A Word From the Soapbox

We were over at a friend's house the other night, eating enchiladas and enjoying the usual good-natured bullshitting. One of her neighbors was there too, a local wrench, fellow North Carolinian, and dude of whom I think (thought?) pretty highly. We were talking bikes, of course, and he asked what I ride, of course, so I told him but added that I'd just joined the local team, and before I could reveal the possible new bike purchase that that entailed, he cut me off with a sharp, "They're just letting anyone on that team now."

My friends who know me as a cyclist visibly stiffened. He backpedaled and clarified that he meant they were loose with their pro-form, but the jab still stung. I spent the rest of the night engaged with him in some kind of lame attempt to establish my legitimacy, talking brands and builds and numbers, and the climbers' and skiers' faces showed bemusement then boredom. I love gear talk for gear's sake but I cringe at myself when I fall into these conversations that are all posturing and name-dropping.

Unfortunately, sometimes it feels like that's the only way to convince recent acquaintances and new shop folks that, yeah, I'm a chick but I'm also a competent mountain biker. I don't think that I'm overly sensitive, but it is kind of a drag moving somewhere and doing the slow, elaborate dance of a new shop patron: hi, your kneejerk reaction to my entrance into the shop is wrong, I don't need dumbed-down service, please don't condescend to me. It's tricky to convey all that without outright bragging or obnoxious bike nerd talk.  If you don't get what I'm saying, imagine walking into the bakery for the first time. Based on her immediate visual judgement of you, the nice lady behind the counter explains to you the difference between a baguette and a danish, and asks if you've ever eaten bread before, and if so, have you ever purchased it all by yourself?

Absurd, sure, but the experience has repeated itself in several shops and parking lots across the country. There are so many lady rippers out there that it seems unwise to just assume a woman that shows up at a trailhead or walks into a shop is a beginner or casual rider. I'm curious to hear other opinions on the matter--if you're a chick, do you notice an initial lack of regard from shops and industry folks? Or is this issue unrelated to gender and does every new kid on the block have to prove him or herself? Or (quite possibly) am I just paranoid and too aware of how others perceive me? Pleasantly, I haven't encountered any of this bias in skiing, maybe because there's no organized competitive aspect to the kind of skiing I do. The scene is way more mellow and joyful, which is one of its huge appeals.

A Poorly Planned Production

When you arrive at Grand Targhee, the front of the resort is very unassuming. It's mostly broad runs interspersed with avoidable nontechnical tree groves--for anyone seeking more bang there are a couple of respectable cliff lines and tight powder trees to be found but for the most part it's a solidly intermediate mountain.

Once you crest the resort boundary and drop down the other side, towards the Grand, away from ski patrol's purview, into no-man's-land...Targhee is a completely different beast. The peaks that make up the resort appear to have been bluntly bisected along their north-south axis and its east faces are a multi-storied stack of increasingly massive cliff bands and stark faces. Now that the snowpack has far surpassed a hundred inches, everything previously rocky or bushy has filled in and while the resort is clogged with Mormons and young rippers, we prefer to partake of the Playground, the very accessible but very daunting area below the initial huge cliff band, where the record is held for the largest cliff jump, where (if you are so inclined) you can easily huck ten foot wind-established cornices or fifty foot dun and tan diving boards that loom above the supple powder field. 

Behind the resort...take one lift, kill yourself

As I said, we've been down there plenty of times, but on Saturday we came with a burlier objective; the cliff band below the Playground, where hundred footers are the minimum, is breached by a single couloir, the Tube, a 700 foot drop that seemed to contain no mandatory airs, according to our aerial guidebook. 

We brought a span of rope (along with our friend Dapper Dan who actually knows how to use rope) because, why not? Ambitious lines require ambitious precautions, right?

Well.

After a week of moguled, sun-baked, wind-scoured snow, the powder in the couloir was a delight--each aggressively charted turn on the 50° slope was joyous, if a little nerve-wracking. We reconvened halfway down to take inventory and consider the narrow chokepoint at the bottom. Tyler, being the best among us, took the initial path as usual, and straightlined the choke with aplomb. I followed but was bogged down by hesitance, inexperience, and poor form. A sharp turn found me minus a ski and being dragged down the Tube by my own slough, and the seconds slowed as I plunged my fists and boot into the deep snow hoping to self-arrest before the narrowing of the rock walls. I managed to stop finally and dug deep into my little shelf to calm my rattled nerves. So that's what a slough slide feels like.

Ben eyeing the crux
Pics courtesy of Dapper Dan

After a quick pow wow the guys behind me finished the couloir. Tyler had unearthed my wayward ski at the bottom so I had only to wait, growing colder in the shadows as they made their way back up to begin the difficult ascent. I hugged the slope for a long time, curiously watching them mill around at the choke point. Finally Dapper booted up to me, using my errant ski as an anchor, and let me know that our slough had uncovered a head-tall cliff at the bottom of the couloir and that he had clambered up with Ben and Tyler's help and now would attempt a rescue by rope. 

The boys stranded under a newly-exposed cliff

 I had nothing to contribute to the alarming situation below so I directed my energies upward to establish the bootpack. I falteringly strapped one ski to my pack and used the other to hoist myself inexorably up the Tube. Dig ski into snow above head, kick four times into powder with left foot, hope step will hold, weight left foot, raise right foot, repeat. It was brutally slow and scary but I had flat land and sunshine to look forward to and the couloir was still beautiful--rock pinnacles surrounding me, tiny determined pine trees reaching heavenward away from the snow-choked chute, the wind-stirred powdered sugar sifting down the slope in the late afternoon luminescence.

The climb out into the sunshine

One last gasping lunge through hip-deep snow and I had cleared the couloir. Then I sat and waited, watching big mountain skiers hit huge lines in the Playground, oblivious to our crisis just below, and tried to quell my panic and make a game plan just in case. After twenty minutes, to my enormous relief, I saw Tyler's ski tips bobbing above his pack as he crested the pitch, and Dan and Ben followed. The jerry-rigged rope rescue had succeeded thanks to Dan's know-how, they'd survived the cold and the bootpack, and now all we had was a strenuous but familiar exit and we'd be back on groomers in no time. We hugged and high-fived, jittery with adrenaline, knowing that'd we'd gotten away with it, and that soon this would be just another one of those superlative-filled, wide-eyed skiing stories to be told around the campfire. 

Unrelated

I am at the present stoked on others' successes. A great ski buddy just penned an essay on dawn patrol that really resonates with anyone that pursues life's minor (and/or major) victories. One of my dearest friends Morgan is achieving great intellectual fulfillment at a literary journal after years of menial waitressing, and another BFF is with child after years of documented womb throb. Miss Tuttle is going to KILL it at motherhood. Ella Bella is supporting her man as he delves into the rewarding world of CSAs. Right now I'm reaping life's little bonuses and am very excited for others to experience the same. I'm afraid that satisfaction is stifling my own creative bug but at some point I will start writing again and hopefully the product will be worth reading.

Reneging on Retirement, Part IV or So

Remember those multiple times I said I was over bike racing?

Well.

Now that temps are hovering around freezing (balmy!) and the snow thickens into slush and melts almost as fast as it falls, and now that I am a weekend warrior with limitless access to delicious on-the-go sustenance and encouragement from my bosses to go play whenever possible, I can't help but think about...bike racing. Maybe it's because I'm getting closer to that magic age of peak female endurance, the prospect of which has for years deluded me into thinking I'll crush effortlessly when I'm older. Maybe it's because the summer calendar is packed with cool races within a thirty minute drive, and the local map is packed with enticing loops. Maybe it's because I just got accepted onto a local shop race team that's very pro-community involvement and all that good stuff that I've missed out on since the westward expansion. Maybe it's just because I want an excuse to buy a new bike (sorry Lisa). Regardless of the reasoning, this Wednesday on a rare sunny warm afternoon, I rode around on muddy disgusting roads on my poor neglected Lisa, toes frozen and lower back splattered with grit, deeply excited once again about bikes.

In other news, the snow is still good and I really love my job. Instead of trying to fill the yawning chasm of weekday free time, I'm back to cramming in the fun stuff around the serious stuff, which is always preferable. Tyler just got handed a managerial position at the brewery, and while he's less than thrilled at the promotion away from the brewhouse, I am crazy proud of him. After several months of waiting in a holding pattern, I am thrilled to feel integrated into the community in all the essential ways: job, pub, bike shop. And it's only going to get better.

Life as a Weekend Warrior

Saturday was reflective of the new norm: wake up earlier than a work day, drink enough coffee to cause nausea and the shakes, eat a nail-ass-to-seat breakfast of brisket and eggs at the BBQ joint, hit skin track with a verging-on-too-big group of guys.

It snowed all day, it snowed all month. We caught a window of stability in the wearying avalanche cycle. We're lucky to live on the quiet side of the pass where the bottom parking lots are a quarter full on Saturdays; all the Jackson Holers are busy seeking Glory at the top. 

We climbed, descended, climbed, descended, sought mellow glades of stupid deep hippie pow, ate snow, drank whiskey, had photo shoots, heckled. Someone found a little cliff band where I could stand at the top and peer over and stop breathing and jump and land, that addictive rush. The glue on my skins gave up on the fourth climb but I was sated and merrily made it back to the car. A pub interlude came as usual, and then Tyler took me home to show me the fruits of his day: a fun jump in the plow pile at the end of our apartment complex. The neighborhood kids had discovered it and were testing their mettle and throwing partially-realized 180s. I forgot my chill, hurriedly put my boots back on, and tried to show off for a bunch of preteens. We played until dark. 

Not me but you get the idea
Pic courtesy of Dapper Dan

Some friends were hosting a birthday party for a dog so we outfitted ourselves in finery (sleeveless tees, denim) and headed to the big city (Driggs). It was a party typical of anywhere, with a keg, beer pong, loud reggae, Cards Against Humanity, but alas the guy to girl ratio hovered around 7:1. I don't envy the throngs of pleasant, mustachioed single dudes in the valley, waiting in vain for some imaginary boatload of ladies to wash up on our snowy shores. Fortunately I've had better luck than them; at this point I've found some available girls for ski dates and wine nights, to break up the monotony of the perpetual mountain town sausage fest.

Greener Pastures

I did promise an update on my employment status, and I come bearing good news. I applied for a very promising-sounding job posting but after I jumped through a couple hoops they let me down gently. Fast forward several weeks of quiet desperation and the company contacted me with a new availability, so I walked over to the facility...a block from my house(!!!)...chatted with the owner, and after a couple painful days of waiting I got the call! I gave the Idiot Bosses a final weekend of my time and rather than braving the likely interminable and hostile resignation conversation, I left a painstakingly polite letter in the office and snuck off into the night.

So I've worked a full week at the new job, and I'm stoked. Go check out the website and you'll realize it is the perfect company for me. I am one of the two people that churns out energy bars five days a week. I make over a thousand bars a day. It's monotonous and laborious work but it feels great to create such a wonderful product, and I get paid by output so I have a lot of flexibility in a work week. Kate, who rides bikes, uses organic ingredients, and is invested in whether her employees get to play outside enough, is a very cool person indeed. I now share weekends off with the housemates, which opens up potential for all the trips we've been wanting to take: back to Sun Valley, up to Montana, down to the desert. And did I mention it's a three minute stroll from my front door? I'm not quite sure how I got so lucky.

Status Quo

Our neighbor has again cut us off from the interwebs...steps have been taken, but I am for now disconnected, hence the lack of communication.

These days have been a quiet, pleasant malaise with a schedule dictated by the reliable weekly snowfall. Each Saturday morning I go to work aching from a couple days of powder skiing or backcountry missions. Aside from the Idiot Bosses, work is great. The clientele in Victor is the absolute friendliest, most low-maintenance group of folks I've ever had the pleasure of serving--I don't know what it is about the working class frontier mentality but invariably it results in easy, omnivorous, understanding, well-tipping customers.

We've had over a week-long dry spell, meaning crystal bright days and chunder-busting at the resort, and glimpses of the elusive Grand in its heavily-rimed, unfathomably huge glory. The sky here is the most evocative and expressive I've ever lived under. Weather systems send advance scouts days ahead, brushing the sky with altostratus, clumps of cumulus clotting the horizon, wisps blowing fast off the most prominent Tetons. Snow storms rest heavily at 7000 feet and obscure everything above. The colors defy description. Early morning shows shale and coral and sunset leaves the hills glowing for hours. Not to complain about great weather, but Tahoe skies are almost always a lovely but nondescript blue.

My social life lacks dimension, but there's something so lovely about cooking dinner and watching a ski movie or listening to my other roommate rhapsodize about fly fishing or sitting in a cluster of brewers catching up on work gossip. And not to be a total girl, but cohabitation has been perhaps the biggest upside of this new existence. We just get along so damn well.

I haven't figured out any long term aspirations but for now, skiing pow and working every once in awhile seems to be doing the trick.

The Deep End

On Saturday evening we were in various states of repose in front of the TV, recovering from a couple of hard-charging days at  Targhee, when Paul's buddy over the pass invited him for a big day of backcountry in Grand Teton National Park. Tyler and I quietly included ourselves in the invite and packed up our gear.

In the morning as we drove over there in the previous night's light snow, Paul got a text (a warning?) that one of the guys on the trip had experience guiding in AK and was a strict group leader.

"Oh shit," I said and sunk lower in my seat and gripped my coffee mug. My ability level and inexperience could easily be seen as a liability and a group leader would be justified in shutting me out in order to preserve the safety of everyone. Tyler and Paul knew it too and nervous silence carried us into the parking lot.

But there were no interrogations or sideways glances, just genial greetings and introductions, so we got suited up and hit the skin track.

Once we started climbing my inner naysayer quieted and I was soothed by the squeak-clunk of AT bindings meeting skis. I can go uphill, by god. And up, and up. We climbed from the parking lot at 6000ft to almost the summit of Shadow Peak at 10700ft. It was a brutal slog and up top the wind gusted and it couldn't have been warmer than five below. The two guys with extensive experience and snow knowledge dug a pit and examined the layers and tried to make the column fail, but not only was there an obscene amount of snow (170cm, as tall as my skis), it was also comfortingly stable. They decided to shoot for the original, most optimistic plan, a pair of secret couloirs with long fluffy run-outs.

On top of each, we peered down the dizzying slope, communicated a game plan, and proceeded one by one out of sight. My heart hammered and my legs shook but I made it down each obstacle, scraping over rock and pausing to quell the lactic acid in my limbs, but surviving and joyfully making turns in the fresh at the bottom.

No pictures of me exist, per usual, but here's Paul getting the fluffiest of turns.
Pic courtesy of Ian

Then we picked our way through a field of huge pillow lines, whooping up and over boulders and hoping our tips didn't get caught under rocks or hung up on saplings. The exit was a skin over a snow-covered lake and this had me gasping in more secret terror than either couloir. The threat of being submerged under opaque ice hurried me to the far bank, where everyone else seemed unfazed.

The last couple of miles were a relentless shuffle in the haze of major bonkage. When I finally made it back to the car, wet and frustrated and a little tearful, I recovered and hugged Tyler and took a swig from the growler and looked back at where we went, up the rough-hewn cleavage of the Tetons. This landscape of abrupt, daunting lines demands respect.

The Tetons from frozen Taggart Lake