TOP Even legends like Bryan Iguchi (front), Jamie Lynn (middle) and Terje Haakonsen earn their turns, as seen here in the Jackson, WY backcountry. Photo: Andrew Miller BOTTOM Terje Haakonsen, digging into the calm aftermath of a catastrophic storm. Photo: Andrew Miller JULY 31, “THE TRAILHEAD” I stop and take a deep breath, absorbing the surrounding environment. I exhale and feel a calm, familiar connection to it all. The moon casts a beam of white light across the lake. A warm summer wind blows from the south, forming a thousand tiny waves, breaking the smooth surface of darkness with a steady glittering rhythm. Upstream is a wide valley dissolving into the distant, towering peaks. It’s late Sunday night and I made a spontaneous decision to join some friends at dawn to float the emerald waters of the Snake River. I figured I’d sleep at my favorite winter trailhead in my crooked old camper. Six months ago, we gathered in this precise location. It was a cold, dark, icy and empty parking lot. The lake was frozen and the thick snowpack blanketed all surfaces except the steepest pitches of ancient rock along the crest of the range. The caravan rolled in on the slick pullout and parked. Trucks continued to idle as exhaust hovered in a dirty, icy steam. A brief lull of inaction followed as we lingered in our vehicles, hesitating to leave the creature comforts of civilization for just a little longer. One by one, truck doors opened. We repeatedly yanked the pull cords on our iron steeds, cursing the frozen metal pistons, pushing coagulated sludge through the block until they fired up. Jamie and Terje Haakonsen organized their gear as best they could while Mark Carter, cinematographer Dan Gibeau, photographer Andrew Miller and I talked about potential objectives in the icy grip of dawn. The blue-to-pink gradient of the sky turned gold as we crawled up concrete sled tracks, our machines overheating every icy mile. Progress was painfully slow. Mountainsides stripped of trees served as evidence of avalanches during the storm. Massive piles of snow lay silent and stiff with dirt and broken branches ripped down from the high canyon walls. The sweet smell of sap from freshly broken pines overcame the toxic breath of the beasts we rode. A couple stubborn moose delayed our march upward until they clumsily left the trail and we were safe to pass. We climbed a side canyon shining slippery with icy rain runnels in the advancing morning sun. We gained elevation and found soft snow, powder snow. We regrouped below a north-facing bowl with wall-to-wall fea-tures, chutes, spines, pyramidal fins—a freestyle dream. After a brief chat and an assessment of the avalanche danger, we agreed it was safe. Carter and I broke trail as high as we could with our machines then set the boot pack. We lapped the face, moving farther down the line with the shadows as the sun lit up different features, riding until every line disappeared into darkness. The short days of winter come and go in a blur of fantastic light and speed. That night we gathered with friends at Asymbol Gallery to share our work for “Human Nature 3”—something solid, lasting and tan-gible. In the days that followed, old friends and new rode, then as-sembled at Asymbol and in my garage to paint and share stories late into the night. An abundance of energy in the air filled the clouds. A series of storms and sunshine provided good days of riding. Spring snow and powder lifted spirits across the valley. Imaginations awoke, and from them it rose individual pieces and collaborations as if some greater force was communicating via telepathy. It was a surreal align-ment, serendipity in the aftermath of destruction. JACKSON HOLE ALIGNMENT 089
The Snowboarder's Journal frequency 15.2: Page 89
