The Snowboarder's Journal - The Snowboarder's Journal 22.1
GO FAT CONDITIONING PROGRAM, DEATH SPIRAL EDITION: Part One–Enter the Heat Dome
Words John Erben 2024-10-01 09:38:32
Paul Ferrel riding Mt. Baker, WA’s Easton Glacier circa 1990. Before splitboards were a common thing, and when bootpacking was the way. Photo: John Erben
SEA-TAC Airport, July 7, 2021—12:35 a.m.
I am 64 years old, broke, uninsured and alive in the Superunknown.
I am Gen Jones, and have identified as a snowboarder since 1989. I saw Mojo Nixon play at the Central Tavern in Seattle on my 30th birthday and started snowboarding six months later. These facts are related, but not easily related.
I have lived in Pacific Ocean states my entire life and I am a pacifist 98.6 percent of the time. I tell people I own a gun because it has rights that I don’t, but mostly it’s because I always end up living around bears. I sequester carbon in my snowboards because I care. Progression to me means switching leads with my dogs when breaking trail uphill splitboarding.
I am not sponsored, a robot, almost famous or an influencer. I am too old to be relevant and too young to be President. I’m two years away from Medicare in a scorched, Kardashified country where healthcare is just an expensive compound word.
I just quit my job and left my home in Alaska. I’m moving to the Lower 48 to keep my mom out of a home and in her home. The income tax deduction for moving expenses got axed in 2018, so this one is on me.
I’m tired and I’m sweating, I’m pissed and I want my dogs, I’m stuck at large baggage and I don’t want to take your survey. But what it all comes down to is that I’m a relic from another America, throwing dirt-clods at drones, phones and automobiles. And I’m here to bear witness.
This is not the future I wanted–that one had pow. That future ended a few hours back when I left Juneau after 29 years. I won’t be around for the next future, but maybe you will. The future is yours now and you can change it. I’m leaving some beta behind in case you decide to try.
In 1972 I started high school and registered for the Vietnam draft. I worshipped Deep Purple and my stereo weighed twice what I did. A lot has changed since, but one thing remains constant: Every year the global snowpack gets smaller.
Since 1972 the global mean temperature has risen by 4 degrees Fahrenheit. Land and ocean temperatures are at record highs, making storms more intense, frequent and damaging. Antarctica, Greenland and most glaciers worldwide are melting, while coral-wasting dissolves the Great Barrier Reef.
Winter itself seems to be dying. What in the name of Scotty Wittlake is going on? Didn’t anyone in Congress see Optimistic? In scientific terms, the world is going down the tubes. But I intend to surf them tubes on my way out.
For eight days now it’s been too hot for dogs to fly. The planes are fine, because dogs get the same chilled and filtered air as other passengers, even when they fly in cargo. It’s Sea-Tac Airport itself that’s been too hot. I finally got a dog-legal flight out tonight at 8:30.
Twenty minutes out of Juneau in the endless summer twilight we watched northern Canada burn. From 35,000 feet the whole left-side of the plane could see wind-driven red snakes of fire advancing in fronts miles-long beyond the Stikine River, chased by a tall black wall of smoke. We leaned back in our seats and watched the show. I drank an Icy Bay beer, pulling my N95 mask up between gulps. New fires unfurled ahead for over an hour.
We walked off the plane into a darkened airport, another day, another world.
I was born in Portland, OR, but my first memory of snow is from California. My first snow-sliding experience was inner-tubing in the San Gabriel Mountains somewhere above LA with my dad in 1964. It was a 10-degree slope in a campground with under 2 feet of snow, but it was almost free, and it was magic.
Snow is transformative and its magic works across cultures, decades, even species. Snow worship is not a crime and playing in snow is worship in action. Put more directly: Playing in Snow is Right, Not Playing in Snow is Wrong.
Playing in snow is harder in this century. Our gear is better, but winter is shorter, snow shallower and access worse. The lift resorts have better snowmaking, but they can’t turn down the heat. The limiting factor in the backcountry used to be avalanche danger. Now it’s more likely to be bad parking or trails blocked by private property signs.
Tom Petty once sang: “You don’t have to live like a refugee.” He later sang: “It’s time to move on.” But if you live to chase snow there’s a good chance you live like a refugee already. And we all got to move on.
Snowboarders need to evolve, even if it means being android-wannabes on a Snowless Planet. Strength, swiftness, coordination and endurance still matter, but so do logistics, protective clothing, strategy, urethane wheels and maybe even AI.
Back in the 1980s, my friend Robin Nagel used to talk about “Future People,” contrasting ourselves with them. She explained that some of the Future People were already here. “Those ones are the space aliens,” she said. “They’re ready for the future now and are just waiting. The rest of us will have to train.”
I hope those Future People are still waiting, because frankly our odds of survival are low, and the math just doesn’t work without them. Sure, Elon told me I’m on the guest list for Mars, but he tells everyone that. You gotta have a Plan B.
In my vision, Future People will breathe in carbon dioxide, coaldust, PFAS and microplastics. Future People will eat like huskies—everything from Taco Bell to wood chips to discarded tires. They will drink seawater, sewage, medical waste, fracking fluids and Round-Up. Future people will exhale fresh air, good vibes and economic prosperity. They will pee sparkling water, champagne, coffee or kombucha at your chosen temperature. They will shit out sintered bases, Lithium, Narcan and cell phones. And, slowly at first, it will start to snow again.
Don’t see you no more in this world, I’ll meet you in the next one. Don’t be late.
©Funny Feelings LLC. View All Articles.