Snowshoe Racing Championships

Anticipation is high and excitement is building as the date gets closer and closer. The world of competative snowshoe racing is a new one for me, but after my first race at the White River on Mount Hood in OR this last January, I have officially been bitten by the bug. My first race was a regional qualifier for the United States Snowshoe Association’s (USSSA) National Championship race, which is located in Oregon this year.

The 10k race will be a two lap lollipop course and will include competitors from all over the US. It is hosted by XDog Events.

Even if you don’t have a chance to qualify for the national race on March 8, there will also be a 5k citizen race the same day. Check out this sport. You might get hooked too!

Check these links for more information:
www.xdogevents.com
www.snowshoeracing.com

NY Times story by Stephen Regenold on Great Lakes surfing

The first waves I learned to surf on were breaking on the Northwest shore of Lake Superior. When I was an undergrad at the University of Minnesota Duluth I made my way to breaks like Stoney Point and the Lester River to feel the energy of wave riding. I did so in whitewater kayaks, partly because it was a discipline I already knew how to do and partly because it kept me out of the freezing water better than a surf board.

Since then, I have learned to surf long boards on the Oregon coast and last year took a trip down to Costa Rica for my first ever warm water waves. What a difference! No 5 mm wetsuits, booties, hoods, or gloves. Just a suit, a board, and sunburn. Bring it.

For a great story on the cold water waves I am more accustom to, check out this by writer (and gear junkie) Stephen Regenold.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/16/travel/escapes/16superior.html?_r=1

It’s still a Mountain

I’ve spent this morning reading about avalanches that have claimed a few lives recently, one ‘in-bounds’ at Jackson Hole and a couple in the Canadian Rockies ‘backcountry’ that caught a couple groups of snowmobilers. In addition to the reports, I’ve been following the string of comments and reactions to these events. One particularly grabbed my attention by Steve Stenger:

“It’s all backcountry, we should treat it as such. This is what Dave’s untimely death shows us.  Let’s not get sucked into the hype and become complacent because The Mountain claims to be a resort. It’s a mountain.”

I couldn’t agree more.

We ski at establishments that do their best to ‘control’ environmental conditions, and while we as humans have unfortunately done a good job of affecting changes on this earth, we should never believe that we have total control with regard to natural resources. Rivers, mountains, lakes, oceans-you name it, we have to understand that we are a part of it, not its master.

The best tools we can have is education, understanding, and an appreciation of the natural world.  No matter if its cancelled flights at Christmas time, building your house on top of a steep cliff, or skiing at a resort in the mountains.  Its Mother Nature we interact with daily, and She will always make the rules.

I’m not here to say such deaths or misfortune might be avoided if we all understood this, but I am positive that in some way we might benefit from this wisdom.  And while I try to live by this view, accidents like an avalanche within Jackson Hole certainly offers a harsh reminder and prompts me to retain a critical eye.  For regardless of activity and who holds the liability waiver, an inherent risk lives among us always.

Skinning up the ‘Pine

With the first lull in this onslaught of snow, Phill and I pulled out our skins and alpine touring skis for a climb up the flanks of Hood today. We slipped over the snowbank out back at just after noon and pushed through the beginning stretches of the Alpine Trail to the top of neighboring Summit Ski Hill. From there, we climbed steadily along a groomed sliver packed by boarders riding down from Timberline.

Sneaking under an arched pine, bent under the weight of snow, I accidentally brush a branch with my pack and trigger a slingshot.  Phill is behind me and luckily avoids the whiplash and the resulting snow shower.  

We huff along the flats and up the few steep pitches to the ski area boundary of Timberline.  Hugging the shoulder of the groomer, we continue our accent just west of the Jeff Flood lift.  Picking a small knoll to rest our legs, we enjoy conversation and Snickers for a short time.  

Reaching the top of Stormin’ Norman, Phill and I break back into the untouched.  At above tree line, we encounter unabstructed wind and some small drifts.  Traversing some areas, we aim for the Magic Mile lift.  While it isn’t running today, it has a lane or two of groomers that we hope to follow up.  

From here, we can see our destination and to get there is just a matter of heading straight up. I flip back into my high step setting to ease the cry from my legs and we move single file upward.  At midway of Palmer, I am starting to bonk.  I have to repeatedly tell myself to focus on my breath and steps.  Phill takes over the lead, and occasionally I look up at him and the top, otherwise watching the snow at my feet.  

“Let’s do six more towers and break,” Phill calls out over the wind.  Game on.  But I only make it two before I stop to catch three breaths.  Steady and strong, we move along, both of us feeling exhaustion creeping in.  The top of Palmer is right there, and the last pitch looks to flatten a bit, but I know better.  Still, with the finish suddenly so close I feel the surge take over.  And then, just like that, we crest the top.

Taking a knee, I go straight for my skins.  Folding over and tucking them into my pack, I secure my skis before stepping over to Phill for a handshake.  I know success won’t be achieved until we reach the front door of the cabin 4,500 feet below, but we need to savor this sunset and our climb.

Visibility is good and we can see Jefferson and the Three Sisters to the south.  The sun is 15 minutes or so from hitting the horizon when we nuzzle up to the top edge of the snow field.  Just as I am about to drop over, Phill stops me.  He is right, this scene is absolutely worth one more look.  

While we climbed for over three and a half hours, it took us only 29 minutes to get down.  And there at the cabin was Tischer waiting to go for a walk.

Let The Season Begin

After letting the snow pile high over this past week, today was the day for my first downhill turns here on Mount Hood. I spent the week pushing through deep snow on my skinny nordic skis with Tischer swimming nearby. As the days of dumping grew, and the base established itself, Thursday delivered over a foot of fresh stuff and the temptation to enjoy the light powder was too much.

I rolled out of a warm bed at 6:30AM this morning to walk Tischer around the neighborhood and shovel the front steps. In between gathering my alpine gear I put together a mean breakfast sandwich with the intent of holding me off until an early dinner. English muffins soaked in butter and peanut butter with 4 sausage links in the middle. With a taste of eggnog before I walked out the front door, I was already on my way to a stellar day.

We parked in the third row and were the first group to ride the chair. I had near face shots and burning thighs coming down and an icy beard and cold fingers riding back up. We rode most of the morning while snow roared down from the sky the entire time.

Sitting in a friends wagon for lunch, heat blasted the icicles dangling under my nose and I sipped on a cold can of brew. Once the warmth reached our core we slipped back in the lift line for afternoon turns.

After our last run and I had exchanged my ancient ski boots for moose hide mukluks that wear like down slippers I stood at the rear hatch enjoying another can. My ears were warming and my feet were relaxing, and I was enjoying. When your body is worked and nothing but fresh air is circulating in your lungs, there exists a certain satisfaction. One of knowing you did a pretty good job of living the best you could on this day. And all that remains is a heaping plate of spaghetti doused in parmesan cheese. Well that, and if you’re me, running a cooped dog to her own appeasement before round two of shoveling.

Am I complaining? Are you kidding?

A fine night for a run

With clouds, rain, and snow allegedly lingering in the near future, I returned to the cabin this afternoon to blue skies. By the time 8 o’clock rolled around, the sky was still cloudless and the brilliant moonlight illuminated the forest running up the flanks of Mount Hood.

I had already promised Tischer a run tonight but I was thinking about an old access road that reminds me of Minnesota country roads that I know. However, just looking out back tempted me too much because the only effort needed to get to the trail head was to walk to the driveways end.

I changed into shorts, knee-high socks, and a reflective jacket (to warn oncoming skiers-that I surely wasn’t going to see because the trails only have 2-3 inches of snow) and grabbed Tischer’s leash.

We hit the trail running. Tischer, bounding like a jackal in front of me, is not so good at setting the pace. Still we ran. She would stop to smell the branch tips and play catch up. I would keep on in and out of dark patches where the canopy was thick above. I’d flip on my headlamp for these sections to ward off rolled ankles, but where the snow glowed from the moons glow I followed the trail with soothing ease.

Much of the frozen layer of snow covering the path was unblemished and it was amazing to witness the distance between Tischer’s prints. I believe we both were fueled by the energy of this night in the shadow of The Mountain.

30 minutes later we emerged from the forest at the top of a ski run and started our controlled descent to the cabin. Part way down I slowed to a walk and enjoyed the open view. Tischer caught her breath and when I called her over to commend her effort she licked the beads of moisture from my growing beard. Her way of patting me on the back.

Back at the cabin the energy was bursting from the seams. The group of students had arrived and were making themselves at home. Tischer would have her attention from these friends and I would have a hard bench to rest my worked body on. Sitting here in front of my computer, all I keep picturing is the moon, Orion’s belt, frosted elevation rising up, and Tischer’s breath dissipating into the night.

A fine night for a run, indeed.