a club and called ourselves “The Indestructible Few,” a take on the Marines saying, “the few, the proud, the Marines.” We death marched through the mountains trying to climb as much vertical as possible, trying to feel alive.

  24. #49
    Join Date
    Jan 2009
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    Long Valley
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    That is some good stuff. I like your stories. Sure beats "I make 6 to 7+ digits a year and come out west a couple times a season but my post count is huge."

  25. #50
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    ^^^Thanks, there is a lot more on the way...

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