Bundled up and preparing to reap the rewards of ascent.
“A ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are built for. And there is more in you than you know.” That’s what I told the group of nine aspiring backcountry snowboarders and skiers last week during their first dinner circle on the 8-day Outward Bound course that I instructed.
With those essentially Outward Bound concepts in mind, we headed out of our comfort zones for a week of backcountry riding and learning. Throughout the week I was reminded of how fast and deep humans connect to each other through shared adversity, struggle, and resilience. We spent the first part of the week preparing for a four-day overnight base-camp expedition: we prepped enough gear and calorie-rich food for 11 people, acclimated to the Rocky Mountain altitude, and got used to western-style snow and riding (most of the students were from somewhere pretty darn close to sea level east of the Mississippi). On the second day we rode in t-shirts and plenty of sunscreen at Ski Cooper to practice tree and powder riding, and on the third day we toured up Mayflower Gulch, between Leadville and Copper Mountain to get used to climbing on skins or snowshoes and learn some group travel and avalanche companion rescue techniques.
On the fourth day we headed towards Independence Pass and the wicked
Schralping some generously loaded wind powder.
storm that shut down the Elk Mountain Grand Traverse for four days of cold, wind, general suffering, heaps of hard work, variable snow, and amidst it all, tons of laughter, joy and excitement. We set up base camp in warm, springy conditions. Digging dead-men for our three North Face VE-25 tents and one Black Diamond Bibler was easy in the corny snow. So was carving a steezed-out kitchen complete with door-less cupboards, circular table and benches to match, refrigerator, and loads of butter. The next day the sun went away and the suffer-fest began. We tried to beat the storm and tour up to a high ridge, but were turned around by what one student dubbed “suicide snow” – that is, a thick sun crust that couldn’t thaw in the overcast conditions in combination with up to 60 mile-per-hour wind gusts. So we skied back to camp for a hot ramen noodle lunch and a warm nap in sleeping bags. After that we stuck closer to home in terrain less exposed to the elements. In some north-facing glades we found wind loaded powder pillows which, most of the time, kept us above the breaker crust that plagues the Leadville area’s snowpack. And for many of the folks used to riding East Coast ice, the 5 to 8 inches of powder was a thrilling, once-in-a-lifetime experience.
On our last night, huge wind gusts and blowing snow forced most of the crew into the Mega-Mid cook shelter mid-dinner. That left my co-instructor and I (and one hearty, helpful student) out to finish the cooking and cleaning. At this point we figured it was more important to keep everyone warm and happy than responsible for chores. From inside the Mid I heard the group’s usual sounds: belly laughter, hearty conversation, and a four-part acapella rendition of Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours” (the quartet perfected the piece over the course of the trip during van rides, particularly heinous sections of hiking, and while waiting for hot chocolate to materialize out of the arctic cook scene). Despite the brutal conditions, perpetually cold appendages, and rapidly
Nothing quite says spring like sleeping in a Quinzee snow shelter.
cooling generic pasta, morale was high. I wondered what a different experience we all would have had without that positive group culture. Can you imagine packing nine people who can’t stand each other into a four-person tarp in a blizzard? Yikes. I was reminded of how quickly and profoundly we connect with those we adventure with. After seven days of knowing each other, many of these young adults said they were closer with one another than with friends at home. Those essentially real relationships with climbing, skiing and adventuring cohorts are a huge part of my mountain bliss. It seems that when we have to poop in bags or cat holes, warm our feet on one another’s tummies, cry out of exhaustion and frustration, laugh out loud at a huge toe-side powder turns, and come back together for a hard-earned dinner at the end of the day, we just can’t wear as many masks. We see our fellow adventurers at their worst, we see them at their best, and they see us in the same way. I know that as I surrender to this rawness, it’s hard to imagine forming relationships on any other level. We learn a lot about ourselves as we sail out of that harbor, but I think we learn even more about our tribe.
