Farmington Canyon, April 9, 0221

"Mistakes are the portals of discovery.” - James Joyce

 

Big mistakes were made today and by the end it was misery, but with a few splendid moments in the sun.

I have sciatica that comes and goes and last night I didn’t sleep, electric pain streaming down my right leg. I had a commitment with Brett to ski, so when the alarm went off at 5:00 I went for a bottle of painkillers and took a full dose. I know better, but I was desperate after no sleep. I should have called Brett and cancelled the day, but I couldn’t. Brett is a good freind and we go back decades climbing and skiing and cycling, we use to ski together at least once a week, but the Winter of 20-21 has been a train-wreck for me. It’s now April and we hadn’t skied together all year, and that is my fault. He has tried to include me, calling and texting all winter, but I have not accepted his invitations. Working a new job from home has been challenging.

Inner demons have found a hold and my strongest rejections have failed. Beautiful memories from younger days have slowly become nightmares, transformations from happiness and joy to dark recesses that I can’t seem to shake. Memories often bring anxiety and a pressure to reconstruct previous pleasures and joys that came so naturally when I wass younger. Great memories become hauntings.

Despite the pain and the dark mood, I knew I had to go ski with Brett today. I had to try to rebuild a friendship that I was ignoring. 

Pain medications were once a dangerous dependency for me. I’ve had sciatic pain for years and my career sitting at a computer has been a major source for that pain. My boss didn’t believe me when I whined about the pain from sitting too long. He’d see me get up every hour to walk the halls, then he’d see me leave to go run during lunch, so he thought I was full of shit and manipulating the system. He didn’t know that movement brought relief and that sitting and a sedentary lifestyle amplified the pain. Hard activity and exercise became a remedy for pain, and it brought supreme joy. 

I frequented pain management Doctors for decades to find relief during the long hours sitting during work,  even had disk-ablasion surgery a few years ago with partial relief, but the pain still persists. When I was younger Doctors readily prescribed big bottles of pain-killers. Looking back, I’m puzzled with the ease of getting supplied with pills. I used them and they worked, but pills are dangerous. They take hold and it becomes tough to turn away. I’d like to think I was not addicted, dependent certainly, but addicted? Maybe. Just know I never took the the meds outside the parameters of the prescriptions. Admittedly when I first started using them they made me fell pretty damn good, and maybe I took them at times as much for that good feeling as much for the pain, but over time that good feeling steadily diminished and has since been replaced by nausea and a spinning head. Now in my late fifties, the pills no longer bring the warmth and joy they once did. They still take out the pain, but I can no longer use them for a sense of peace. Was I addicted? Perhaps, but by not increasing my usage when the good feelings abated, my reaction to the drugs seemed to change. 

Thankfully they now bring nausea and a spinning head. Thankfully because the sickness now has greater volume than any joy or peace. With a family history of addiction, with some tragic outcomes, I have a constant, grim reminder of the weakness in my DNA. The sick feeling I now get with pills is welcomed. It makes it easier to walk away. Still, deep inside, I know there is a sleeping enchantress.      

I met Brett at the Farmington Canyon gate. From there we road E-bikes around the locked gate and up the canyon road. The road was melted off but muddy in the shade, our tires crunching through the wet gravel, spraying our legs, bikes and skis with a chocolatey, grainy shower, a stark contrast to the shiny-white  mountains above. We hid the bikes under a wizened Douglas Fir and transitioned to skis, skinning up the ridge, headed for Rice and Mud Bowls. The nausea set-in as we crossed the stream and started climbing the loud, frozen snow. When I took the pills this moring I presumed I could replace the unpleasantness with a proven source of joy, that being skinning up a steep mountian. I thought climbing steep, frozen snow would be a distraction  from the nausea, but the higher we climbed the sickness became more severe. I let Brett lead so he wouldn’t see me bent over my poles, swallowing down the bile.   

We skied one run down Mud Bowl in a breakable crust, not the creamy corn we hoped for, then started back up for another go. We hoped the strengthening sun would make the snow forgivable but as we climbed it was apparent this would not be an easy-turning day. Near the top I had to stop, I finally confessed to Brett that I felt like shit. I headed to some trees to void my gut while Brett continued up for another run, but when I got to the trees the sickness wained. I quickly got back on track and tried to catch Brett. At the top I nearly vomited again, but I held it in and transitioned to ski. We skied Rice Bowl, down the center to about half height, close to 1,000 vertical feet, the snow still grabby, trip-able crust. Brett is usually gunning to go again, but when we stopped he paused with a questioning look, “go up or go down?” In the moment I felt good, “let’s go up,” I said, and, like an excited kid on Christmas morning, Brett put on skins and started sprinting back up. Soon though my nausea came back. I bent over a few times knowing the vomit was coming, but it never did come. Projectile interruptus. Each time the gagging would subside and I would again begin my slow, plodding climb. In hindsight, I should have gagged myself with my fingers, just to be done with it. 

At the summit I told Brett I was toast, this was my last run, and Brett pointed out his new favorite exit route, down the west ridge of Rice Bowl. It’s a fairly long run, dropping over 2,000 vertical through stands of aspen at a fun, constant angle, and the farther we skied the weaker I got. Before long I had to stop every few turns to avoid collapsing. I’ve never felt so weak while skiing. At the bottom Brett saw my pathetic efforts and he helped strap my skis to the bike. It was a six mile coast down the canyon to the truck but it was still an effort, feeling faint and longing for home. At the truck I could barely stand. I was shaky and kept bending over to get blood to my head. I told Brett I couldn’t drive and I needed food. He drove us to the mall in his Subaru then bought us cheese-burgers. Being sick and near vomiting just an hour earlier, I was shocked how quickly I sucked down that burger. Food never tasted better. When we were done, Brett drove me back to my truck, and I drove home, embarrassed and wondering what the hell just happened?

What did happen? I got sick on pain meds while trying to skin and ski, and, feeling sick, I stopped eating or drinking. When skiing I tipically eat and drink incessantly. Chocolate, peanut butter, nuts, pepperoni and constantly drinking clear water, but today, with zero calories and no hydrating, I had the greatest BONK of my life. Mistakes are the portals of discovery. 

View looking up the Mud/Rice divide, Bountiful Peak in center of photo. 

  

Mud Bowl just off the left-side high point.

Final approach to the top of Rice Peak.

View west over Rice Bowl.

Brett and my second run turns down Rice Bowl.

Brett laughing and my pathetic efforts today, which was much deserved. Frances Peak to his left. 

Brett skiing his exit run.

Brett's turns.

Muddy equipment, ready for the hose. . . 

No Corn But Plenty of Pie Crust, March 31, 2021

 

I thought working from home would give me flexibility and freedom. If anything I feel more constraint than I ever did when working in-office. Today I was fried, too much stress from work and home and life in general. Impulsively I decided to go for a quick “ski” during my lunch-break to burn off the stress. I was hoping to harvest creamy corn, but I found only unsupportable crusts, and those crusts were challenging. Yeah, I know, "there  is NO bad snow, just bad skiers," but when the crust breaks when carrying speed, the snow grabs your feet and sends you over your tips and sometimes you face-plant. Usually I can re-balance and avoid a crash, but today one of those collapses sent me cart-wheeling onto the hard, crusty snow. My fall happened so quickly it was shocking. “Did I just fall?” "I don’t fall. There is no falling in back country skiing.” I quickly stood up and instinctively looked around to make sure I wasn’t seen, which I wasn’t, I saw nobody on the trail, but I still checked.   

You may have the impression that I had a miserable ski-day. In fact it was exhilarating. A sunny, blue-sky spring day. Beautiful. The trail was mostly snow free, and what snow remained was fully supportable (unlike my ski run) which made booting quick and easy. To shave off time to get back to work, I took a short-cut up the Big Cat Trail, which is the direct route up to Dude. Today that route was stunning. Sunny and grassy with great views over City Creek Canyon. There was an icy wind blowing and I was under dressed, but that spring sunshine on my skin felt like heaven. There is no miserable in back country skiing.

Views over City Creek Canyon along the Big Cat Trail. Those cliffs in City Creek Canyonm are much bigger than they look from the valley. The cliff in front of me is about 200 feet high, most of it hidden in this photo by the roll-over.   

Tough skin track.

The green is coming back, two weeks ago this was under 20 inches of snow.

Hoodoos in City Creek Canyon. 

When skinning I always soak my shirt with sweat, so I always changeout at the top to keep warm. On sub-zero days a shirt change brings instant warmth, but it is a strange juxtaposition to be bare-chest for a few minutes when the wind-chill and blowing snow are numbing.

Bad snow, bad skier.

WOW! Worst turns I’ve made since I started skiing 50 years ago.

I almost lost the drone when the battery died and it landed itself a quarter mile away. Before landing it was hovering over a neighboring drainage, and it looked like it landed in some trees, so I presumed it would be severely damaged. But that thing is smart, the obstacle avoidance landed it in a small opening in the trees. It took some searching to find it, everything looks so different when you change positions, but with some back and forth traversing of the tree-covered slope, the errant drone finally revealed itself. Kind of like a teenager. There was no damage, but its not water proof so a snow-landing required thorough drying. 

Sticky Skins and Nutjob Dog Owner, March 27, 2021

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s5mS4iIeNQM&t=4s

“You gotta reap just what you sow;

 . . . Just Like you mistreat someone,

Someone’s gonna mistreat you.”

Futher On Up The Road - Eric Clapton

Got screamed at by a dog-walker when minding my own business, just wanting some space between me and her 13, unleashed, free-range canines. It wasn’t a problem until three of those dogs bolted for me from 150 feet away, one snarling, the other two sticking their noses into my privates, and, in the time those three dogs covered the distance, the owner never uttered any direction to her dogs,  such as, “Stop Fido!” or "Heel Rover!!” Not even the usual, “Don’t mind Spot’s nashing teeth, he wouldn’t hurt a fly!" So, when I showed total lack of pleasure upon getting a wet, canine nose thrust up my ass, admittedly in absolutely unrepeatable, harsh terms, that dog owner went hysterical. She screamed and called me names, like any 13-year-old school-boy would: incoherent, crass and stupid, only she wasn’t a 13-year-old boy, rather, a 30-something-girl-BMW-driver. So really not much difference. I pretty much lowered myself to her low, bitchy, privileged level with my own juvenile verbiage, but when all was said and done, and once my anger had cooled, I was embarrassed and regretted my side of a stupid fight. If I’d kept my mouth shut nothing would have happened. Yes, I would have grumbled all day and my resentment for the bad dog-owners in a primarily good group would ferment and grow, but that would only involve me. As long as I bury it there are no casualties in my wake.   

Once I’d come back to reality and with my guilt fading, I started to feel flattered by her name calling. I haven't been called a “F*cking P*ssy,” (five times no less) since 1975, as an Eighth Grader at Millcreek Junior High. Big score for this fat, bald accountant, it took me back to my youth. 

The south rim of North Canyon, still trying to clear my head here after being accosted, by dogs and and their angry owner.

Snow-stake, half out after a short-lived, thin winter snowpack. 

Rudy's Flat under 98cm (38.5in) of snow.

Like my Dad I can’t stop photographing dead trees. I swear, their souls speak.

  

I had huge skin issues today. They got wet at lower, warmer elevations, and when I got higher and into colder, drier snow, they glopped (snow sticking to skins) and I have never seen terrible glopping such as this in my life. Snow was sticking six inches thick the full length of both skis. When using skin wax a quick stomp will free the snow but today that didn’t work. The snow was welded to my skins. 

Up until now I’ve never been impressed with skin waxes like Black Diamond Glop Stopper, it never seems to work as claimed. At its best, after rubbing a full block into one pair of skins, with the big temperature variations that come in the spring, it barely works. Glops of snow still form under foot,  so today I didn’t use any. Why use something that is pricey and continually fails? Big mistake. Today with no Glop Stopper the problem was the worst ever. Over the years I’ve tried everything to stop snow sticking to skins: melted race wax, Pam kitchen spray, WD40, Crisco, Lard, and even White Lithium Grease, the spray on version, which was one of the stupidest experiments I’ve dreamed up. The white lithium didn’t work, all it did was stink up my skins, my pack and everything I put in that pack. For two winters I stunk like rancid petroleum. My friends joked, “Don’t light a joint or cigarette within 20 feet of Owen." I don’t smoke, tobacco or dope, so the problem was just aesthetic. 

I finally took off my skis, scrapped the snow off my skins using the trunk of a Gamble Oak, tried squeegee’ing the water from the skins with the thick of my hands (they were dripping), then hung them in the sun to dry while I searched my pack for an alternative to Glop Stopper. I found both sunscreen and Pro Bar Organic Chocolate Peanut Butter Blend. I almost went with the sunscreen but it stunk just a bit like white lithium grease and the peanut butter smelt delicious so, based only on the smell, I went with the chocolate peanut butter. I rubbed it in, one pack per ski, washed my hands in the snow, stepped into my skis and started skinning, and it worked! Nothing stuck to my skins for the rest of the day. And my skins still smell wonderful, like chocolate/peanut-butter nosh. 

I now get hungry when catching a whiff of my skins. Bring on the whole milk, Nutella and Wonder Bread.

Food? . . . or Glop Stopper? It tastes pretty damn good but in a pinch it also makes great Glop Stopper.

Squeeze onto skins directly from the tube . . . 

 . . . then just rub it in, . . 

 . . . your hands are messy but afterward they smell 'delicieux odirifiique exquis.' I couldn’t bring myself to lick off the excess knowing all the human urine and dog-shit I’ve skinned through over the years. For the next three days my hands were silky and smooth, like a puppy-dog's belly, before it gets a bitchy owner. 

The hill where I put up the skinner topped out at around 35 degrees. Bullseye-steep for sliding snow but safe today. 

Jonah’s, site of one of the best powder runs of my life, named for my nephew who joined me that day.

Dead trees over City Creek Canyon.

While short and maybe not worth the effort, I couldn’t resist and put some turns down one of my old favorites: Tele/Face-plant Hill. Way back, when I was on 62mm X 205cm skis, three-pin bindings and soft, leather boots, this hill was where I’d practice and practice and practice. Once I could link turns here down the full vertical, it was time for bigger stuff. Skiing on that old gear was tough but incredibly rewarding. In comparison, today's alpine-touring rigs are so refined the challenge is gone along with some of the joy. The ease of use is a big reason why there are now so many skiers in the back-country, all cranking corkscrew-720-mute-grabs off every rock and tree stump, but none have my respect like old tele-skiers.

The primitive equipment available up through the early 2000s was an exacting, barrier to entry. Most skiers didn’t have the talent nor the patience. 'One and done' for BC skiing was common. It was easy to buy barely used gear at a sharp discount for the steep learning curve that was often abandoned. Most of today’s back-country skiers wouldn’t be back-country skiers if they had to learn on that skinny, limp, sloppy gear. Some of us like pain, we couldn’t stop.      

Enough said on this one.

Trees, snow, clouds and sun, always much more striking in real life rather than in a photo, reminder to get up and go, get away from the computer.

Mueller trail melting off quickly near MP 5. 

Too wet but I can’t resist skiing the Rectangle.

Look hard and there are my turns and skinner up Tele Hill.