Best soup I have since I come to America

When I was in grad school, one of the really cool non-academic programs was a multi-day outdoor adventure before school started in the fall. The trips were organized and led by second-year students, and first-year students had the option to attend the trip of their choice.

My first year, I went on a backpacking trip to fly fish in the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness in Montana. I hiked through some amazing places and caught hundreds of trout. Aside from a guy from the Dominican Republic getting altitude sickness at roughly the same elevation as my current house, it couldn't have been better.

My second year, two of my friends and I organized a trip to Alaska to go backpacking in Denali National Park, whitewater rafting on the Nenana River, and then travelling by float plane to Shuyak Island (the northernmost island in the Kodiak archipelago) for several days of sea kayaking and fishing for silver salmon.

Roughly 35% of each class is composed of international students, some of whom have spent significant time in the USA; some of whom have never been before. One of the students who chose to come on our Alaska trip was a guy named Haibo. Haibo was from Shanghai, arrived in Ann Arbor with just enough time for me to take him to Cabela's to get outfitted for the trip, and then a few days later we hopped a plane for Anchorage.

One of the things I noticed about Haibo was that he really liked soup. The first couple of days we had several meals in restaurants, and each time he ordered soup. On day three or four of the trip, we elected to pull the plug on our backpacking a day early due to weather (it had rained nonstop for three days) and checked into a hotel.

The hotel had a free breakfast buffet with a vast assortment of typical American breakfast items, including sausage gravy and biscuits.


I noticed that Haibo came back from the buffet with a big bowl full of sausage gravy, but no biscuits. I knew what was coming. About a half-dozen spoonfuls in, I asked Haibo how he liked his soup. "Very good shoap. Best shoap I have since I come to America." When I explained that it was called gravy and eaten with biscuits, he was confused. Biscuits to him were what you or I would likely call a cookie.

Later someone else explained to him how the sausage gravy was made, and he was disgusted with himself. But not so disgusted to keep him from eating every last morsel save the bone (fat, grissle, you name it) of a 20 ounce porterhouse steak a few nights later. After that, one of the guys started taking over/under bets on how much weight Haibo would gain by graduation. Don't know how he did it, but he was still skinny when I graduated almost a year later.

Crestfallen

In roughly eight hours, the avy forecast went from this:



BOTTOM LINE

Danger by aspect and elevation on slopes approaching 35° or steeper.

In areas that received less than 6 inches of new snow overnight, the danger remains mostly LOW with pockets of MODERATE. In areas that received 6-12 inches of new snow overnight, the danger is MODERATE with areas of CONSIDERABLE. This includes primarily the Provo and Ogden area mountains.


To this:



BOTTOM LINE

Danger by aspect and elevation on slopes approaching 35° or steeper.

There is a HIGH danger of avalanches in all areas that received over a foot of snow late last night and this morning. This includes most areas in the Wasatch Range. Backcountry travelers should avoid crossing steep slopes or crossing beneath steep slopes.


I haven't been playing this game for that long, but I've never seen a mid-day update to the advisory. Especially one that goes from Green to Red. I was just telling UTRider earlier today that I would love a really deep day. Like white room, over-my-head deep. I thought that day was going to be tomorrow. Problem is, it may be over-my-head deep to the point that I never get out of it.

There's some talk of riding the wire in the morning and then working late. Maybe I'll do that instead.

Or maybe I'll just stay home and have some tasty bacon.

Getting your steeze on and the indignity of riding chairlifts

Spending most of my ski days in the backcountry deprives me of a regular opportunity to stay on top of ski and snowboard fashion. What I wear in the backcountry is driven far more by what is practical than by what looks good. My pants have cargo pockets on the sides, not because it looks cool, but because it's important to have easy access to things like chap stick (and in my case, rescue inhalers). My pants have big vents on the inner thigh that I can zip open for ventilation on the up and then zip back closed on the down. I wear suspenders because I don't like my pants to fall down. And my biggest cause of consternation is that my favorite backcountry jacket is my black softshell rather than my orange hardshell, since I bought the hardshell in that color because, unlike black, orange won't get mistaken for avalanche debris.

Just because I'm not a resort regular doesn't mean I'm completely in the dark. For instance, when I went shopping for my suspenders, I learned that many ski shops have struggled to keep them in stock because the kids were buying them, attaching them to their pants, letting them dangle to their butts, rather than actually wearing them to keep their pants up. Thanks to the TGR forum, I also know that tall tees are a critical element of any newschooler's steeze. But even if your steeze is whack due to a tee not hanging low enough, you can always just squat down and stretch your shirt until it hangs sufficiently below your jacket. Having a friend along for this exercise helps.


At Solitude on Saturday, in addition to skiing with my son, I had a great opportunity to check out some of the fashions I've not had the chance to appreciate in the backcountry. As if this were not enough, I was also rewarded with the chance to spend time with folks who acted like they were the only people on the mountain or at the very least as if they owned the place. It was such a wonderful experience that I thought I'd pass along a few of the highlights.

Highlight #1: The greatest snow on earth.

Of course here I am not referring to the actual snow but to the people who come from all over the world to enjoy said snow. Even though the really good inbounds snow is rapidly consumed on a powder day by so many scrubbing bubbles charging all over the mountain, and the tourists mostly ski on stuff that has been groomed and thereby rendered more or less indistinguishable from the groomed snow anywhere else in the world.

But they come, and they come wearing the finest clothing, something I get a kick out of because they're dropping two grand on an outfit they'll wear for five to ten days this year only to replace the getup with a new one next time they come.

Since they're all dressed up, of course they take pictures. With their cell phones. Or I guess I should call them mobiles in this context. At any rate, what's the point of taking a skiing picture with a cell phone? No matter how good the skier looks pushing a wide snowplow down the bunny hill, the cell phone camera is going to end up a blurred mess that evokes skiing only slightly more than this Rorschach.

But aside from laughing at the tourons from the chairlift, the real pleasure comes from sharing a lift line with them. As my son, who's four, was making his way towards the gate, some South American kid twice his size goes charging right in front of him, nearly knocking him over. I kept quiet, knowing that my four-year-old is probably a better skier and we'd get ahead of them next time and not have to worry about it.

As it happens, we got down about the same time, and sure enough this kid charges into the gate without waiting in line again. Except the gates at Solitude are kind of like getting on the subway in New York except with proximity sensors that open when you get close enough with your pass. Well young Mr. Linecutter didn't respond quickly enough when the gates opened, so they closed and wouldn't open again. He was stuck. We went to the other gate and just left him there waiting for the liftie. Schadenfreude at its finest, and I didn't even have to do anything.

Highlight #2: Was that really necessary?

Of course not all the idiots are tourists; we have plenty of villages here, some of which send their idiots up canyon on Saturdays. And similar to the Euros in their pretty clothes, they seem to be enamored by the fact that they are skiing at all, with no regard whatever for how they're doing it.

Take for instance, snowboard dad. Now there are plenty of people that I like who happen to snowboard. That's fine for them. It does not, however, mean that I like snowboarders just because some of my friends and/or family members do it. So when the dad who was teaching his daughters how to snowboard had all three of them get on the lift one at a time so that Grandma could take pictures, I was annoyed. For one thing, anyone can ride a chairlift, so who the hell cares to take a picture of that? For another, it's the beginner lift, and it's a fixed grip double. So as slow as it moves to begin with, all the novices falling off the thing mean it's constantly stopping. Please don't make the process any slower just for the sake of your scrapbook.

The other thing that left me scratching my head about its necessity was the lady skiing the beginner lift with an avalung. Now I'm all for avalanche safety and have even gone so far as to wear my beacon inbounds if I thought I might be heading out the gates or skiing something sketchy. And I realize that the recent inbounds avalanche fatalities have a lot of people who don't know better feeling pretty nervous. But an avalung on green runs? Wow.

Highlight #3: You're never too young or too old to get your steeze on.

For some reason I had assumed that really steezy looks were reserved for the park and pipe crowd between the ages of 13 and 24. Boy was I wrong. Exhibit A is this kid who is apparently between the ages of 7 and 10, and, based on the fact that he was riding the beginner lift, couldn't have been up more than three or four times in his life. And yet there he was in all his steezy glory with a tall tee hanging below his coat. Wonder how much time he spent contemplating the outfit before every bothering to try the sport?


Exhibit B was this guy, who appeared to be pushing 40. I can't decide if he was serious about that outfit, or if he's even more of a bottom feeder than I am when it comes to gear and got it on a deep, deep discount for obvious reasons. If I were to lay money on it, I'd go with the former.

When I first saw him, I really wanted to take a picture, but I didn't dare just bust out the camera and shoot. Thankfully the opportunity presented itself when we were getting ready to leave for the day. Mr. Plaid was loitering in the base area talking on the phone, so I had my son stop right in front of him and pose for a photo. You see part of my son, cuz I had to at least point the camera in his general direction to avoid blowing my cover.

Of course all this ranting is in fun and in jest because the real reason any of us head to the mountains (I think) is so we can enjoy ourselves. And I'm glad to have other people up there stimulating the economy. Sure, some people find it enjoyable to take pictures of themselves drinking beer and don't accomplish much else besides actually drinking the beer, but to each his own.

As for my son and me, we had a great time. He got there about 1:30 (I snuck in a few turns by myself and did some beacon practice before Rachel dropped him off) and skied until the last chair. We even ventured onto the Moonbeam lift, which is still beginner terrain, but feels a lot bigger when you're four. I'll leave you with a few shots of the little guy.


Wonder how many years it's going to be until he's skiing the Northwest face of Box Elder with me?

Wherein I prove that I am not a complete and total ninny

I may have mentioned that during our climb and ski of Superior on Saturday that I was a bit nervous. Something about walking across an exposed ridge barely wider than your boots that's covered in rotten rock and snow will do that to you. But I made it to the top, and, after collecting myself a bit, had a great time skiing. In fact, once I got my skis on, I was fine. Sure, there was a steep chute right at the top, but it wasn't any steeper than dozens of other lines I had skied. As freaked out as I can be by exposure, once I get my skis on, the nerves generally go away.

I was not, however, so smitten by the experience that I was in a rush to go right out and do it again. So when Dug suggested climbing and skiing Box Elder peak Thursday morning, my first question was "how much exposure is there on the hike up?" Having never been to the top, Dug responded with the non-answer "you'll be fine. FINE." None of the guidebooks said anything about the hike along the ridge being treacherous, so I agreed to go along.

A half dozen of us met at the Dry Creek trailhead well before dawn to make the hike to the 11,101 foot summit, the largest and most prominent between Lone Peak and Mount Timpanogos, which also happen to be the three big peaks visible from my front window.

Everything was great until we got to the top of the Shotgun chutes. At this point, had I just been along for the skiing, I would have skipped the summit and dropped from there. In fact, that's exactly what Mike L. and Quinn did. The shotgun chutes are North-facing, protected somewhat by trees, and harbored nice snow even though it had been more than a week since the last storm. Who could blame them for wanting to ski that?

Here's Mike, booting towards the top of the Shotgun Chutes. It was kinda steep.

The view from there didn't suck, either.

And my favorite pic of the day, Dug making his way up the Summit Ridge from the Shotgun Chutes.


Since I'm a compulsive box-ticker, however, I couldn't hike this far without tagging the summit and skiing the cirque, so I kept going. Unlike Superior, the ridge hike was generally as wide as a driveway. Sure, massive cliffs still dropped from either side, but the feeling that you might actually fall wasn't nearly so poignant.


Nevertheless, my internal demons maintained their chatter all the way up "what if the cornice breaks off?" "What if you lose your footing on this boilerplate?" "What if this tree you're using as a handhold gives way?" "What if you slip on this loose rock?" Notwithstanding, I still eventually made it to the summit.

Tyler, Dug, and Rob making the final push to the top.


Whereupon something entirely new happened: I started wondering how I was going to get down. Seriously. I looked at the bulletproof snowpack interspersed with sastrugi, the 40-48 degree pitch, the cliff bands scattered throughout the cirque, and for the first time in years, I was scared of a ski descent. The last time I had a feeling approaching this was in 1993 skiing the main Baldy Chute at Alta. But even then it was just enough nerves to sharpen my senses, not intimidate me or cause me to ski apprehensively.

Given that this was the view from the top looking down, I suspect you can understand why I may have been a tad nervous.


Not wanting to billy-goat the rocks, we downclimbed just a bit and found this nice flat spot to take off our skins and put on our skis.

The first few turns were a bit tentative, but after that I was able to settle into a rhythm and actually ski. Looking up at Tyler descending the first pitch.

As we made our way down, we thought things were starting to mellow out until we got to a cliff band. Rob went left and ended up dropping his skis off the rocks and climbing down. I went the middle route and had to climb back up and over to get to this nice little couloir.

Here's Dug making his way down what I thought was the most aesthetic line of the day.

Followed by me.

From there it was nice, mellow skiing on the Apron to about 8,000 feet. Dug's smiling because he's just skied from as high as you can see to where he's standing in this photo. On a Thursday.

The rest of the way out was uneventful if a bit hot and exhausting with 6,600 feet of climbing under our belts. There was quite a bit of surface hoar on the lower reaches, in some places as large as potato chips and in others light enough that less snobbish skiers would confuse it for powder.

Having made it down without falling--or even coming close for that matter--I'm growing more comfortable with the terrain. Not sure I'll ever be comfortable climbing Superior, but I wouldn't hesitate to do Box Elder again, at least not for reasons related to the skiing. Now all I need to do is conquer Timp, and I'll have climbed and skied all the major peaks visible from my house. Thank goodness I can't see the Pfeifferhorn.

A cure worse than the disease

Given the high pressure system and warm temperatures in Salt Lake right now, UTRider and I made plans to get out on the single speeds for a quick pedal up City Creek at lunchtime.

Only one problem—when I went to the bathroom to change, I had no shorts. I had tights, but no shorts. Sure, I could have worn the tights alone, but that could have resulted in a jogger being exposed to a fruit basket he or she never wanted to see or me being discharged for sexual harassment just for walking around the office. Not a chance I wanted to take.

I was ready to give up on the ride when Ed, a colleague and fellow cyclist, came to the rescue. He had a lovely pair of plaid shorts in his drawer. Never mind that they were size 2XL and I wear a medium. Needless to say, I got a lot of looks riding through downtown SLC in those bad boys.

Funny thing is that Dug wears shorts like these all the time when he rides. When he’s not wearing manpris, that is.

On the subject of cures worse than the disease, the Utah legislature is debating a change in the liquor laws. Instead of enforcing the private club for members ruse, there’s talk of scanning drivers licenses instead. And putting them in a huge database for the state to know who the sinning imbibers are for time and all eternity. Governor Huntsman is opposed to the database, so it’s likely the Orwellian element of the legislation won’t make it through.

As far as I’m concerned, we should keep the Private Club laws AND have the database. Because far too many people from out of state have decided that the liquor laws are not enough of a deterrent to keep them away from our pow. Heaven forbid we make it more appealing for them to come here, especially since some of them will move here permanently. And now that I’ve established residency, the last thing I want to see is more people moving in from out of state and choking up my ski hill.

Finding a new dealer

As vices go, mine are pretty benign. Don't drink, don't smoke, not into porn. Only stimulant I use besides light, dry Utah 5% blower is diet coke.

From time to time I try to moderate my diet coke consumption, but the truth is I like to go to the convenience store and get a 44. Anything less, and I'm left wanting more. (Wow, unintentional rhyme there. Sorry. Vizzini: stop rhyming, and I mean it. Fezzik: anybody want a peanut?)

When I first started my current job, I frequented the 7-eleven that's two blocks away. It's close enough to walk, though in cold weather, even two blocks is a long way with an icy cup in hand unless I'm wearing gloves.

But besides the cold, walking to the 7-eleven has other drawbacks. It just so happens that the 7-eleven is also on the same block as the apartments where pretty much all of the crazy people and junkies in Salt Lake City happen to live. This of course makes for an entertaining walk some days and a somewhat frightening walk on other days.

I heard recently that there was a stabbing at the 7-eleven. Not surprising given the neighborhood and clientele. I'm sure, however, that this was not the first, just the first I'd heard about.

Stabbings and verbal tirades from people in their underwear notwithstanding, the neighborhood never actually got to the point where it was a deterrent. That distinction was reserved for the owner. This particular 7-eleven franchise is owned by an older couple, both of whom are often behind the counter loitering. Even when their paid staff is there doing an adequate job.

One day, not coincidentally the last time I was there, the female half of the couple opened up the hot case where they keep the pizza and hot wings and potato wedges. I figured she was getting something for one of the customers but thought it odd that she was reaching in there with her bare hand. Then there was no plate or napkin or even waxed sheet to put it on. Then the pizza went straight into her mouth. Right behind the counter. Right in front of the customers. No napkins or other hygiene products were in sight.

At that point I was done. I thought about throwing out the diet coke, but you don't see crack addicts throwing out a rock just 'cuz the dealer had a runny nose. So I just went back to my office and tried to forget.

The staff at the Maverick four blocks away are all quite nice and seem to keep their hands clean and their nails trimmed. I've gotten to know them quite well of late.

A Superior Saturday

I'm a box ticker. I have done certain things for no other reason than to check that box off my list. For instance, I've been to North Dakota and Alabama for no other reason than to say I've been there--didn't see anything, do anything, or eat anything--just crossed the border so I could say I had done so.

Other things I have done because they were on my list AND because they were a lot of fun. Lone Peak was one of those. Nice to get it off the list, but I'd certainly go back and do it again. Climbing Mt. Whitney was another.

I still haven't quite figured out where to put Saturday's climb up Mt. Superior. Superior has been on my list for as long as I can remember. I don't know how it couldn't be for anyone that skis Little Cottonwood canyon. The problem is that in order to get to the top, one has to hike along a knife-edge ridge composed of snow and rotten rock with massive exposure on either side. For someone like me who gets a little queasy from that sort of thing, it was nothing more than will and an unwillingness to descend alone that got me through it.

Things started out easy enough, skinning in the dark up to Poleline Pass. I'm getting used to getting up at 4:30 on Saturdays, even if it was 3 days out of the last 5 that I was up for the day at that hour. I can't believe the concentration of people in my neighborhood willing to do the same, as Dug, Jon, Mike, Rob, and Rick all got up early for the fun. Here's the skin track approaching the Black Knob.
The knife-edge ridge heading towards the summit. We were walking along the top of a cornice that was so thin in places you could see daylight coming through the snow. Considering it dropped several hundred feet to either side with cliff bands below, let's just say I was not particularly comfortable through this stretch.
Dug and Jon scrambling up the final stretch to the summit.

Looking back at what we'd just climbed. I think I would have been more comfortable crossing this had I brought along an ice axe or a Whippet to arrest in the event I slipped. Interestingly, nobody else in the group expressed any feelings of being ill at ease with the climb (and at least two of them did it in boots with plastic alpine soles rather than Vibram soles like I have), so maybe I'm just a wuss.
Cardiac Ridge with our ski tracks on the apron below. We dropped from the summit down the North face through a chute onto this apron. Sorry, no summit pictures. On the summit, my nerves were so completely gone that I just sat there (yes, I sat, not stood) trying to get it together enough to ski down.
But the glorious snow on the apron had me feeling good by the time I got to the bottom. Here's Mike making some huge, fast turns through the fluff while some skiers from another party skin back up.

It was so good we lapped it. Mike at the bottom wishing he could keep going down.

From here we did one more short shot then skinned back up to the ridge below the Black Knob. 2,000 more feet on the South face of Superior back to the road. The first 1/3 was sublime--surprisingly good as we found some snow that had been sheltered on an easterly aspect. The middle 1/3 was intermittently good, as long as you could find east-facing ridges. The bottom 1/3 was heavy, knee-tearing slop, although I've learned to appreciate even that because it's like a lesson--I'm not very good at skiing it, so it forces me to improve. Here's the view from the road with what we'd just skied behind us.All things considered, it was another great day in the Wasatch with well over 4,000 vertical under bluebird conditions. As difficult as it was to deal with the exposure, I'm a junkie, so if this climb is suggested in the future, you know what my answer will be. As long as it's another calm clear day.