The things you do when you can’t contain your stoke. From left to right: Griffin Siebert, Jesse Grandkoski, Austen Sweetin, Jason Robinson and Taylor Carlton, post summit, post rinse-off. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN we’re not going to the top? This is abso-lutely ridiculous; it’s right there!” It was nearing the end of our trip and I was getting frustrated by a questionable forecast. “We drop here,” Korichi said. The summit was so close we could taste it. We thought we had more than enough time. Korichi didn’t. He’d said “top,” and we’d misunderstood that as “summit”. He’d just meant the top of a gully. So, a bit disgruntled, we partied down a few thousand feet of thigh-burning pow and, I must say, the run was a sick one. There was even a natural arch to jump through. But behind that arch, Rishiri was shining in all its glory. It now seemed much farther away. “Be curious, not judgmental” is a phrase I try to remember when I am disagreeing with someone. At the time, we didn’t know the sum-mit was still hours away from where we’d dropped in. We didn’t know it was too late in the day to make it up and back down safely before nightfall. And we definitely did not know a window was coming and with it a potential summit day. Turns out Korichi and Pow know bet-ter than us, and they had a plan. The next morning, the stars were out and a cracker blue day beck-oned. A storm would follow for the foreseeable future. If we were go-ing to the top, today was our day. Out the door by 4 a.m., we left ahead of the storm. Climbing steadily, the sun started to poke above the ridge in front of us as the clock struck 8:30. By 9:30 we reached the top of the gully we had ridden the day prior, our high point thus far. There, we took a short rest to hydrate and fuel up for the final hour-and-a-half push to the peak. Griffin set the pace, with Jerry Garcia whispering from one of his pockets. Jason hand-rolled tobacco and we kept moving. We stayed mostly quiet, not wanting to jinx it. Soon enough, we were tunnel-ing up through the rime of the final approach, crampons on and ice axes in hand. Those last few steps to the summit were better than the summit itself—that feeling of anticipation when you’re about to ac-complish something you’ve waited long and worked hard to achieve. Doing it with a group of friends you care so much for just adds to that feeling of pure happiness, weightlessness. Assembled atop Rishiri, we lingered a moment to take in 360-degree views of Hokkaido, of Rus-sia, and down to the water’s edge. How petite we are in a world so vast. “Crack, swoosh, cheers”—Jesse popped a tiny Asahi, breaking through the hollers of stoke. Below lay 5,646 feet of powder. There was no way we were riding it one by one—we’d be party-boarding from the summit to the sea. It’s very rare to be able to ride a big line in a group. But with the snowpack locked up and friendly and mellow terrain below, these gullies were meant to be ridden together. It was one of the greatest runs of my life—complete freedom and powder, with six of my best friends on a volcanic island in the Sea of Japan. Reaching the shore, spirits high and eyes heavy, we could see the storm brewing on the horizon. What we couldn’t see was the uncer-tainty we were about to endure: three days of 60 mph winds, a sketchy crossing via ferryboat, a scramble home as the world was shutting down. There was nothing we could do about it at the moment any-way. So, to give thanks, we stripped down and jumped into the cold, cleansing saltwater, lingering in the here and now. RISHIRI ISLAND 043
The Snowboarder's Journal The Snowboarder's Journal 18.4: Page 43
