“Bring me men to match my mountains: Bring me men to match my plains: Men with empires in their purpose and new eras in their brains.” -Sam Walter Foss. Searching for the empire of pow in the era of play, Graham Gulch, CO.
A good powder lap can be a rebirthing experience. Or, at least, face planting in a tree well can (struggle, struggle, gasp, cry, gasp, struggle, wiggle). So I found it fitting that on my 25th birthday I would do both.
Last Saturday my birthday wishes all came true: I was surrounded by friends and mountains; the sun was out; the snow was soft; and gravity was holding strong at 9.8. I spent the previous evening in Leadville, where I ushered in a quarter century of life with ping pong games set to the Legends of The Fall soundtrack (breathtaking!), impromptu dance parties to MGMT, and acrobatic furniture tricks set to booty-dropping indie electronica. The next day I woke up, dragged my headache outside, kicked its ass and gave it a snow bath, and then headed towards Independence Pass for a backcountry tour with some of my closest Midcountry friends.
By the time we made the 40-minute drive to the Graham Gulch trailhead, my car was so full of red, yellow, orange and blue balloons that I could barely shift into reverse. For some reason the gas station attendant gifted my friend Adam two bags of party balloons (complementary with every purchase of two or more Vitamin Waters?), and for some reason he felt compelled to blow every single one up. In my car.
We accessed Graham Gulch by a serpentine old Forest Service road from highway 82, and wound our way through evergreen forests, under dead-fall logs, and across the occasional avalanche path. Being the 
touchy-feely types that we are, we offered each other encouragement and inspiration along the way: “Hey Adam!” I said as he stopped to flip up his AT heel risers. He looked back at me with eager anticipation. “Free your heel, free your mind.” His retort: “Fix the heel, fix the problem.” Tyler chimed in: “Drop knees not bread. No, ‘not bombs,’ I mean.” Bold statements all around.
Throughout the approach, if anyone strayed from the skin path, we heard and felt loud wumphing collapses. Levi, our resident unemployed, ski-everyday, self-proclaimed snow geek had been digging pits all winter, and noted that below the surface pow was a slabby midpack resting on top of some sassy depth hoar from the wicked harsh cold snap in early December. In general, the whole snowpack was full of piss and vinegar and just waiting for a reason to move closer to the center of our earth. Our aim was to be nowhere near that reason, so we kept climbing to a ridge just above tree line and decided to ski the sub 25-degree glades below. Since it was my birthday, my amigos let me do my fair share of trail breaking. At the top, Rohan passed around a thermos of honey-sweetened Good Earth tea. From this day forward I vow to never again ski without a thermos of honey-sweetened Good Earth tea. Starting…right…now.
Me, post faceplant, and the pillow that put me there.
Lap one: divine. We found open lines through otherwise thick trees with a handful of mushroom rock pillows to plop off of. Try as we might to stick together, we scattered like a herd of electrons. Such is skiing in a big party. I hung back because I like to see the way different personalities come through in different ski styles.
One friend who shall go unnamed, for example, looks like a hyperactive Scotsman in the heat of a boxing match. Another looked like a gazelle bouncing across the Savanna. And me? Well, someone who’s skied with me will have to comment on that. Probably Brad Pitt, horseback and shirtless, cresting a grassy Montana ridge (cue Legends of the Fall). Or perhaps a drunk penguin with double jointed knees (do penguins have knees?).
Anyway, we were happy to find the snow supportive, and we stayed mostly on top of the hard midpack in the fresh-ish powder. After recollecting back on the logging road, we slapped on the skins and headed back up for another lap.
Lap 2: also divine, but in more of a penance sort of way. I got a little overeager with some of those pillow drops, landed in the front seat, and promptly catapulted onto my noggin, from whence I stylishly somersaulted back onto my feet and took a bow. The trees applauded.
Rohan skied by (also on tele gear), hit a snow snake, and went in head-first. Then Adam skied by on his AT skis, stopped to see that we were okay, and skied uneventfully on. Rohan and I dusted ourselves off and followed suit. Being the tenacious Sagittarius that I am, I immediately found the next tall pillow drop, jumped off, and dove into the snow for round two. Hi-ya! This time, I went right into a tree well. I inhaled a lung-full of snow, choked and wiggled, and then pushed off my poles to get my head above the frozen water. Inhale! I relaxed to keep from digging myself deeper into the facets (or more surrendered to exhaustion, really). Adam saw my tumble and skied over to help. Like a backcountry midwife, he grabbed my wrists and pulled me headfirst, squirming and grunting, back into the world of uprightness.
“Oh man,” he said. “Your mind’s so free it took you right into that tree well!” Free, indeed, sir. Free, indeed.
Face planting will be so much cooler when I have a beard like Rohan's.
Sara, negotiating the cruxy creek crossing on the approach. Being her first time on skins, she was having trouble staying upright and grippy on the steep climb. "Want to hear the R-rated advice my mother would give you right now?" I asked from the other side. "Shoot," she said. "Okay. Tits to God!" (Keeps the back straight, chest up, and weight over the heels).
