The Snowboarder's Journal - The Snowboarder's Journal 20.4
A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE IN VALDEZ
Words: Taro Tamai 2023-01-24 09:38:58
Taro Tamai applying his snowsurf vision to Valdez in the mid-’90s. Photo: Yoshiro Higai
In the spring of 1993, I landed alone at the deserted Valdez, AK, airport and drove up the highway to the mountains. As I went over Thompson Pass, I suddenly plunged into the heart of the Tsaina Valley. The sky-piercing peaks and looming steeps that I could only see by sticking my head out the car window had an overwhelming presence along both sides of the valley. My mind went beyond excitement to a place of calm.
Reaching Tsaina Lodge, I parked my car. As I opened the heavy, crooked wooden door, the inside was dimly lit and little chilly, but I also sensed a unique heat radiating within. I took a step inside and it was as if I was entering a whole new world.
Today, it is commonly understood that Alaska has some of the best slopes in the world. But when I first visited, it was still the pioneering days of riding there and I don’t think many people could say with confidence what it was that made it the best. Only a handful of snowboarders had the conviction in their hearts to ride there. Some were putting on a brave face, trying to escape the fear of being there. Most were just too occupied with taking care of themselves. I was also doing my best to maintain my serenity, but when I returned from the mountains after my first day riding, I slept deeply.
It was a time when most lines were first descents—each ride a new page in history. Therefore, the equipment, the body and the spirit all had to be pushed to the very edge of their limits. Under these circumstances, I was experimenting—I guess it was an approach from a different perspective than the common theory of big mountain riding.
I first rode a snowboard in 1982. There was a clean, waist-high right-hand wall that formed by the side of the path from the parking lot to the ski resort. Before I even got on the chairlift, I was ripping this wall, riding a super-stiff board that could only go straight, carve or crash. From that moment on, I began my journey to pursue a life based on riding and developing equipment for snowsurfing. It didn’t matter where, so long as there was a slope that my soul was seeking. Going to deserted slopes became my way of life, and the desire to explore what I could do led me to new places. And it was along this path that I heard about Alaska.
Upon hearing of the now-famous lines in Alaska, I hurried to brush up the TT model that I had been developing since 1990. In the fall of 1992, I started to find clear riding potential in Alaska. The TT model, then in its third year, was thicker and slightly heavier. I kept the tail rocker low and placed several vertical carbon stringers, adapted for bigger slopes. The deck was can-sprayed in one color: Japan blue.
The conventional theory about big mountain riding is to ride straight down, as if falling down the fall line, on convex terrain. This style is more rational in terms of safety, as it minimizes the exposure to sluff and avalanches caused by cutting across slopes. In the world of mountaineering, it is common sense to avoid gullies, or concave terrain, that are most prone to avalanches. Nevertheless, my soul earnestly seeks riding that terrain, being conscious that it is sketchy, seeing the walls on both sides as if they are rising waves, and connecting the turns carving out the snowbanks. The reason why I ardently pursued the equipment, the riding and a lifestyle around snowboarding, was to perform at a higher level in such terrain, and Alaska is full of massive gullies—the final stage of testing these skills.
In 1993, the slopes of Valdez were blessed with the best snow conditions in many years. Strapping onto my TT model, tuned like a surfboard for riding outer reefs, I could see with certainty that the snowsurfing approach on steep, big mountain terrain was not just a possibility, but a reality.
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