“Jeremy Jones boots up 13,862-foot Norman Clyde Peak’s North Couloir in the Palisades region of the Sierra Nevada. Because the entire range had good coverage for most of the season, we could pick a new drainage with a beautiful peak and aesthetic line to ride on every trip. This time around, Jeremy Jones, Danny Davis, Nick Russell, and Jim Zellers chose Norman Clyde. Jim had already done it years ago, but was thrilled to join us.” Photo: Ming Poon 2/26/17—DESOLATION WILDERNESS THE MOMENT OF TRUTH Thousands of steps and countless decisions, both big and small, have led to this moment, to standing on this peak, atop this line, the proudest in all the land. The mountain, millions of years in the making. The slope angle, aspect, elevation and rocks all interconnected, creating ideal ter-rain. It’s like it was made just for me, just for this moment, then coated with trillions of little crystals helped by the wind and the perfect tem-perature gradient to create the optimal gliding surface. The first rays of light spread across the face, putting a spotlight on nature’s finest work. A curious eagle graces us with its presence; its effortless flight inspires. My breath deepens. If only I could see what’s over the roll, my exit. If only I knew for sure what the snow was like, or how wide the crux is. I weight my front foot and gravity works its magic. My body is mo-tionless yet accelerating, my mind screams for a turn or a speed check, but I hold out. I am as free as I will ever be. At the last moment, I give in. My chest leads the effort. I roll onto my toeside edge and let the snowpack receive me. It is here and now I will pay dearly for a missed calculation, a mistake in that bizarre com-bination off science, feel and experience. An undetected crust or weak layer would have dire consequences. The snowpack welcomes me. Force builds as I fall lower into the turn. My spray is positioned to the side of my cheek. It caresses my back shoulder. A face shot here would be a problem. I still can’t see the crux or the exit, but everything is in the perfect spot. The energy builds to a tipping point, I release, and project onto my heelside. My front hand and thigh slightly brush the snow. I re-peat the act—fifth gear up top, downshifted to fourth, then momen-tarily to third through the crux, quickly back to fourth on the apron, redlining into the flats. My whole body shaking as I hold on for dear life. There is nothing to do now but trust your board, trust your body, hold the line. I glide to a stop in the empty valley 3,000 feet below where I start-ed. Doubled over, I want to let out a primal scream, but there is no air in my lungs. So many emotions in such a short period of time. The dark fear climbing out of my tent six hours earlier. The beauty of sun-rise, endorphins on the hike, the altitude headiness on the summit, the anxiety, then adrenaline. It’s a dangerous cocktail of natural chemicals produced and consumed on a day of foot-powered snowboarding. It’s so addicting it will make you drive through the night, sleep in the dirt, rise in the dark and walk through dangerous landscapes. Days will turn into years and, in the blink of an eye, decades will have been consumed by this simple act of mountain riding. People have stopped asking me how long I will do it for. They see the look in my eye. They realize I am too far gone. I no longer ask myself why I do it. It makes me happy, for now. My standards for a memorable day seem to be getting lower. Give me untouched wilderness, my splitboard, food and water and I am happy. 048 THE SNOWBOARDER’S JOURNAL
The Snowboarder's Journal frequency 15.3 : Page 48
