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| Sunrise from about 2 miles up the canyon. |
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| Brett and antelope island at sunrise. |
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| Gear adjustment and a rest. Brett and John. |
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| Layne's skin track from last week. |
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| John and Brett on the divide between Rice and Mud Bowls. |
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| Getting there. Views opening of upper Mud and Rice Bowls. |
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| John and Brett with Mud Bowl above. A quiet year up Farmington Canyon in terms of both people (road closed) and wind. I've seen 15-20 foot cornices on that ridge. |
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| Antelope Island. |
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| Brett and first run ski tracks in upper Rice. |
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| Owen and John. (B. Fuller photo) |
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| Owen upper Rice Bowl (B. Fuller photo) |
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| John skiing upper Rice Bowl. (B. Fuller photo) |
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| Owen and John, skinning up for lap #2. Brett was sandbagging all day, but I was chasing him up the hill for another. He stopping briefly for this photo. (B. Fuller photo) |
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| John topping out on the Rice Bowl. (B. Fuller photo) |
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| Brett's skis ready for #2, upper Rice Bowl. (B. Fuller photo) |
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| Brett, upper Rice. (J. Mills photo) |
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| Brett, upper Rice. (J. Mills photo) |
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| Owen, upper Rice. John should be a ski photographer, makes even a hack like me look good. (J. Mills photo) |
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| (J. Mills photo) |
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| Brett, run #2 in upper Rice Bowl. (J. Mills Photo) |
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| Brett, run #2 in upper Rice Bowl. (J. Mills Photo) |
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| Owen, run #2 in upper Rice Bowl. (J. Mills photo) |
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| John, upper Rice. (b. Fuller photo) |
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| John. (B. Fuller photo) |
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| John, upper Rice. (B. Fuller photo) |
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| John and Brett. |
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| First run tracks, upper Rice Bowl. |
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| View NW from upper Rice. HAFB runways at mid-right. |
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| Bountiful Peak. |
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| Brett and John. |
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| Ski tracks from the beaver ponds, almost down to the bikes. |
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| Tracks from the bike cache. |
Farmington Canyon Bike and Ski, Saturday, March
30, 2013
Saturday Brett, John and I ride our
mountain bikes up Farmington Canyon
to go ski some corn. The road is closed to winter traffic but I heard that it
had been plowed for cabin owners, making it passable on bikes (gate still
locked to the public). We strap skis to bikes, or a pack in John’s case, and
start riding before it’s light. The ride consists of about 7 miles and 2,500
feet vertical gain on a gravel road just to get into position to skin another
2,000 vertical to ski the Rice Bowl. The first two or three miles are steep,
too steep to be riding a bike with ski gear.
A mile up we are all gassed. Brett
is a strong skier and is always the last to say ‘enough’ after a long day on
the skin track. He skied yesterday (3-29-13) in Cutler Basin so he’s not well
rested, like me. John is just plain strong. In early January I followed him
while he broke trail up a steep mountainside, through 20 inches of bottomless
powder. I couldn't keep up. Today, if I had any advantage, it
was my super-low gearing. I had at least three extra teeth on my lowest gear.
They are grinding like Jan Ullrich, whereas I'm spinning like Lance
while climbing Alpe d'Huez.
At the first switchback, where the
pavement ends, Brett intimated that this was a bad idea. I’ve never heard him
ever suggest defeat. I’m always the one to bail with tail between my legs. I
figured he was just toying with me as I was staggering drunk on way too few
“O’s”. I told him this was NO race, that we’d go slow and see how it goes. I
learned in my youth to never compete with your peers. All it does is suck the
fun out of anything.
In 1972 I was 10 years old. It was
the year I started skiing and it was the year I came to realize I was quite
average. I was undersized and scrawny as a fourth grader, and, compared to my
class-mates, I was physically pathetic. I was picked last for every team -
including the girls – and I realized there will always be someone bigger,
stronger, faster and better. No matter how good one gets, there is always
someone better.
In 1972 Pat Nixon, the wife of
Richard Nixon, our 37th President and our first and only
President to quit for larceny, was pushing the new Presidential Physical
Fitness Award. The “Prezy” was an award given to grade-schooler's for
achieving 90th percentile for such events as the ½
mile run, the softball throw, push-ups, pull-ups and sit-ups. I was a pathetic
troll in every event except for pull-ups, in which I ruled the world at Valley
View Elementary. For some reason I could do pull-ups.
If a small, wiry body had any
advantage it was only in lifting one’s body. No one could touch me. Remember
those peg-boards where one would climb a vertically mounted board, drilled with
holes, using two inch-diameter dowels clenched in each fist? Yes, that same peg
board that is now banned by Mothers Against Stupid Sports (MASS), PETA and
probably the Eagle Forum (for encouraging provocative, suggestive actions by
school children). Yes, I could ascend and descend that thing with ease, doing
laps for as long as I wanted, only stopping when the teacher needed a smoke. In
everything else I was obliterated by the class jocks, who incidentally, by
senior year would look like Gerard Butler, women swooning left and right, but
by the 30th class reunion would be just shadows of
their former selves, transformed into flabby, busted-down old men, hair long
gone and toes just a myth, hidden by their ample bellies, unless sitting in a
bathtub. To be fair I should also admit that as a fourth grader dreaming of
athletic gold, I was also obliterated by the tall, leggy, puberty-superior
girls of the class. Now those were real women, who, by our 30th reunion, were still lean, fit and
beautiful. What happened to the men? Sadly, I even lost to most of those stout, gamey girls, the masculine type who would go
on to high school and fail home-economics yet excel in wood shop and auto-shop.
I’m not judging, just observing. Have you ever lost an arm wrestle to the class
tom-boy? It is NOT a good feeling.
My best friend had the highest
combined score for the “Prezy” for the entire fourth grade. He was a natural
athlete whereas I was not. I was lazy and gave up too easily. I didn’t like to
walk, let alone run. Weird considering that running, hiking and BC skiing
now bring much joy and satisfaction. I can only surmise that, with 40 years of
hind-site, I was just saving myself for adult-hood.
That same year I watched the Sapporo
Winter Olympics on our round-screen, Motorola, B&W television, and I was
captivated with the skiing. Bernard Russi won
the Olympic Downhill and I was smitten. Who needed to throw a softball when
there was skiing?
By high school I was a decent, but
not great, skier. I raced independently (no club or coach) and did okay. When I
was a junior, I raced in the preliminary rounds of the Utah High School Ski
Championships and finished 9th in my heat. Good enough to qualify for
the finals the following week, wherein the top 20 from the preliminaries
competed for the state championship. At the finals I saw four of my classmates
from high school, who had also qualified. Our high school was loaded, with 5 of
the top 20 hailing from BHS. I panicked; they were real athletes and
had raced for Park City since before weaning from their mommas. I told myself I
could never win, and I proved myself a prophet, finishing almost dead last, 19th out of 20 to be exact. My classmates
dominated, all four finished in the top five, including first place by a large
margin. Three of those four were my age and would be returning to race the
following year.
As a senior I worked hard to improve
my technique. I actually learned to turn like a racer (head out, hips in, hands
forward, ankles rolled in and cutting), instead of like a Gumby (head back, hands further back
and wide, knees even wider, eyes wide and shocky). On the day of the race (the Knudson Cup) I was ready, and I drew a great
start position, something like 20th out of 80 or 90 racers. My school
chums were there with all their pomp and circumstance: skin-suits, Rossi-S7’s
and parents clanging cow-bells. They had it all. I had no entourage, I was
there alone just to race. Based on last year’s results my school team was
totally stacked. Personally I was never close to my teammates, they
were from the rich side of the hill and ran with different friends, but we were
cordial to one another. During warm-ups we skied some laps and I kept
over-hearing them talk about some sophomore girl from our school who was good.
Not just good but really, REALLY good. I blew it off as just talk. She was just
a girl, and a sophomore girl at that. No threat.
Have you ever wanted something so
bad you could taste it? Well, in this case that taste was pure bile, or at
least it should have been. My run was a disaster. The course ran from the top
of the Millicent Chair (Brighton Ski Area) to the base, covering the steepest
roll-overs and blind corners that Brighton can throw at a skier. Within the
first 100 feet of the start gate, upon setting a hard edge, my right ski pre-released
and my day was over before it had begun. I was in shock, "this can't be
happening", but with nothing to lose I quickly retrieved the ski and clip
back in, then started down the course. I'm not sure why I continued, I was out
of contention, but I just wanted to finish. I was reeling with disappointment
and anger. If there is a God he certainly worked a mystery that day. About half
way down the course, now skiing with zero passion, a spectator unexpectedly
skied onto the course right in front of me. I had to hockey-stop to avoid a
collision. Now the situation was just stupid, but I continued down the course
anyway, totally pissed knowing my time would be dead last. My name would show
just above the real Gumbies who yarded and quit, taking an embarrassing DNF.
At least I didn't quit.
I crossed the finish line and hucked my goggles at the nearest
cow-bell-clanging-parent and started cursing like a sailor without a mother.
Whom, by the way, was not there, so my words were a total freebie. As I was
screaming the worst words known to man or beast, the race director came running
over, radio in hand, and through my ranting tells me I've been awarded me a
“re-do” because of the interference by the spectator. I stop swearing. I might
have even smiled. I politely asked that cow-bell-clanging parent for my goggles
back.
I got back on that ancient, slow
lift and by the time I arrive at the start gate all racers were done, I was the
only one left. The race crew is staring, looking at me then to their watches
then back to me, wanting to call it a day. I was racing dead last after 80 or
90 racers. The course is now rut heaven, the worst conditions of the day.
Before sliding into the start gate I took off both skis and cranked the DIN
setting up to elephant weight, all the while the start crew looking annoyed for
the delay. My skis would not be coming off this time. Now into the gate and the
start judge impatiently counts down: “Racer ready! 3-2-1-GO’! I was
on course and raced for my life. The ruts were hip-deep but my skis held and no
spectators crossed my line. I finished without a hitch, if starting dead-last
is not a hitch.
I did not win but I finished strong.
The time-keeper tallied the times for the team competition and we finished
first. Individually our team dominated the top ten, our boys finishing second,
third, sixth (me) and seventh. Our girls finished first and tenth. Good enough
for the state championship.
Oh, that sophomore girl on our team
who was no threat my manhood? She finished in first place, first overall
including boys, the girls, and an errant spectator or two. She won with a
margin of over two seconds, a huge margin by skiing standards. She beat me by
three. I was stunned to be beaten so badly by a girl two years younger. The
fourth grade "Prezy" had
taught me nothing. I was still young, stupid and a chauvinist.
The next year, my freshman year in
college, she was racing for the US Ski Team on the world cup circuit. She had a
long career and went on to race in three Olympics. Like I said, there is always
someone bigger, stronger and faster. Much faster.
Back to Saturday, Brett, John and I
ride up Farmington Canyon,
being passed at mile seven by a friendly jogger, and after much effort finally
reach the base of the Rice Bowl. While we transition to skis a cabin owner
drives up and stops and we talk. He says he’d gladly give us a ride up next
time. We should have pulled the Alta-skin-track shuffle (waiting for another
group to break trail - only fools break trail out of Alta), in this case, wait
for a ride rather than bike.
We cross the stream on a snow-bridge
and skin up the ridge dividing Rice and Mud creek drainages and the snow is mostly hard and
frozen. As we climb, the sun is strengthening and it softens the snow the
higher we climb. At the top, 2,000 feet higher than our abandoned bikes, 4,500
feet higher than our trucks, Brett says he’s going to ski one run then work on
his tan while John and I ski laps, but this time he’s smiling that familiar,
bull-shit smile I've seen so often. We ski great corn down about a thousand
feet and Brett says he’s going home, but all the while re-skinning. Yeah, I’ve
heard his talk before, he never goes anywhere for just one run. John is game
for anything and seems totally fresh. Oh to be young again.
Brett is a hundred yards up the hill
before I realize we’re actually going to ski another lap. I quickly re-skin and
start up. This is no race; we’re there only for a good time. There's always
someone bigger, stronger, faster. . .
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| The only casualty all day was Brett's flat front tire with about 2 miles to go. He rode down on a flat after the CO2 refill attempt (operator error on my part) blew out the seat. |
