A tour on the front end of the storm led to this windlip tucked behind a ridge. While a few folks went through some ropes training, Austin Smith stomped this Michaelchuck. Later that day we’d hike a few lines despite the low visibility. A METAPHYSICAL INTERLUDE The storm continues for three days. Dig, read, talk, repeat. Blair dives into Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception and begins to extrapolate on the Meaning of All This. “Snowboarding’s like taking that trip to another planet, fully in the moment,” he says, beginning a monologue on the metaphysical meaning of sliding on snow as it relates to Huxley’s experimentations with hallucinogens. It makes a lot of sense in the moment. The whis-key is long gone and tobacco rations are running low, but we still have a bit of weed. I begin writing: Take that trip. There’s nothing to do but lie here, watch the water drip, drip, drip, as it melts through the zippered window, stove on. I dress, all-gray puffiness making me feel like a Florida retiree. But I’m going out into knee-deep snow on an Alaskan glacier, not a power walk to the mall for a froyo. Should I still use my walking sticks? Gray puffy pants, intended to go under waders while flyfishing, gray micro puff hoodie, intended for belaying ice climbers. Black down booties with lim-ited traction. Should be wearing Gore-Tex and snowboard boots, but fuck it. Another puffy coat, gloves, balaclava, ball cap, beanie. Sunglasses, even though it’s snowing. Breakfast is on. Hashbrowns and sausages. Danny is killing it in the kitchen. Drip, drip, drip. Blair stands and peers through our little portal to the outside world. With base layers on bottom, a vest up top and red-tipped Smartwool beanie, he looks like Jacques Cousteau. I ask for a weather report. “It’s as white as it gets,” he says. ROSE-TINTED LENSES By dinnertime, the wind has finally stopped, but it’s still snowing. We’ve been steadily digging, clearing, puttering around camp like we are trying to meet code on a suburban lawn. In the kitchen, Champ hands me his rose-tinted goggles. “Look at the flame,” he says. I look. It’s pretty. “We’ll wait until Monday, maybe Tuesday to think about walking out,” Champ says quietly. It’s Saturday. Due to weather disrupting communications, we haven’t heard from base in 48 hours. The storm has confined us to a hundred-yard radius. But life is simple, and simple is good. Camp is an oasis of calm. 076 THE SNOWBOARDER’S JOURNAL
The Snowboarder's Journal frequency 17.2: Page 76
