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  1. #51
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    Some of our favorite death marches included at least two modes of travel. Maybe boating/hiking or hiking/skiing or even better would be biking/hiking/skiing.

    Abe and I set out on many such combination trips. One of the more outright dangerous trips was when we biked back Power line Pass with skis on our backpacks to climb and ski the north facing coulior on Ptarmigan Peak. It only took about an hour to reach the base of the climb. Abe was classic in that gear was usually falling apart or inadequate in general. This being the case when his backpack strap broke soon into our steep climb. So he had to carry his skis on his shoulder. And for some reason he was climbing in his little biking shoes as well.

    A couple of weeks earlier a group of university students had a horrendous fall down the very same route. They were all roped together and when one fell, he pulled the rest off like Velcro. So we were here not die specifically and to ski a prized line in general.

    The coulior climbs straight for a while then half way up it makes a hard dog leg left, so the entire upper part of the run is over 1000 foot cliffs. When you boot pack straight up something steep it can be relatively easy as long as you don’t look down and as long as you make it to the top so you can easily put your skis on.

    The upper half was steep and we persevered to the summit free solo style. Because it was the summer time, the snow was thick and sludge like and it made deep runnels down the fall line, like a very steep river. On the way down we were on the skiers right side of the snow river that was about four feet deep by four feet wide. It came to the point where the river was cascading off the 1000 foot cliffs and we had to jump across. If the snow catches even the tiniest bit of your skis it will suck you in and pull you to certain death.

    We turned and jumped one at a time and cruised down the safe lower slopes, conquering another mountain.

    The next day we set our sights on a new adventure. The plan was to bike through Crow Pass from Girdwood to Eagle River. The route goes for 27 miles. The first 3 miles climb up 3000ft right to the pass and we planned on pushing our bikes at least this distance. From the pass it descends roughly 2500 feet down to the head-waters of the Eagle River over 12 miles. From the river crossing you follow the river course for 15 miles on flat terrain to the visitor center. We figured we could bike at least 20 miles of the route and still be fresh enough to finish the epic loop by biking 20 miles south to Anchorage and then the final 35 mile push back to Girdwood.

    It would be roughly 85 miles of travel for the day but we were up to it. You build momentum from trip to trip as you constantly get stronger and gain experience.

    We gained the pass in an hour and we were excited because in theory, it was all down hill from there. Right off the pass it was a bit too steep to bike so we kept walking. Down in the vegetation again and the trail was rocky and rooty. We were able to bike for maybe 50 yards at a time, then more walking.

    The river crossing was deep and cold. The river flows out of the frigid Eagle Lake that is ringed by 7000 foot glaciated mountains and icebergs float around. After we negotiated the river we thought the going would get easier. It got harder. It seems that the water was high everywhere. The trail at this point is braided and disappears in a maze of swamp and oxbow ponds. We had to carry our bikes overhead and wade through waist deep water for another 5 miles. The final stretch to the visitor center was brutal. There were too many roots across the trail to really pedal efficiently. By the time we got to pavement 12 hours had passed and we were beat. The next 8 miles of pavement were all right but we were done for the day. Wet and exhausted, we called for a ride home.

  2. #52
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    More often then not our adventures were human powered feats of endurance or skill. On occasion it was necessary or convenient to adventure via motorized vehicle. My parents had a couple of scooters that they would bring along on camping trips with the motor home. One of them was the classic step through model like Barbie and Ken would ride with a whooping 70cc of power. The other scooter was more like a real motorcycle, similar to the one they rode in ‘Dumb and Dumber.’ It had big rearview mirrors that stick out like insect antennae and little 12” wheels. They were both street legal with a top speed of maybe 40mph.

    I gave the Barbie style scooter to Abe and I took the lead. I could keep an eye on him in the very convenient mirrors on my bike. We crawled through town along the edge of the four-lane freeway and made our way to the Huffman and the Seward Highway beyond. It was a beautiful day and we just cruised down the shoulder as if we were bicyclists. For all intensive purpose we were on real bikes as far as the other motorist knew.

    There was crux to the trip, similar to when we first bike the route in the winter the previous year. The Seward Highway goes for 25 miles or so and does not climb or drop more then 3 feet as you cruise along the mudflats of Turnagain Arm. At Bird Point the old highway turns and climbs up 800 feet and parallels above some large cliffs that were blown out for the rail way.

    They were building a new stretch that would continue down along the water and remain under the cliffs. The problem was that the old road did not have a shoulder to speak of and it was twisty and bumpy and basically a bad idea to scooter on that route. The new road surface was gravel and it stretched all the way to Bird Point, except for the last 100 feet where they had ended construction from the previous season.

    In the gap was a rocky embankment and a slough of sea water and dreaded glacial silt mud. It was our only route. I forgot to mention that Abe’s foot was in a cast and that is why we were on these bikes in the first place. And Abe, being the trooper that he is, would always put his discomfort second to the integrity of one of our missions. I remember him stumbling and pushing his scooter across the rocks and then slip sliding through the mud, no doubt filling his cast in the process. We struggled up on to the soon to be new highway with smiles on our faces and cruised the last ten miles to Girdwood in triumph.


    The scooters did suffer some abuse. My friend Brian had a real dirt bike and he wanted to go exploring with me. Even though my little bike was street legal I could still get around on the dirt. We went to Bird Creek to go explore the old logging roads that crisscross the valley.

    In the parking lot I got my bike ready and decided to cruise down the dirt road a ways to warm it up. I went about a half mile slowly and then turned around trying to go as fast as I could. The road was turning and rising over a hill when all of the sudden here come Brian at full speed from the opposite direction! I figure I was doing at least 30mph and Brian thinks he was doing 50mph.

    There was only an instant when Brian slammed on his brakes and skidded his rear wheel around just as I T-boned his bike at full speed. Luckily he was leaning forward over his handlebars as I launched superman style straight overhead and tumbled to the ground. I was wearing a helmet along with a tank top and shorts.

    I was pretty skidded up but all right. We decided to go home for the day. The funny thing is that I lied to my parents about why my bike was banged up and the frame was bent. I made up a story about how I ran off the road and hit a tree or something. I did not want them to think I was out being reckless or stupid or anything.

  3. #53
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    Shoulder of Death

    The last member to be initiated into the Indestructible Few was Ryan. One day in late August Hans and I decided to hitch hike to Seward for a couple of days of mountain climbing. On the way back to Girdwood we got picked up by a wood paneled station wagon with Maine plates.

    Ethan and Ryan had just moved to town a couple of weeks ago and were super excited to do some real skiing. Ryan described Maine with pride and an accent that betrayed his east coast heritage. I did not hold it against him because he was game for a good time in the mountains.

    You know how you have one friend over here and another friend over there and you know that they should meet because they would have a blast? I clearly remember looking across the sea of heads late into a New Years party in 2000. I saw Abe and Ryan face to face about to come to blows over some perceived drunken insult. I walked over to intervene/introduce the two right as Abe remembered that he had some firecrackers in his pocket and he changed the subject to “Should I light these firecrackers in the confined space of this garage full of people?” Ryan and I said “Yes!” but the girl throwing the party said “NO!” I would say that they have been best friends to this day. (Except for the time when Abe told Ryan to “Go back to Maine” and that seemed to really hurt Ryan’s feelings)

    Abe, Ryan, Hans and I went out to ski a run called the “Shoulder of Death.” It is located on the Petersen Headwall just south of Girdwood. We hired a plane to drop us off on an adjacent glacier and had to tour up and over a pass before coming to the base of the run. It is a super steep, broad spine that rolls away on both sides into no fall zones. We had attempted the run a week prior and decided to back off because of imperfect snow conditions.

    This being our second attempt, we were pretty pumped up to complete the climb. I was leading the whole route. We skinned up to the edge of the spine and had to take skis off to boot pack. The edge of the spine was so steep that the snow was coming to my chest and I had to cut each step with my ski poles.

    Everything was going good. We were strong and the sun was warm but not too warm and the snow was fresh. The ridge is narrow as a knife edge for the lower 3/4 of the climb. On the last pitch the edge broadens into more of a micro face, leaving no safe zone. When you are right on the ridge edge, you at least feel safe because the snow cannot really slide from the edge. I pushed right up to the last pitch and the little voice in my head said, “STOP!”

    Within 30 seconds I had my skis on and dropped in, leaving Abe and Ryan with the honors of breaking trail and skiing the run. Hans in the meanwhile had blown his knee the week before but still insisted on getting out with us. So as he limped into our base camp as I was sitting there, kind of feeling silly about ‘chickening out’ while I ate a sandwich. All of the sudden I hear this ROAR and look up to see a dust cloud rolling off the top of the shoulder, obliterating my tracks in the process. I sat there for a moment, stunned at the certainty of my friend’s apparent deaths as I could see a matching dust cloud rolling off the other side of the ridge into the next drainage. Whoa. Then I realized I could see both Abe and Ryan still on the ridge, as they were both frantically trying to put their gear on. They were each trying to rescue the other because they did not realize that neither had been taken because there was a roll in the ridge between them, obscuring sight. I was forced to yell that they were each all right because someone was on the wrong radio channel. (I don’t remember who) After a few moments of dread they figured the scene out and were stoked.

    On the way up we were on a knife-edge ridge that was relatively safe because you are not on an actual slope that can slide. I bailed at the point where the ridge became less knife-like and became more wall-like. “I have become comfortably numb…” was what I was singing to myself. Ryan continued breaking trail and made it to the very top edge of the steep roll I did not like. Right there the whole thing fractured one and half foot thick as Ryan punched his hands through to the bed surface to arrest him self. Abe, on the other hand, was about 100 ft behind and he did not even see the slide coming until the last second when the slide literally parted at his feet, because he was still in the sharper ridge, and rocketed down both fall lines. If I had still been up on the ridge, one of us would have been caught somewhere in between these to ‘safe’ zones. I guess when you are on a run called ‘Shoulder of Death’, safe is relative.

  4. #54
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    FEW for me, luckily I don't live in Alaska where untouched steep perfect freshies of some of the finest snow are so that I can get discovered by my hardest of hard core Washington tree lines instead.
    Alright, I was a dick there but only because i am jealous of the skiing you have. Here in WA we have Crystal and Baker slackcountry steeps that are a bit of a hike and are nowhere close to those shots, Stevens steeps...which are tree filled and low low vertical feet long, OR we have a day long tour to get our best steeps because non of our resorts take advantage of our states best skiing. Your so damn lucky to even have access to that stuff! But I don't blame you for wanting to go further with your skiing.
    Hey WA people, name some places that look like his video did(even something almost close to that) that I can skin to in less than a day durring next winter.. I have only one mountain that comes to mind.

  5. #55
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    ^
    So I saw this thread when you started it and though it was overly filled with hatered, then didn't pay attention after that. Glad to see that changed for you, and those stories are sick! So what do day passes to the best resorts around you cost?

  6. #56
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    After each trip we would feel even more Indestructible. Nothing could deviate us from the goal of the day. If the details began to get fuzzy, we all knew that a little of improve could go a long way.

    Ryan and I decided to pull off a little traveling. He was back home visiting family in Maine, so we coordinated over the phone. He was planning on flying to Seattle to visit a cousin and I was in Anchorage. I flew to Salt Lake City. My plane was to arrive at 8:15 in the morning. Ryan started driving from Seattle to meet me in a rental car. From Salt Lake the plan was to go to Tahoe, California to compete in an extreme ski event.

    I located my bags and groggily lay on the floor of the terminal to get some sleep. Five minutes later Ryan kicked me awake. He had driven for 10 hours over night and was fairly dazed and confused. I was amazed at the timing as we raced across the salt flats at 100mph in our Crown Victoria. Our plan was to get to Reno, return the rental car and rent a UHAUL to live in the ski area parking lot. At least we were smart enough to keep the car while we tried to secure our ‘RV’.

    The UHAUL rental guy seemed skeptical as we tried to fudge through made up mile plans for our fake move to Sacramento or some place. They wanted half the mileage money up front and since we were planning on driving only a little ways, our plan was foiled.

    We kept the car and drove to Truckee. Ryan was useless at this point having over dosed on Red Bull the night before and having flu like symptoms. It was getting dark and I kept calling the phone number a girl I had just met back in Anchorage. She was on the university ski team and the team happened to be staying in a hotel in Donner Pass. I finally got a hold of her and lucky for us, she let us stay with the team in their hotel for the week! We skied some spring snow, hit the Donner Pass Road Gap and had a good time in general.

    The following January we decided to pull off another trip but make it even more serendipitous. Ryan was in Maine and Abe was in Bellingham. The plan was for Ryan to fly and meet Abe where they would get a rental car and drive to Vancouver to pick me up at the airport. We would then all go to Whistler.

    We had no lodging planned in Whistler. I was practicing living off the universe and I knew that everything would work out. The day before my flight I was in the ski shop talking to someone about my trip when a guy who was trying on boots in the other room over heard me. He said that he had a place to stay in Whistler that was just sitting there not being used because he was on parole or something and could not leave the country.

    I got the condo info from my new friend and went home to pack for my flight that was leaving in 12 hours. I arrived in the baggage claim in Vancouver looking for a repeat of the impeccable timing in SLC. Two hours later, no Abe and Ryan. The last charter bus to Whistler left at 8pm and I had to get to Whistler one way or another.

    I arrived in Whistler and had some trouble finding the condo. I finally found it and walked in the door at 10:45pm just as the phone was ringing. I picked it up and could here Abe’s almost panicked voice asking “Where are you?!” He had been wandering through the village for several hours hauling around his huge ski bag. After some land mark descriptions Abe finally found the place and we were relieved.

    As it turns out, the condo was more of a townhouse and it came with ten free lift passes as well! Oh yeah, where is Ryan?

    Abe had to ride the bus from Seattle because Ryan never showed up. We found out a couple of days later what happened. While in Maine, Ryan was doing some skiing with an old friend on the day before he was to fly and meet us. They skied at Mt Katahdin all day. At the end of the day they decided to ski off the backside of the mountain to a road that would wrap back around to the car. Sounds like a classic setup for disaster. According to Ryan it was some of the best powder skiing he ever skied as they cruised through steep gladed trees all the way to the valley floor and … no road. Ryan was optimistic. He relayed the story to me with pride. They both had fallen through a creek and were wet up to the waist as they kept slogging through knee-deep snow.

    His friend was falling apart. Utter desperation had taken over and no amount of positive cajoling from Ryan could keep his friend in line emotionally and soon physically. They had to stop for the night and could not make a fire. They stayed crouched under a log all night as Ryan did sit ups and push ups to stay warm if not alive. His friend became colder and colder and was hypothermic and frostbitten by morning. They kind of figured out where they were in the light of a new day and kept moving. Around 10 am they intercepted the fire road. Ryan was unfazed by the night out under the stars and as his friend limped to the road, Ryan hiked up the road to make some more turns back to the car. In the end his friend was in so much pain from freezing half his body he became addicted to morphine.

  7. #57
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    Quote Originally Posted by SP_sam-O View Post
    ^
    So I saw this thread when you started it and though it was overly filled with hatered, then didn't pay attention after that. Glad to see that changed for you, and those stories are sick! So what do day passes to the best resorts around you cost?
    Hatred?! Naw, just some fermented bitterness mixed with self induced frustration...

    But it has passed!!! Only because I lashed out and now I am recounting and catching up from the past and whoa! The future is just like, around the corner for me! I am glad you are entertained.

  8. #58
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    Quote Originally Posted by SP_sam-O View Post
    ^
    So I saw this thread when you started it and though it was overly filled with hatered, then didn't pay attention after that. Glad to see that changed for you, and those stories are sick! So what do day passes to the best resorts around you cost?
    there are no best resorts around us

  9. #59
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    ^^^ Did you see the Fairbanks/Skiland TR? That place reminds me of Ski Smithers a bit. Therefore; if all things Alaskan are cool and Ski Smithers is like that, Ski Smithers must be cool. Shames people think they are cooler though.

    XXX, you like kayaking? This one is for you,

    10) Valdez to Whittier:

    If we were not in the mountains then we were on the water. It was even better if we could somehow combine the ocean and mountains in the experience. That was the objective behind our sea kayak trip from Valdez to Whittier across the Prince William Sound.

    The plan was to kayak day to day and find suitable camping with promising ski runs in the alpine that falls all the way to sea level. The daylight hours were getting longer so the only limiting factor would be our energy levels, or so we thought. We were in a group of nine people with Ryan and myself included. I was a rookie in the world of sea kayaking, though I had a fair amount of experience on the ocean in motorboats.

    No one really told me how ‘tippy’ kayaks could be. When I first squeezed into my yellow rental boat in the Valdez harbor, I could only think “Holy shit! This thing is tippy!” I found that I had to relax when my body wanted to tense up. Either way I had to figure it out quick. We loaded up our flotilla with Ryan and I being the only ones who brought ski gear. It all took up a bit of spare room but we knew it would be worth it. My boots bindings and poles all fit inside the storage compartment but the skis had to be strapped on the outside deck of the kayak in front of the cockpit.

    We were ready to go! The first day was clear and calm and warm. We made our way out of the harbor with the goal of Sawmill Bay for our first nights camp, about five miles out the narrows. It was a beautiful day! We paddled to work on our tans and break in new muscles. I got some paddle techniques from the veterans of the group and life was good.

    Sawmill Bay was sheltered and surrounded by huge alpine peaks falling to sea level. We were tired though. These new activities had worn us out and we opted to rest in camp.
    The next day dawned blustery and cold. A steady breeze had picked up and the sky was grey. My arms were sore and my neck and back muscles were tight. It suddenly occurred to me that this could be serious business. We pulled out of the smooth waters of the sheltered bay into the exposed water of the narrows. There is a substantial distance for the wind to pick the water up into wave and waves there were. Wave size is all relative to the size of boat you are in. These waves were only 2-3 feet but in the tiny kayak I felt like a rubber duck on the high seas. The mountains fall vertically into the cold water that can be a thousand feet deep just meters from shore.

    I had to fight panicky feelings as I struggled to brace and stroke through each wave. I constantly scanned the craggy cliffs for potential safe spots in case of capsize. The waves were getting bigger but luckily we were moving with the wind and waves southward to the open Sound.

    The skis! My ski setup was almost the end of me. In the following seas the hull will plunge through the water and the seas will come up on your spray skirt. That is bad enough by itself, but with the skis lashed to the bow, I had some trouble. As the bow went under the water both skis would shift outward and act like downriggers, slowing the boats buoyant return to the surface. It was worse when only one ski would shift because the boat would rise and tip towards the submerged ski.

    I basically cursed and held my breath for 3-4 hours as we struggled on, hoping for a safe haven sooner or later. We eventually pulled around the corner into the sheltered waters of Emerald Bay. We made camp and I passed out from a day of tense exhaustion.

    The next day we were all sore. I was especially concerned about future crossing of open water with this deadly setup I was stuck with. We had an easier day and jumped over to Glacier Island. With a stunning view of the huge Columbia Glacier and the towering Chugach Mountains, we made camp and poured over the maps to assess the next move.

    The other problem with the skis… there was no snow down low only 1000ft of bush leading to warm spring snow. Not to inspiring. We debated over our route choice. We could push north around the leeward side of Glacier Island to avoid potential large waves on the southern side or take the risk on the southern side and go right by a huge seas lion rookery. I opted for the northern route but after minimal recon we soon found out that the northern route was choked with ice from the adjacent ice field. So that leaves the southern route and a 15 mile stretch of water open directly to the full brunt of the north pacific.

    I was still weary from the constant near capsizing the day before, so I made a drastic decision. I would sacrifice my skis for the wellbeing and safe passage of the group. I found a rocky outcropping in view of the beautiful mountains in which the skis had so faithfully served me. I duct taped a rock to the skis and said a brief mariners prayer in juxtaposition with my mountain offering as I cast them into the deep, like a good sailor who died at sea.

  10. #60
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    I felt no remorse and knew I had done the right thing.

    The next day dawned eerily calm. A thin veil of clouds softened the sun, though my paddle would still cast a shadow on the glass surface of the sea. The atmosphere took on a warm yellow hue as if gold particles had been dispersed on high, filtering some things from our perception. We paddled around the south tip of the island into an environment of unparalleled tranquility. Being in a place that can swing from completely inhospitable to this- this peace was truly amazing.

    We paddled on with the rookery coming up on our right. I was slightly concerned to be paddling near giant seas mammals the size of a grizzly bear. A few brave paddlers stayed in close to shore while I stayed a bit further out. Then all at once, like the guardian sea lion had made a call, the entire rookery poured off of their rocky ledge and came out to investigate the intruders.

    There was silence for a few moments as the army of seas lions advanced under the sea. I swear that I saw a wave of displacement roll across the glassy surface… all of the sudden a huge snarling head of teeth, whiskers and rolling eyes burst from the water not two feet away. We had to stay calm. Even though these animals could capsize and devour us in an instant, they had no ill intentions. I silently requested safe passage from these gatekeepers and we paddled on.

    We paddled for another six days under platinum skies on top of a graphite oily surface. The paddle strokes became like footsteps as we cruised the endless shoreline in and around tiny islets. For the most part we were in sheltered water as if there was any wind or waves to be concerned about. We continued west to Esther Passage. We rode the tide and doubled our speed to the next camp, at the intersection with College Fiord, our last large crossing. We sat with the fire down in the low tide zone and waited for the in coming tide to rise and snuff the flames.

    The morning came and somehow the sea was even calmer then it had been before. As if our minds were further placating our surroundings. The huge fiord is surrounded by
    10-13,000ft peaks and there are many tumbling glaciers falling into the ocean. We were inside a bell jar, a vacuum where no inconsistencies could be found. The six-mile crossing was complete by noon as we rolled into Harrison Bay Lagoon to stay in the forest service cabin.

    I think the actual highlight of the trip was when Ryan and I walked out to the waters edge at an exceptional low tide. Ryan stayed on the sand as I waded in knee-deep water from rock to rock. As I was taking my time navigating through the mini archipelago, the tide continued to fall as new steps kept emerging through the plate glass surface. In between the rocks it was getting to thigh deep and I had to roll my pants high to not get them wet. At the very end of the journey I was some 200 meters form shore standing on a rock a half inch under the water, surrounded my an immaculate calm ocean and mountain scenery.

    Every hue of grey was perceived in my view, except for the dot of yellow that was Ryan’s rain jacket back on shore. I kept looking forward to see if another rock would emerge but three feet out I could see an under water shelf fall away into the abysmal depths carved out by the receded glaciers, now ten miles to my north. I had a sudden vision some huge lurking sea monster being roused from deep slumber as I also noticed the tides subtle turn to flow. In a mini rush of fear I clambered back towards land, sure that some long tentacle would reach up and over the edge to suck me into the depths of my imagination.

  11. #61
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    hey man just thought i should say awesome stories, beautifully written and ace vids, ignore haters im envious of those skills

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    Over an eleven-year period from 1998 until 2009, I usually competed in a least one ‘extreme ski competition’ a season. The idea is to ski the hardest line possible for the judges. There are cliffs and jumps and super steep terrain. Usually a venue will be near a ski resort with ski lifts nearby but sometimes, in the more elite events, in will be held in the backcountry. In one event we used snowmobiles to access the venue. One of the most memorable events was held in Valdez in April, 2002 and was called the World Freeskiing Championship.

    The event was the grand finale for the World Circuit and all of the competitors were pre qualified from previous events. These were the top 15 skiers in the world and I wanted in. I made a few phone calls and managed to talk to the main promoter and I weaseled a spot on the roster based on my solid finishes from the year before.

    The promoter also put the word out that they would be holding a locals only qualifier on the roadside in Thompson Pass. When we showed up at the first meeting the only skiers trying to qualify were Abe, Ryan, Beau and someone else who I forget. The venue was right above the highway on heinous wind-blasted snow that proved very difficult to ski at all, let alone ‘show off’ for the judges. In the end Abe and Ryan made the cut and got to join me in the worlds most elite big mountain competition of the year. We would be using helicopters to access several huge venues in the mighty Chugach Mountains. After a day in the mountains, we feasted like kings and drank free beer and basically had a blast. It was super sweet.

    I placed 8th on the first run, 2nd on the second run and 7th on the third run ending up 6th overall. After the second day of competing, I needed a ride into town so I jumped in the car with Guerlain Chicherit and his dad. Guerlain is a certified French bad ass and I was slightly honored to be competing with him and now here I was in his car!

    We are in a big rental car that Guerlain seemed to be getting a kick out of driving really fast. I’m sitting in the back seat as He and his dad talk on and on in French. As we climbed up into Thompson Pass there is some ice on the road that Guerlain starts purposely fishtailing on as were doing like 60mph. I’m starting to get nervous as they laugh and keep talking in French. We made it through the pass and were beginning the descent down to Valdez, on the ocean. There is one looong switchback turn that had 3 well-marked frost heaves in the middle of the road. All the previous times I had driven the stretch of road the previous week, the driver would slow to 30mph to go over the heaves. Guerlain seriously turned to his dad and I and laughed will punching down the hill!

    It was like one of those scenes out of an old cop TV show filmed in San Francisco.
    We flew over 1…2… 3 Frost heaves! At the bottom of the hill he pulled over to piss on the side of the road. I hopped out and delicately tried to pee without the wind blowing it all over myself. Unfortunately, I forgot that I was still wearing a climbing harness as the piss reflected off the dangling piece of harness and showered my lower half in piss.

    I did not notice until a few minutes later in the car, when I saw that my down coat was wet for some reason. As I am holding my arm up in disbelief of the scene, the dad turns around to say something and he is first confused as I tried to explain by pointing and nervously laughing. He turns to Guerlain and they point and laugh and start carrying on in French. We were at the hotel a couple minutes later where I thanked them for the ride and they drove off, quite amused.

    The next day I was telling someone about the crazy drive (maybe not the pissing) and they mentioned that Guerlain is a professional European Rally Cross Race car driver in the summer months and his dad is the co-pilot/map reader guy.

    The funniest part of all was on the last day of competition when Guerlain was late. He was in first place and was about to miss the heli ride to the venue. Then all the sudden he comes racing in the parking lot and jumps in the heli. Apparently he got pulled over doing 100mph in a 30 zone in Valdez! Serious speeding ticket… Either 3 days in jail or $5000 fine. Rumor has it that Guerlain actually had to start crying in order for the cop to let him go so he could go win the World Championships and collect the $5000 prize money so he could pay the fine. So he shows up, wins the comp and drives back to Valdez to pay up. That after noon they flew back to France.

  13. #63
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    When you are skiing in the backcountry every day, you are bound to come across some instability in the snow pack. We had been pushing hard for the last month skiing and filming on all aspects around the Girdwood region. Big Chief was calling, so one day we went for it. We kind of ended up with a bigger group of five and that later proved to be potentially fatal.

    Big Chief is towards the back end of Seattle creek drainage, one ridge west of Turnagain Pass. On the ascent we climbed the broad east shoulder of the peak with plans to ski the shadowed north face. On the way up it was difficult to see if not assess the route down so we would have to improvise. At the top the sun was bright and warm causing snowballs and crust to form on the south side while the north was still cold.

    I was going to film the run from the smaller adjacent peak to the north, so I dropped in first. The pitch turned out to be somewhat steeper then first anticipated. I quickly rolled out of view from the top as I cautiously traversed across rime ice trying to find a line through the huge cliff bands down below. The cliffs were completely covered in rime so they looked white, but were pretty damn near vertical.

    Half way down the run I was thinking, “Holy shit, this thing is steep and exposed!” I was able to make some turns down a nice chute that hour-glassed on to the large run out slope below. Just then I realized that the whole face I was on had slabbed loose and I had to straight line off to safe snow on the side where I kept making turns along side the slide that billowed down in a dust cloud.

    “Holy smokes!” I thought as I zipped across the broad bowl and side stepped up on to a nice perch to set up the camera. We did not have any radios so I could not properly relay beta on the run to the remaining skiers on the summit. I had no way to tell them about the huge cliff band and the sketchy snow. I could see from the slide I kicked off that a similar layer was schalacked across the whole mountain and it was waiting to slide.

    Aaron dropped in first and skied direct fall line off the summit. After 50-60 turns he was slowed down if not stuck in the middle of the 400-foot cliff section. I trusted in his ability and figured he would find his way though safely. Just as he was negotiating the crux of the steeps I heard a tiny scream from the top of the run. Apparently Abe’s girlfriend, on Ryan’s word, had dropped in because they thought Aaron was out of the way for some reason. She made ten turns or so before releasing a fair sized slab from the very top.

    As the dust cloud was rolling down the face it blasted right past Aaron who was on a precarious perch over extreme steep terrain. He could see the rushing torrent to his right and tried to desperately side step up and out of the steep walled mini gulley he was in. It was like watching rising flood waters, quickly covering the gulley and pulling at Aarons skis as he stepped, stepped and then WHOOSH! He was sucked in and pulled off the remaining 200 feet of cliff and another 1000 feet of run out.

    I watched in somewhat disbelief as the whole heap of snow piled up to a stop. In a flash I zipped over the freight train sized pile of debris, digging for my beacon as I went. Just as I skied up to the debris Aaron popped up from the snow and stood there all covered in white. He looked like he aged 30 years in 30 seconds. “Are you all right?” I asked as I was already skiing away in search for Joni.

    I was performing a haste search where you have your beacon out as you look for clues like a ski pole or glove that might give away a person buried location. The debris was now narrow and deep like an actual freight train had pushed itself across the fresh snow under its slowed inertia. Then I saw her. She was sitting on the snow at the very front tip of the pile like a stunned moose in a cowcatcher. Her feet were actually in the fresh snow and she sat on the debris like a bench looking quite bewildered.

    She complained about a lost ski and a hurt elbow but was otherwise all right considering her 2000 foot fall with 500 feet of vertical free fall thrown in for good measure. Aaron had also lost a ski so we rigged Joni with both skis and Aaron had to walk as we made the four hour slog back to the parking lot.

    In the end Joni had a broken pinky and Aaron was more psychically scarred then anything.

    The Big Chief slide was actually the second close call the Indestructible Few had experienced in under a week. The result was a similar outcome with different lessons to be learned. Fred and I went skiing up in Hatchers Pass on a beautiful sunny day in mid March. At the parking lot we randomly met up with a couple of other small groups and we all decided to go ski “Microdot” together.

    I think there were seven of us altogether and everyone was quite experienced at mountain travel. We skinned up the southwest flank of the peak under a warming sun. It had been snowing nonstop for the previous week and this was the first warm day in a while. It was a recipe for disaster, but we were communicating and assessing the snow all along.

    Fred broke trail right to the summit and I setup the camera on a nice little perch just below him on a safe spot. He and his dog, Kenny, dropped in and skied beautiful knee deep powder all the way to the valley, 1500 feet down. The next guy dropped in and also made nice turns all the way. The third guy skied, followed soon by the forth, who also skied safely.

    The fifth skier dropped in with his dog right on the tracks of the other skiers. He paused on top of a mini rock out crop and then jumped. On impact he tumbled and crashed. A moment late the huge slab that he triggered started to move after it propagated 100yards across the face and five feet thick. It sucked him into a boiling cloud of fury. I could see the four previous skiers at the bottom racing away from the onslaught, bearing down on them.

    The skier next to me pulled out his beacon and skied a safe route down to start a haste search. I was told to go to the parking lot a for a cell phone to call a helicopter. He was dug out quickly with a broken scapula. The dog was uninjured.

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDI5108RXok&feature=channel_page"]YouTube - Huge Avalanche in the Talkeetnas[/ame]

  14. #64
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  15. #65
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    This threads radder than a pair of skis covered in alta stickers! thats saying alot... I know

  16. #66
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    Quote Originally Posted by SkiED View Post
    This threads radder than a pair of skis covered in alta stickers! thats saying alot... I know
    "Og der hvor det fornærmelig er , utleie det stor akse falle."

  17. #67
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    I had grown up my whole life hearing stories about commercial fishing. The tall tales of adventure and huge paychecks lured me in for one summer of extreme long hours and tests of manhood.

    On June 1 we cast off from the Whittier Harbor and set sail for Montague Island, 12 hours away. We were a crew of four, the Captain, Durny, the Captains nephew Tim and Me. Our boat was a 54 foot Seiner and we were out to catch salmon. I was eager to test myself on the high seas and this boat proved more then worthy. Ryan had been fishing for the last two seasons and thought it was the best job in the world. I had always worked regular jobs and this would be a welcome change.

    The boat Ryan was on was called The Pagan. He would recount stories about bringing fish in all day and then kicking back in the evening with a beer and barbeque and really living it up. Maybe go for some wake boarding behind the skiff or a hike up to a waterfall for sunset. Sounded fun so I got a job on his sister boat, The Halberd.

    Even though the two captains were friends and they had sister boats, whatever that means, the jobs turned out to be way different. As it turned out my captain was the most hardcore captain in the whole Prince William Sound fleet. He was a zealot for finding fish and slightly eccentric but that would mean a bigger paycheck in the end.

    We made it out to Montague in the evening under the midnight sun. The opener was in the morning and we were ready to go. Right as we pulled into our anchorage the captain checked the water in the hold to make sure it was cold. He started cursing. I didn’t really know what to think. I guess he normally would have checked the water back in Whittier but did not for some reason or other. He climbed around in the engine room for a while and back to the hold and to the engine room again, cursing louder and louder.

    Apparently the refrigeration system was not working. We need that system to work because if the ‘reefer’ is not working we cannot keep the fish cold long enough to get them to the tender. With cold water you can hold fish for about 24 hours, maybe 36. The seawater is too warm to help the fish keep. We would have to head back to port. It was a let down because if we are not fishing, we are not making any money.

    We steamed back over night as a hundred other boats were heading in the opposite direction. Early the next morning, back in Whittier, the Captain set out to find the local reefer guy. I should point out that Whittier is a very small, very weird town. It was built in the middle of WW11 as a secret fuel station. The town is connected to the outside world by the world’s longest car tunnel that goes under a mountain for two miles before popping out on the Seward Highway 20 miles south of Girdwood.

    The entire town of 1500 lives in one giant apartment building at the center of town, which is a mess of railroad tracks. The only other building is the old apartment complex that the town used to live in. It is abandoned now and looms ominously like some Soviet relic.

    The Captain soon tracked down the Reefer guy and to be honest, he appeared to be slightly retarded. I suspect he might have been an expert with home appliances but had never worked on a commercial fishing boat reefer system. I only say that because a week later we were still in port and the Captain was having a serious meltdown.

    The Reefer guy kept testing the system by pressurizing it and checking these gauges. He was trying to get the system pressure to go up and kept repeating the procedure. At first I was not really paying attention. I would walk around town to kill time or read. I was not being paid to fix the reefer unit. I figured I would leave it to the experts.

    After several days of reading gauges as they fell to zero the Captain started to lose it. He would pace or just sit there and stare at nothing, the frustration seething just below the surface. I started to get nervous. I started paying attention to the process just out of curiosity. Later just by accident I was sitting out by the hold and I heard a very faint noise. I stuck my head in the hold and heard a very quiet hisssss. I called the Captain over. The system was under pressure in yet another test and I by luck had found the leak in the back hold in one of the cooling units.

    We ordered a new unit and it showed up the next day. It was tubular shaped and about 8 feet long. Inside were rows and rows of copper tubes that Freon flowed through and cooled the water. The new unit showed up and we had to install it. It was super heavy. Durny and I had to get in the hold and lower this thing down in on top of our selves. The hold was only 4 feet deep and the hole 2 feet around so it was awkward. The tube was in this crate and as we tipped down to our selves, it shifted on the inside and crushed both of our fingers that were gripping on the inside of the crate. It was so heavy though, that we could not just let go, or we would be crushed. We were both howling in pain as we had to negotiate the heavy piece of shit all the way to the ground.

    As soon as we could, we hopped out of the hold and paced down the dock holding our poor crushed fingers. Dale crushed two and I got off easy with only one black fingertip.
    We made it back to Montague only a week behind schedule.

    Things were going good now. We got some fish in the hold and spirits raised a bit. A day later we were pumping water in the new reefer unit and a pipe became dislodged and started spraying warm water in the hold. The Captain flew into a fury and stripped completely naked except for a white t-shirt. He had a sledge hammer in his hand as he jumped down into the waist deep, blood red fish water and started banging the pipes back together and cursing. I was kind of shocked at the spectacle but kept my cool.

    The Captain always drove around in the crow’s nest. No matter the weather he would be up there with his special fish sighting sunglasses. He would point and exclaim “Jumper!” and we would race over and drop the net, trying to capture the school of fish.
    We would work from about 4:30am to 11pm all day every day. Around 9pm Ryan would cruise by sitting on a law chair and hold a beer up. We were not aloud beer on our boat because the Captain had troubles with drunks in the past.

    That was all right because I was treating the whole ordeal like a monastery at this point anyway. I was in a constant state of either waking or trying to sleep or boredom or dreaming or fishing. I remember lying on my back on the fish rot filth of the fishing nets while rain fell on my face and I did not care. I was becoming part fish.

    The Captain liked to yell. Or rather, he would communicate loudly and with excitement and expect an instantaneous response. I realized that he was very similar to my dad in many regards. I slipped into a world where The Captain was my dad and his nephew Tim was Me when I was Tim’s age, 17. I was 23 now and felt like I knew how everything worked in the world. I would watch Tim get yelled at all day, every day and I could see the Captains frustration with Tim because Tim was not listening. He would stand there and be staring into space as the Captain was saying “Tim, TIM! TIIMMM!”

    What does it all mean? I found myself thinking of the exact same things during the exact same chore during the day. While I was stacking corks I was thinking about so and so or when I was pulling net I was thinking about some mountain or when I was drinking coffee I would think of the cute coffee girl back in town. I was going crazy.

    The straw on my back was when I was promoted to ‘reefer guy’. My job would be to go into the engine room at 4am with earplugs and a flashlight. I would squeeze in between the huge twin Izuzu diesel engines and stare in a confusion at the vast array of pipes and levers. There was the ‘sea chest’, the main hold, the Sunday hold and flush function. Each hold required a combo of these two levers over here and this one lever over there. Or this one lever pulled half way and these two different ones go this way or this lever goes… The engines were so loud I could not think. I would pull two or three and run out on the deck in my boxers and look to see what the water was doing. Sure enough the Captain was already yelling from the crows nest by the time I got up the ladder and on the deck. I would dive back in and try the other two levers on the other side.

    It was not worth the raise from 8% to 10% to take the promotion or even keep the job. On the way into port for the first time in 7 weeks I told the Captain that I would not be staying on the boat for the second half of the season. I had signed a contract at the beginning of the season that said if I did not finish the whole season then I would only get half the check I had earned. I was willing to take my $4500 and take the summer off. I was just getting into ‘living off the universe’ sort of thinking and I knew that I would only need the $4500 to get by, living in my truck and biking.

    As we pulled into port the Captain called me upstairs and told me that since I was such a good worker I could take my full cut anyway. I was elated and now twice as rich as before!

    When I got back to town I had an insight to my own upbringing. While out on the boat the Captain had his wife and two boys fly out for his birthday. He turned from the raging, screaming lunatic I came to know and became the softest, caring father I could imagine. I realized that he was only yelling at Tim and I because he wanted the best for us but more importantly the best for his boat and ultimately his kids. I pieced the puzzle together after a day in town. That evening I was sitting with my brother, sister, mom and dad. I made and announcement and officially thanked my dad for being a good father. I told him that I under stood why he yelled all the time and I did not take offense. He laughed and my mom started crying.

  18. #68
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    Quote Originally Posted by carpathian View Post
    ^^^ Did you see the Fairbanks/Skiland TR? That place reminds me of Ski Smithers a bit. Therefore; if all things Alaskan are cool and Ski Smithers is like that, Ski Smithers must be cool. Shames people think they are cooler though.

    XXX, you like kayaking? This one is for you,

    .
    what is hip anyway ?

    at ski smithers I can discuss worldly things on the T-bar up with Dave the head patroler ,then he hangs my pack in the sky-line hut for me when he goes in to build the fire so I don't have to click-out ... if this was whistler I wouldn't be deemed worthy to drink the head patrolers's bath water.

    I just drive around with those Kayaks on my roof , I don't actualy paddle them because they are so tippy

  19. #69
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    Quote Originally Posted by XXX-er View Post
    what is hip anyway ?
    We started the Telkwa Ski Club yesterday so that is kind of hip.

  20. #70
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    I never heard of the telkwa ski club ... so ya totally in & way hip

  21. #71
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    Quote Originally Posted by XXX-er View Post
    ... so ya totally in & way hip
    Are you being sarcastic like that other guy? Of course you have never heard of the TSC, it is only 24 hours old. But when you do hear about it, you'll want in.

  22. #72
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    you should of stuck with the Halberd. Probably would of made over $60,000 last season. Maybe be a sponsored skier like Tim with a page in Powder. My son and I were fishing near him last month. We had the powder issue with Tim on board.They came up to deliver after us. I told my son to his embarrasment I was going over to meet Tim and have him sign the powder for my son. Pulled up to his boat and asked the crew standing around who's Tim? Nobody said anything everybody tried to ignore me, not a very happy group. So the captain sticks his head out of the wheel house to see what I wanted. So I hold up the powder mag. He kind of smiled and said Tim wasn't on board yet. Sometimes there isn't enough money to work for a screamer. Pretty good stories.
    off your knees Louie

  23. #73
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    ^^ Yeah I know Tim is getting in there. Had to move south to get anywhere but he is pretty good --- for a jibber!

    I heard things were swinging back in favor for the gill netters? I am kind of looking into boats right now.

    You know the Old Crow?

  24. #74
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    After spending half of the summer on the fishing boat, I was excited to get back to the mountains. Back in the early months of the year I developed a new love affair by force more then by choice. On February 22, 2003 I got caught going out of bounds and was kicked off Alyeska for two years. It was really very stupid that I got caught or that I was poaching in the first place.

    I had been sponsored by Atomic Ski Company for a few years and had very recently got signed on to the Snowboard team. My new snowboard showed up in the mail the day I got trouble on it. Maybe it was the punk snowboard attitude coming out but… I don’t know. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

    We were night riding on the hill and having a grand old time and then my friend came up to me on the tram and told me he was riding the best snow of the night. He was coy and giggly when he told me he was hiking out of bounds and riding the North Face and cutting back to the lit area down low. I was feeling frisky, I guess, so I followed.

    It was quite amazing and surreal. We were going under the tram tower and the knee deep snow was a deep red color from the red light on the tower. We shredded one run and then jumped on the tram. For some reason we thought we could go back and do it again, so we did and it was even better. Again we got on the tram, higher then ever on our exploits. We had even recruited another guy with us. On our third lap out of bounds the shit hit the fan. There were three patrollers laying in wait down in the shadows on our exit trail. They were not impressed and we were told to get off the mountain for the night. I promised a case of beer for their silence and I thought we had bought our way free.

    The next night I was at work at the resort hotel in the restaurant. I got a phone call and it was Jim Kennedy, the head of Snow Safety for the ski patrol. He had seen the tracks and with minimal arm-twisting found out they from Me and my friends. Since this was my third offense and I was an ex-ski patrol and a current employee, they threw the book at me. It was a two year ban from riding the mountain and I was fired from my job at the restaurant.

    It really was a worse case scenario considering my addiction to the mountain and my need to make money. I was effectively ostracized from my beloved community. The resort really is the only place to work in Girdwood and the resort is the only place to ski when it is dark and stormy out.

    I edited this:

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApslePEipqk&feature=channel_page"]YouTube - Powder Day at Alyeska[/ame]

    I resolved to remain optimistic. I would only go I the backcountry and I could feign distain for resort riding in the first place. It was a dark time in my psyche. Sure enough it just kept snowing for the next two months. The backcountry was mostly off limits and so I had limited options for maintaining may sanity.

    This is when I fell in love with down hill biking. My friend John had two bikes but no car. I had a car and no job and lots of time on my hands so we embarked on winter of exploratory down hill biking.

    The stretch of highway between Bird Creek and Anchorage is the local banana belt of the area. On the darkest, rainiest days in Girdwood 90% of the time you can drive around Bird Point and the weather with change for the better. We would half joke that we were going to find ‘blue bird’ skies even though it was an absolute deluge in Girdwood. Sure enough, we would go out to McHugh or Falls Creek and there would be a scrap of blue for one minute and we would cheer.

    Our bike scene was unique. We would push our 50 lb bikes up hill for 1-6 hours and ride across the open tundra as if we were on skis. Or sometimes we would just ride straight down through the dense forest without trail and let gravity pull us through anything.

    So I maintained my composure and became addicted to the DH bike. When I got off the fishing boat my plan was to live in the back of my truck and hit every trail and mountain that I could between Palmer and the Kenai Peninsula.

  25. #75
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    I named my bike Sluggo and I have come to love her because of the emotions I have experienced while astride her broad saddle. The exhilaration of being perched in mid-air while the choppiest of terrain is swallowed by her deep travel. I feel like I am doing nothing, the bike is designed to do this. I am supposed to be bending time and space around my senses in order to experience the timeless moment beyond. Steering and controlling the gyroscopic forces generated by the wheel while sticking to the earth like my tires are made of Velcro. It is not all fun and games with Sluggo, though. We have developed a love hate relationship because in order to experience the freedom and ecstatic release of a downhill run, I must first PUSH her to the top of my run. I must endure the pain before I can experience the pleasure.

    John, Tim and I were pushing up Pioneer Peak, a 7000ft mountain that rises from Matanuska Valley down at sea level. Pioneer Peak is the first of successive peaks that stretch south, from Palmer, Alaska, into the heart of the western Chugach Mountains of south-central Alaska. It is similar in size and dimensions to Mt. Curry in Pemberton.

    Our intended route was to push up through 3000ft of dry, birch forest along a roller-coaster single track littered with gnarly root clusters and steep greasy sections. Once above the trees we would be on high alpine terrain for another 3000ft as we wrapped around to the Eastern Saddle that leads to the summit ridge of the peak. We wanted to bike off the peak.

    We had been pushing for 5 hours now and I had just sat to down to rest and scope my line, which I was just able to see. The trail traced a broad grassy ridge that seemed to forever roll into another high point in the distance. The air was a least moving up here, the forest had been hot and buggy. This would be a good spot to film from.

    I could see Tim coming up quick with his Santa Cruz Bullit and John in the distance, pushing his Karpiel Disco Volante. I reflected on the performance vs. pain ratio that was inherent to this pursuit. Sluggo is a Santa Cruz Super 8 mounted on double-wide rims with Gazzalotti 3.0 tires. She is designed to carve big mountains and basically manage for the gnarliest terrain I could throw at her. But I had to first push all of her 50lbs to the top of the run I intended to ride.

    John, Tim and I had been pushing just about every day for the previous 3 months and we were strong. We had been calling first descents all over south-central AK as we filmed the action. We were out to pioneer new lines on Pioneer Peak.

    As it turns out there is a pretty good ratio for time spend pushing vs time going downhill. For every hour up you can look at about 1/2 hour ride down. This push was going to take us over 7 hours so we could look for a ride that would last about 2 hours. (Whereas in ski-mountaineering, a 7 hour climb might only yield a 20 minute run) My plan was to have a camera guy post up right where I was sitting so I could circle up and around the drainage and ride the most esthetic line I could see, it would yield a long profile shot as I descended into the drainage.

    Pushing again, easy terrain up here. The steeps down in the forest were the crux. Slippery, root entangled gnarl. Up here it was wide-open tundra and talus and I was stoked to get in my line. Over the radio John said he was ready I affirmed and dropped in. The first 1000ft was a low-angle, rolly ridge that I was able to mob along at a good clip. Eventually the ridge began to tip over and narrow into a spine of clean tundra flanked by vertical cliffs on the right and left.

    I was getting into the meat of it. I knew that I was straight across the drainage from John as I rolled onto a flat spot right above the steepest section. Pause… pause…
    Standing there balanced on the bike for a moment. I eased into the pitch because I knew it was going to be a long one, about 700ft. I knew the exposure was there but I only saw the strip of earth, as wide as my desk here, that lay before my fat tire.

    Even with the radical geometry of the Super-8 I was still sitting on the back wheel while pushing my arms down the fall line with all my might. I spent 6 hours in this position pushing up the hill in preparation for this. This run was becoming a thing of endurance as I neared the crux, a 3ft cliff. The pitch was so steep that even a little 3ft cliff could initiate the extra inertia that my skills could not bear. I’m through the cliff and my back wheel is starting to lock, sending boulders down the hill with me. I’m fucking driving now! Steady! (bucking wheel) Steady! (boulder whizzing by) Steady…!

    OPEN IT UP! I zipped down into the lower angle valley bottom on open brakes. Run Sluggo, run! I had survived the ridge-line that felt more like a ski run then anything else. I carved my way down the drainage a ways but had to stop because I now had to push back up to where John was sitting with the camera. He would film Tim and then start pushing into his line while I climbed out of mine so I could be at the camera right when he is ready to go.

    A half hour into it and I’m getting tired now. Staring at the earth, focusing on every step. Driving Sluggo up the steep tundra face one step at a time. I had ample time to reflect on my 2000ft run and give thanks to Sluggo for delivering me through such dangers. I turned around and watched Tim come down to the biker’s right. He chose a less steep run and was able to open it up most of the way down. Blazing over the natural hips and rolls! Another half hour and I was back to the ridge top and John was dropping in.

    He went way biker’s left and railed GS turns down a broad face that eventually broke up into a cliff zone. He had to link up the tundra strips while dodging and weaving around the cliffs. I could see John through the viewfinder as he straight-lined out over a double and finished by stopping and lying down in exhaustion at the valley floor.

    Holy smokes… I was wasted. I had now pushed Sluggo up about 6500 vertical feet over 7 hours. Sometime later Tim and John climbed out of the drainage and we exchanged high-fives in recognizing out feat. But that was now in the past as we geared up and prepared to descend the 5000ft back to the truck.

    If I had a helicopter, this is where I would go riding. All three of us racing each other down the flanks of the mountain until we merged onto the trail right at treeline. Another hour of intense jungle maneuvers and we were spit out into the parking lot, rolling lazy circles around the truck. We could only sit dumbfounded and silent on the tailgate. All that could be heard were the birds in the trees and the occasional “Dude…that was crazy…”

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NIVtxRZzvw&feature=channel_page"]YouTube - AK Big-Mountain DH Biking[/ame]

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