The Rematch.

One week later.  Armed with beta regarding the moderate descent on the south side of the peak and haunted by how close we got last time, Dacus and I went back to the Pfeiff. 

Eric's skill with a camera tells the story.

Early light takes the sting out of the bitchy sidehill around Pink Pine Ridge.

The East Ridge.  Our ascent line, and a worthy descent for the future.

  

Crampons on.  Chill out, don't stumble.



The top.  And the 3:00 a.m. start taking its toll. 

Joy.

Heading back toward beers and donuts at the truck. 

June effing FOURTH!

Last Saturday, Eric Dacus and I made a run for the East Ridge of the Pfeifferhorn.  I was feeling cocky, with thoughts like "if the coverage is good I bet we'll be able to ski from the summit" keeping me awake the night before.  Despite it being JUNE EFFING FOURTH, coverage was not the issue . . .

Gear pre-packed, alarm at 3:00 a.m.  A quart of peppermint tea and a protein shake.  Pick up Eric, rip up the canyon, and get moving.      


We made good time to the ridge below the peak.
 


Ultimately, though, unexpectedly firm snow and an unexpectedly steep (or was it just steep-looking?) summit ridge stole our nerve.  Our wings clipped, we skied 4000' of vertical back to the truck.



It was the right call at the time.  But the ambition remains--gotta go back.   

Back to basics.

After failing to post anything for the past two months, one has to ask: Why the hell do I have a blog? 

Because I need an outlet for all the random crap bouncing around inside my head.  Such as the omnipresent hum of "I live in the sickest place ever."  Example #74 of why I feel that way -- sunset on the Shoreline Trail.  

The Shoreline: so close, so taken for granted, so awesome. 

Michael Corleone had it right.

"Just when I thought I was out . . . they pull me back in."

After the Wahsatch Steeplechase*, I came to grips with the fact that I wouldn't be able to run the Speedgoat.  My knee was tweaked and I was on the RICE-train to rehab-ville.  No training = no 50k.

And I was okay with that.  No more step ups in the corner, no more effing sandbag get ups, no more worrying about cramping up.  My running "season" was over.  I would just ride my bike and wait for dry land to begin. 

But then Karl threw a wrench in the works.  And now I have a whole year to think about step ups, cramping, posterior chain . . . ugghhhh.  Who needs a drink? 

Rollover?  Next year?!  No, you see, I was thinking that I wouldn't  . . . never mind.  Shit.  

* Finished 7 minutes faster than last year, but was on pace for much better than that.  Despite the geeky socks and the geeky pills, I cramped at mile ten and hobbled out the last seven.  Fail.

The beginning of the end.

I just joined Facebook. 

No good can come from this.

UPDATE:
I've been using Facebook for about 5 minutes and I'm already annoyed as shit.  Grrrr. 

SECOND UPDATE:
My brother and I have become Facebook Friends.  And I haven't gotten fired yet.  So far, so good. 

Crushed. Soundly.

This time last year I was skiing the Hotlum-Wintun Ridge on Mt. Shasta under ideal conditions.  It was a spectacular trip.  So good in fact, that it created a karmic debt that had to be repaid at some point.  The debt came due.  

Yesterday we skied a nice 3000' on Mt. Hood.  The weather was pretty nice, the snow was a tad wind-jacked.  Hey, it can't always be perfect.   















But today we got crushed trying to reach the Southwest Chutes on Mt. Adams.  Distance, lots of elevation gain, a pair of demonic boots, and some serious effing weather . . . the PNW was too much for me today.












There's another 4000' of mountain up there . . . somewhere.  The suck-o-meter went into the red zone shortly after this was taken.  

Thirty three years.

I'm 33 years old today.  There is nothing redeeming about your 33rd birthday.  Usually I wallow in some kind of "I'm running out of time, my best years are slipping away" bullshit, but a birthday message from my in-laws snapped me out of it this year. 

Rich:

Wow.  You are 33 already.  By that age, Christ had figured out how to walk on water, raise the dead and turn water into wine. But don't feel inadequate.  He also pissed off so many people that they hung him on a cross, and, besides, he couldn't ski worth a damn.

Happy Birthday. 

Well said.  So here's to being nice enough to others to keep nails out of my wrists, and fit enough to ski better than a damn.  Hell, maybe by the time I'm 34 I'll learn to pick up my uphill hand.

May 15 in the Uintas.  The strategic use of backseat skiing is an underrated skill.