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.

A vicious rip-off.

I found this on Teton AT.  I would feel worse about re-posting it here -- it seems fairly plagiarific to do so -- but it was crafted by Tom Diegel, an excellent local skier and all around good guy.  And it really sums up some of my frusrtation this time of year.  Enjoy. 

In-flight wifi . . .

is amazing. 

I'm somewhere over Wyoming, returning from a trip home to see la mia famiglia.  Might as well post another teaser from Deseret Peak. 

That familiar feeling.

It's equal parts weariness and anxiety.  Weariness because I'm falling behind at the firm and I can see the late nights and weekends -- at my desk -- in my future.  Anxiety because it's snowing.  Where am I going to ski?  Who is available for partners?  Should we spin tram laps or hike something loooong?  A lot of new snow, but not much wind, so . . .  And so on, and so on. 

The anxiety is a nice problem to have.  The weariness, on the other hand . . .

From a recent trip to Deseret Peak.  More to follow . . .

I aspire to 1993.

Part of my obsession with skiing is the constant reassessment of my "goals in skiing."  Perfecting a GS turn, taking air at speed, skiing the Alps  . . . skiing the Alps well.  All of these are among The Goals. 

But most of all, I aspire to ski as well as the stunt skiers in Aspen Extreme. 

They rip 200cm GS skis in variable snow (to put it kindly), they float a classic "extreme" tip cross off the cat track, and they apparently have ACL's made of steel, 'cuz they backseat everything and ski away. 

Maybe -- if I stay committed, stay fit, and keep working at it -- maybe some day I'll ski as well as Dexter and TJ. 

The Luck of the Draw.

I thought I had timed it right.  I bailed on work last week and I skied the four best days of my year -- in a row.  We floated through an effortless Thirds to Eagle's on Thursday; arc'd hero snow on Baldy at The Bird on Friday; ripped an untracked Lone Pine and a windbuffed West Rustler on Saturday; and then porpoised through fluffy craziness in Gunsight and the Backside on Sunday.  It was as good a string of days as I've ever had. 

And then we received another four feet of snow.  LCC didn't open yesterday.  The lifts at Alta never turned.  Today is going to be epic . . . at my effing desk.
 

From this morning at The Bird, 'cuz Alta's website is down.  Probably buried under too much snow. 
I hate everyone.  Perhaps this guy the most.