nocensorbo
Observer
This is a great read!! I hope to one day be able to sit, think, and put my thoughts into words like you.
Adrift in Space
- Thread starter Phoo
- Start date
Phoo
Observer
A question for the community:
We are headed through the Whistler area next weekend (24th-26th or thereabouts) for a crevasse rescue course. From all that I've been able to find online, the resort municipality is particularly unfriendly to all forms of vehicle camping, legitimate RVs included. For those that live in, or have experience traveling in the area, can anyone comment on the geographic extent of said ban, or if any of the nearby provincial parks are plowed out and open?
Spacepod is fairly stealth, but I'd prefer not to take needless risks. If all else fails, we'll be competing for space at nearby hostels with the spring break crowd.
Thanks!
We are headed through the Whistler area next weekend (24th-26th or thereabouts) for a crevasse rescue course. From all that I've been able to find online, the resort municipality is particularly unfriendly to all forms of vehicle camping, legitimate RVs included. For those that live in, or have experience traveling in the area, can anyone comment on the geographic extent of said ban, or if any of the nearby provincial parks are plowed out and open?
Spacepod is fairly stealth, but I'd prefer not to take needless risks. If all else fails, we'll be competing for space at nearby hostels with the spring break crowd.
Thanks!
robert
Expedition Leader
Pretty cool. Since you asked and because I'm bored, I googled offroad Previa and found that yes, you can indeed get a bit more clearance out of them with some work of course.
http://zenseeker.net/Previa/PreviaSuspension.htm
http://zenseeker.net/Kid/AdventureVan.htm
http://zenseeker.net/Previa/PreviaSuspension.htm
http://zenseeker.net/Kid/AdventureVan.htm
Phoo
Observer
Ahh, those old Previas were cool machines. My little beast is actually the model after that; the Sienna. Generally speaking, a lot of the same tactics could be employed. There are a few examples floating about the net. I'll dump these links here, in case someone with more time and deeper pockets is looking for a challenge:
http://www.sportsmobileforum.com/forums/f24/lifted-sienna-micro-camper-18129.html
http://www.ebay.com/itm/Toyota-sien...ash=item4b01526585:g:O~sAAOSwvFZW63Bf&vxp=mtr
A great start for a more extensive build.
http://www.sportsmobileforum.com/forums/f24/lifted-sienna-micro-camper-18129.html
http://www.ebay.com/itm/Toyota-sien...ash=item4b01526585:g:O~sAAOSwvFZW63Bf&vxp=mtr
A great start for a more extensive build.
Phoo
Observer
Stardate: 2017.3.19
Local Coordinates: 51.172110, -115.571234
Ship's Log:
- Quick Update -
It's now been a full week since blasting out of the Portland area. Temperatures have been fairly mild, but it's been rather wet and the mountains have been in a particularly inhospitable mood. Fortunately, we've been able to pack in four solid days of backcountry touring. Currently soaking up the last hour and a half of warmth in a Banff area hostel, before venturing back out into the elements. A couple shots for the road:
It is not always easy here at the sharp end of the "!@#hashtag-vanlife"...
... but it's usually worth the effort.
Local Coordinates: 51.172110, -115.571234
Ship's Log:
- Quick Update -
It's now been a full week since blasting out of the Portland area. Temperatures have been fairly mild, but it's been rather wet and the mountains have been in a particularly inhospitable mood. Fortunately, we've been able to pack in four solid days of backcountry touring. Currently soaking up the last hour and a half of warmth in a Banff area hostel, before venturing back out into the elements. A couple shots for the road:
It is not always easy here at the sharp end of the "!@#hashtag-vanlife"...
... but it's usually worth the effort.
Phoo
Observer
Stardate: 2017.3.27
Local Coordinates: 49.702321, -123.144118
Ship's Log:
As I write this, we are about half way through our trip in terms of time on the road. In terms of actual mileage, there is quite a bit of distance left to cover. We are currently docked in Squamish, B.C. for a couple of days, so I'll take a shot at giving a more proper write up of this odyssey within an odyssey thus far. It'll surely take me a few of posts to catch up to present.
- Gummy Bears, Fried Rice and Plywood -
The proper thing to do is to plan ahead. The wise thing to do is to get an early start, as you'll likely make a few mistakes or run into some issues. And truly, one should always invest in quality tools and good materials. In keeping with the previous weeks of this overall voyage, very little of this happened. During the short, cold days of February, TCD and I managed to connect a few times for some trip planning, usually parting ways with an “Oh crap! Only XX days left buddy!”, knowing quite well that our shaky plans could easily be dashed by changing weather, and that the van as configured was entirely inappropriate for accommodating a second person. As a full time traveler/dirtbag/”homeless transient” (if we really must), time seems nearly infinite. TCD, on the other hand, still spends a large chunk of his time each week pretending to be a responsible adult. Poor guy. Thus, between the guy with a day job and the guy with an alternate sense of responsibility, by afternoon of March 10 (we left on the 11th) the van looked much as it did when I rolled out of Pennsylvania in January. Some hasty greasy-napkin-sketches were drafted, a run to the local home depot conducted, and the decade old Ni-Cad powered Ryobi tools put on charge. Starting around 4 pm, and finishing a bit after 8 pm, we managed to construct a rough but stout, six legged beast of a sleeping platform for the back of the van. The geriatric power tools coughed, spat and protested the whole way. TCD and I did much of the same, but powered through a one pound sack of gummy bears to stave off the dreaded blood-stupor (see also “hangry”). Men and machines were all rather spent for the intense effort. The finished product is far from perfect, and we did, in fact, have a few do-overs. On the up side, the platform fits quite nicely, fills the van with the scent of fresh pine and creaks like an old Spanish galleon. We rewarded ourselves with dinner from the local Thai restaurant prior to tossing our gear into various crates and boxes, then seeing to an anxious night of sleep.
TCD managed to snap a few shots as the beast came into being.
Local Coordinates: 49.702321, -123.144118
Ship's Log:
As I write this, we are about half way through our trip in terms of time on the road. In terms of actual mileage, there is quite a bit of distance left to cover. We are currently docked in Squamish, B.C. for a couple of days, so I'll take a shot at giving a more proper write up of this odyssey within an odyssey thus far. It'll surely take me a few of posts to catch up to present.
- Gummy Bears, Fried Rice and Plywood -
The proper thing to do is to plan ahead. The wise thing to do is to get an early start, as you'll likely make a few mistakes or run into some issues. And truly, one should always invest in quality tools and good materials. In keeping with the previous weeks of this overall voyage, very little of this happened. During the short, cold days of February, TCD and I managed to connect a few times for some trip planning, usually parting ways with an “Oh crap! Only XX days left buddy!”, knowing quite well that our shaky plans could easily be dashed by changing weather, and that the van as configured was entirely inappropriate for accommodating a second person. As a full time traveler/dirtbag/”homeless transient” (if we really must), time seems nearly infinite. TCD, on the other hand, still spends a large chunk of his time each week pretending to be a responsible adult. Poor guy. Thus, between the guy with a day job and the guy with an alternate sense of responsibility, by afternoon of March 10 (we left on the 11th) the van looked much as it did when I rolled out of Pennsylvania in January. Some hasty greasy-napkin-sketches were drafted, a run to the local home depot conducted, and the decade old Ni-Cad powered Ryobi tools put on charge. Starting around 4 pm, and finishing a bit after 8 pm, we managed to construct a rough but stout, six legged beast of a sleeping platform for the back of the van. The geriatric power tools coughed, spat and protested the whole way. TCD and I did much of the same, but powered through a one pound sack of gummy bears to stave off the dreaded blood-stupor (see also “hangry”). Men and machines were all rather spent for the intense effort. The finished product is far from perfect, and we did, in fact, have a few do-overs. On the up side, the platform fits quite nicely, fills the van with the scent of fresh pine and creaks like an old Spanish galleon. We rewarded ourselves with dinner from the local Thai restaurant prior to tossing our gear into various crates and boxes, then seeing to an anxious night of sleep.
TCD managed to snap a few shots as the beast came into being.
Phoo
Observer
- AK Odyssey, Week 1: Squishy Weather, Uncertainty Outcomes -
I believe most polite individuals would quickly identify me as being “just a bit type-A”. Oddly, a fair number of my former work colleagues likely regard me as some kind of hippy-dippy space cadet (and I believe someone actually called me out on that on page 1 of this thread). Whatever the case, in the world of overland travel, the former trait seems to be greatly favored. Mountaineering and unsupported backcountry touring is a slightly different kettle of fish. Generally speaking, the mountains don't really care about your plans, are not bothered by the price of your plane ticket, and are largely unimpressed by your looming post-vacation work deadlines. In this context, a loose and flexible plan is quite essential to one's survival. Education and training is certainly very important, but rigid plans, expectations and egos have been the undoing of many.
When we crossed into Canada late Sunday night, we had hopes of clicking off numerous big tours in various locations across British Columbia in our first week, but instead were greeted by the awful R-Word. It is the scourge of the winter athlete and rhymes with pain. Rain at the local ski resort means that you either sit inside sipping cocoa or brave the elements while wearing a trash bag. For us, it meant heavy, cohesive storm snow sitting atop a newly lubricated, persistent weak layer about a meter deep. In lay terms, that amounts to some moody, grumbly mountains and a rather grim avalanche forecast. With a large amount of research, rerouting, map-nerding, field observations, and just plain old sitting out (the Revelstoke Aquatic Center is a lovely place to kill a day off), we managed four solid days of touring. Each of these first tours was largely spent tiptoeing about in low angle trees, ever mindful of the slumbering dragons around us. Flexibility of schedule and place were key to success and safety. Recent avalanche debris and occasional, distant rumbles were a constant reminder to maintain a healthy level of respect.
A turn by turn synopsis of each tour would be tedious at best, but photographs of beautiful places are easy to take, and I've not yet tired of taking them.
Rogers Pass – Starting the climb up Connaught Creek
Rogers Pass – Further up Connaught Creek, deep in the fog
Rogers Pass – Approaching Hospital Knob, looking over at a rather menacing and unruly Cheops
Rogers Pass – Camped at the Discovery Center, airing out Spacepod on a rare, dry day
Rogers Pass – Topping out in the Grizzly Trees with a view of Mount MacDonald
Rogers Pass – Celebrating another safe day in big mountains with the folks next door
I believe most polite individuals would quickly identify me as being “just a bit type-A”. Oddly, a fair number of my former work colleagues likely regard me as some kind of hippy-dippy space cadet (and I believe someone actually called me out on that on page 1 of this thread). Whatever the case, in the world of overland travel, the former trait seems to be greatly favored. Mountaineering and unsupported backcountry touring is a slightly different kettle of fish. Generally speaking, the mountains don't really care about your plans, are not bothered by the price of your plane ticket, and are largely unimpressed by your looming post-vacation work deadlines. In this context, a loose and flexible plan is quite essential to one's survival. Education and training is certainly very important, but rigid plans, expectations and egos have been the undoing of many.
When we crossed into Canada late Sunday night, we had hopes of clicking off numerous big tours in various locations across British Columbia in our first week, but instead were greeted by the awful R-Word. It is the scourge of the winter athlete and rhymes with pain. Rain at the local ski resort means that you either sit inside sipping cocoa or brave the elements while wearing a trash bag. For us, it meant heavy, cohesive storm snow sitting atop a newly lubricated, persistent weak layer about a meter deep. In lay terms, that amounts to some moody, grumbly mountains and a rather grim avalanche forecast. With a large amount of research, rerouting, map-nerding, field observations, and just plain old sitting out (the Revelstoke Aquatic Center is a lovely place to kill a day off), we managed four solid days of touring. Each of these first tours was largely spent tiptoeing about in low angle trees, ever mindful of the slumbering dragons around us. Flexibility of schedule and place were key to success and safety. Recent avalanche debris and occasional, distant rumbles were a constant reminder to maintain a healthy level of respect.
A turn by turn synopsis of each tour would be tedious at best, but photographs of beautiful places are easy to take, and I've not yet tired of taking them.
Rogers Pass – Starting the climb up Connaught Creek
Rogers Pass – Further up Connaught Creek, deep in the fog
Rogers Pass – Approaching Hospital Knob, looking over at a rather menacing and unruly Cheops
Rogers Pass – Camped at the Discovery Center, airing out Spacepod on a rare, dry day
Rogers Pass – Topping out in the Grizzly Trees with a view of Mount MacDonald
Rogers Pass – Celebrating another safe day in big mountains with the folks next door
Last edited:
Phoo
Observer
- AK Odyssey, Week 2: Hard Livin', Exit BC -
One of the big lessons learned in the month that I spent orbiting Mt. Hood in Oregon, is that there is a certain number of days that one can spend winter camping in a stationary vehicle before it becomes a bit of an aquarium. This isn't necessarily a fixed number, but depends on things like ambient temperature, relative humidity, precipitation, and very importantly for this scenario, number of occupants. For two adult, male splitboarders on Rogers Pass during a storm cycle, the math works out to something close to three days. Necessity and/or desperation could have stretched things longer, but the experience of sliding into increasingly swampy boots each morning, and reaching the point where condensation begins to physically drip from the door jambs was about the breaking point. Our German lot-neighbors, camped adjacent in their ratted out mid-90s Ford Explorer managed upwards of five days on station, but are presumably harder men than us (they also “cheated” by stashing some of their wet gear inside the visitors' center overnight...). Having tired of dealing with ever present specter of condensed liquid from breath, sweat, snow melt, and last night's soup, we fired the reactor and blasted east off the pass, onto Banff with the heat on high.
Checking into a cheap local hostel and WiFi binging, all research suggested that the ongoing snowpack stability issues were even worse in this vicinity. One of our guidebooks recommended a somewhat lower consequence tour a short distance up the Icefields Parkway, so we checked back out the bustling island of civilization that is Banff (warm showers and all), in favor of a remote shiver-bivvy (cold enough to freeze the beer), in a snowy lot with questionable egress potential. In this game, a little bit of discomfort, and a little bit of patience often pays dividends. The sun came out, the views were stellar, and the ride back down was delightful. However, the top of our run was marked by the sharp odor of felled pine, mature trees bowled over and half buried, a quiet reminder of the mountain's recent fury.
I'll skip the details involved in our decision making process to go into those particular mountains on that particular day, but I will note each new zone typically receives hours of research before even getting in the car, plus several rounds of testing and observation before strapping into equipment. I would suggest that anyone considering this activity first pursue some degree of formal education. If you live in the U.S., www.avtraining.org is a good place to start.
With a dry-ish car and our fill of heavy exposure, the decision to head west back to Rogers Pass was made. Stability was starting to improve, but in the name of prudence, we spent another day in the relatively safe trees of Bruins Ridge, tiptoeing around the slumbering dragons.
Our last day on the pass gifted us with clearing skies and enough green flags from the snowpack to go for a larger objective. Video Peak is a gloriously aesthetic, alpine line, situated just north of Connaught Creek. Approximately four hours from camp, after numerous stability tests, effectively looking for reasons to wave off, we were rewarded with the longest, uninterrupted descent of the trip, and likely this season so far. Pulling off such a tour, in a foreign location, in less than certain conditions comes with a strong mix of uncertainty, trepidation, joy and excitement. As such, the camera rarely left the bag, but I did manage to fire off a few mediocre shots.
With the southern British Columbia expedition more or less wrapped up, there was nothing left but a crevasse rescue class in Squamish, followed by the last push into the deepest of space.
One of the big lessons learned in the month that I spent orbiting Mt. Hood in Oregon, is that there is a certain number of days that one can spend winter camping in a stationary vehicle before it becomes a bit of an aquarium. This isn't necessarily a fixed number, but depends on things like ambient temperature, relative humidity, precipitation, and very importantly for this scenario, number of occupants. For two adult, male splitboarders on Rogers Pass during a storm cycle, the math works out to something close to three days. Necessity and/or desperation could have stretched things longer, but the experience of sliding into increasingly swampy boots each morning, and reaching the point where condensation begins to physically drip from the door jambs was about the breaking point. Our German lot-neighbors, camped adjacent in their ratted out mid-90s Ford Explorer managed upwards of five days on station, but are presumably harder men than us (they also “cheated” by stashing some of their wet gear inside the visitors' center overnight...). Having tired of dealing with ever present specter of condensed liquid from breath, sweat, snow melt, and last night's soup, we fired the reactor and blasted east off the pass, onto Banff with the heat on high.
Checking into a cheap local hostel and WiFi binging, all research suggested that the ongoing snowpack stability issues were even worse in this vicinity. One of our guidebooks recommended a somewhat lower consequence tour a short distance up the Icefields Parkway, so we checked back out the bustling island of civilization that is Banff (warm showers and all), in favor of a remote shiver-bivvy (cold enough to freeze the beer), in a snowy lot with questionable egress potential. In this game, a little bit of discomfort, and a little bit of patience often pays dividends. The sun came out, the views were stellar, and the ride back down was delightful. However, the top of our run was marked by the sharp odor of felled pine, mature trees bowled over and half buried, a quiet reminder of the mountain's recent fury.
I'll skip the details involved in our decision making process to go into those particular mountains on that particular day, but I will note each new zone typically receives hours of research before even getting in the car, plus several rounds of testing and observation before strapping into equipment. I would suggest that anyone considering this activity first pursue some degree of formal education. If you live in the U.S., www.avtraining.org is a good place to start.
With a dry-ish car and our fill of heavy exposure, the decision to head west back to Rogers Pass was made. Stability was starting to improve, but in the name of prudence, we spent another day in the relatively safe trees of Bruins Ridge, tiptoeing around the slumbering dragons.
Our last day on the pass gifted us with clearing skies and enough green flags from the snowpack to go for a larger objective. Video Peak is a gloriously aesthetic, alpine line, situated just north of Connaught Creek. Approximately four hours from camp, after numerous stability tests, effectively looking for reasons to wave off, we were rewarded with the longest, uninterrupted descent of the trip, and likely this season so far. Pulling off such a tour, in a foreign location, in less than certain conditions comes with a strong mix of uncertainty, trepidation, joy and excitement. As such, the camera rarely left the bag, but I did manage to fire off a few mediocre shots.
With the southern British Columbia expedition more or less wrapped up, there was nothing left but a crevasse rescue class in Squamish, followed by the last push into the deepest of space.
unkamonkey
Explorer
Keep living your dream kid. It's what you have inside of you later.
Phoo
Observer
Stardate: 2017.4.6
Local Coordinates: 61.173356, -149.926850
Ship's Log:
- AK Odyssey, Week 3: Into The Void -
It must be the the most insatiable of curiosity. But perhaps there is some element of bravado. Maybe just plain restlessness.
It is the urge that drives us humans, a tragically fragile and ill equipped species,
Out of our homes, away from warmth and comfort, into the cold, into the uncertain, into the empty.
We deliberately seek out the austere, the inhospitable, the impossibly severe,
The deserts, the seas, the mountains, space itself,
All the while, knowing the implausibility of our survival.
But we go. We explore.
Ultimately, it is not and must never be an introspective process,
Rather, a fully outward meditation,
Where the focus is not emptiness or “nothing”,
But all that is glory surrounding us, to the extent that our senses will allow.
And as the self contracts, the universe expands, the march of time slows a step.
… so anyhow, we've finally completed the drive to Alaska along the fabled Alaska Highway and are currently in synchronous orbit around Anchorage. Even without the promise of a grand snowboarding adventure at the other end, this has been a road trip that I've been looking forward to for quite some time, and it did not disappoint. The focus was largely on making miles, so photography and sightseeing were limited. None the less, it was an amazing drive, and I look forward to covering that stretch again someday, in warmer weather, and on two wheels (bicycle or moto).
I'm still trying to get a good, clean shot of the auroras that really do them justice. They are quite breathtaking to the eyes of an east coast kid.
Local Coordinates: 61.173356, -149.926850
Ship's Log:
- AK Odyssey, Week 3: Into The Void -
It must be the the most insatiable of curiosity. But perhaps there is some element of bravado. Maybe just plain restlessness.
It is the urge that drives us humans, a tragically fragile and ill equipped species,
Out of our homes, away from warmth and comfort, into the cold, into the uncertain, into the empty.
We deliberately seek out the austere, the inhospitable, the impossibly severe,
The deserts, the seas, the mountains, space itself,
All the while, knowing the implausibility of our survival.
But we go. We explore.
Ultimately, it is not and must never be an introspective process,
Rather, a fully outward meditation,
Where the focus is not emptiness or “nothing”,
But all that is glory surrounding us, to the extent that our senses will allow.
And as the self contracts, the universe expands, the march of time slows a step.
… so anyhow, we've finally completed the drive to Alaska along the fabled Alaska Highway and are currently in synchronous orbit around Anchorage. Even without the promise of a grand snowboarding adventure at the other end, this has been a road trip that I've been looking forward to for quite some time, and it did not disappoint. The focus was largely on making miles, so photography and sightseeing were limited. None the less, it was an amazing drive, and I look forward to covering that stretch again someday, in warmer weather, and on two wheels (bicycle or moto).
I'm still trying to get a good, clean shot of the auroras that really do them justice. They are quite breathtaking to the eyes of an east coast kid.
Phoo
Observer
Stardate: 2017.4.28
Local Coordinates: 45.598898, -121.185450
Ship's Log:
- AK Odyssey, Week 4: Ping Pong, Mini Golf and the Water Hazard -
Sitting mostly upright on the sleeping platform, facing aft, with my back against the backside of the driver's seat, eating my morning bowl of granola, I see it out of the corner of my eye. A small streak of grey juxtaposed against the colors of Alaskan sunrise filling the van. I know what it is, but I ignore it. Another one zips past, but I ignore it. One more cuts loose. There's no question what it is, and I want to ignore it, but reflexively whip my head to see it in action. Too slow, but it doesn't matter, I already know. It is raining. Again. Inside the van. Once again, the immutable laws of thermodynamics have come to collect their due, as condensed droplets of accumulated van-funk coalesce on available hard surfaces before rhythmically marching off into space. TCD and I quietly complete our morning routines. The mood is accurately described by two succinct words – Over It. But, it is the last day.
One more morning in a cold, stinky, wet, mostly stationary van.
One more trip to the nearly overflowing pit toilet at our campsite.
One more day in moist base layers and boots that didn't quite dry overnight
Is this the #@!hashtag-vanlife advertised in the glossy brochures?
One more day spent climbing the gorgeous mountains I've been reading and dreaming about forthe last decade.
One more day of riding flawless Alaskan powder.
One more day in the state which aptly bills itself as “The Last Frontier”.
One more day sharing a lifetime adventure with a good buddy.
And one more drop dives into oblivion from its roost on the door jamb. This time, I'm quick enough, but it doesn't matter. I already knew.
Our entry to the Alaskan mountains began in a way ominously similar to the Rogers Pass portion of the trip. A few feet of fresh snow sitting on top of rock hard, month old crust yielded little but red flag from the local avalanche forecasters. After grilling some of the local snow jockeys at the mountaineering shop in Anchorage, and some internet weather-nerding in a nearby coffee shop, a rough plan was hacked together that would hopefully see us through the next few days safely.
First up was Manitoba Mountain, near Turnagain Pass. Not too steep, not glaciated, an no major terrain traps. Tree riding is almost nonexistent in Alaska, so we had to settle for glorious, open, alpine terrain. The snow quality was outstanding, but the visibility made things interesting. The bane of alpine snow riding is the concept we refer to as “flat light”. When the mountain air builds a certain amount of haze (e.g., a passing cloud), the ground and sky start trending toward the same color and terrain contours become invisible. Up-down, fast-slow, stop-go all become indistinguishable. The solution? Use The Force or ride by braille. Take your pick!
TCD climbing inside of a ping pong ball on Manitoba -
There wasn't much more that we could get done in the Turnagain Pass area without getting ourselves into trouble, so the circus moved north a couple of hours to Hatcher Pass, which was having the Alaskan version of a low-snow year. Hatcher is a scaled down winter playground for XC skiers, downhill riders and snowmobilers within shouting distance of Anchorage. Everything there has the look and feel of Big Time Alaska, just a couple thousand feet shorter. It is also the site of an historic mining town.
Our first adventure into this craggy little dreamscape involved a delightful pair of chutes off of Microdot Peak. The first lap was properly spicy and delicious. Topping out for our second lap, and aiming for a slightly sportier line, things started warming, roller balls (they look like giant cinnamon buns) started moving, the dreaded flat light scourge (see also; “The Nothing”) began to roll in. Ultimately, we made the decision to shoot a more conservative line.
About to tee up for some AK sized mini-golf
Lining up the shot...
Four!
[/url]
The second tour on Hatcher was up Hatch Peak, across the road from Microdot. As if to drive home that point that nothing here comes for free (or even easily), the climb involved some bulletproof snow and a rocky scramble, while Alaska's dread beast, “The Nothing”, was unleashed again for our descent.
Navigating the final pitch
Happy to be at the top
I was quite occupied with contemplating the direction of gravity as my one remaining directional reference, and thus the ride down went fully undocumented.
Local Coordinates: 45.598898, -121.185450
Ship's Log:
- AK Odyssey, Week 4: Ping Pong, Mini Golf and the Water Hazard -
Sitting mostly upright on the sleeping platform, facing aft, with my back against the backside of the driver's seat, eating my morning bowl of granola, I see it out of the corner of my eye. A small streak of grey juxtaposed against the colors of Alaskan sunrise filling the van. I know what it is, but I ignore it. Another one zips past, but I ignore it. One more cuts loose. There's no question what it is, and I want to ignore it, but reflexively whip my head to see it in action. Too slow, but it doesn't matter, I already know. It is raining. Again. Inside the van. Once again, the immutable laws of thermodynamics have come to collect their due, as condensed droplets of accumulated van-funk coalesce on available hard surfaces before rhythmically marching off into space. TCD and I quietly complete our morning routines. The mood is accurately described by two succinct words – Over It. But, it is the last day.
One more morning in a cold, stinky, wet, mostly stationary van.
One more trip to the nearly overflowing pit toilet at our campsite.
One more day in moist base layers and boots that didn't quite dry overnight
Is this the #@!hashtag-vanlife advertised in the glossy brochures?
One more day spent climbing the gorgeous mountains I've been reading and dreaming about forthe last decade.
One more day of riding flawless Alaskan powder.
One more day in the state which aptly bills itself as “The Last Frontier”.
One more day sharing a lifetime adventure with a good buddy.
And one more drop dives into oblivion from its roost on the door jamb. This time, I'm quick enough, but it doesn't matter. I already knew.
Our entry to the Alaskan mountains began in a way ominously similar to the Rogers Pass portion of the trip. A few feet of fresh snow sitting on top of rock hard, month old crust yielded little but red flag from the local avalanche forecasters. After grilling some of the local snow jockeys at the mountaineering shop in Anchorage, and some internet weather-nerding in a nearby coffee shop, a rough plan was hacked together that would hopefully see us through the next few days safely.
First up was Manitoba Mountain, near Turnagain Pass. Not too steep, not glaciated, an no major terrain traps. Tree riding is almost nonexistent in Alaska, so we had to settle for glorious, open, alpine terrain. The snow quality was outstanding, but the visibility made things interesting. The bane of alpine snow riding is the concept we refer to as “flat light”. When the mountain air builds a certain amount of haze (e.g., a passing cloud), the ground and sky start trending toward the same color and terrain contours become invisible. Up-down, fast-slow, stop-go all become indistinguishable. The solution? Use The Force or ride by braille. Take your pick!
TCD climbing inside of a ping pong ball on Manitoba -
There wasn't much more that we could get done in the Turnagain Pass area without getting ourselves into trouble, so the circus moved north a couple of hours to Hatcher Pass, which was having the Alaskan version of a low-snow year. Hatcher is a scaled down winter playground for XC skiers, downhill riders and snowmobilers within shouting distance of Anchorage. Everything there has the look and feel of Big Time Alaska, just a couple thousand feet shorter. It is also the site of an historic mining town.
Our first adventure into this craggy little dreamscape involved a delightful pair of chutes off of Microdot Peak. The first lap was properly spicy and delicious. Topping out for our second lap, and aiming for a slightly sportier line, things started warming, roller balls (they look like giant cinnamon buns) started moving, the dreaded flat light scourge (see also; “The Nothing”) began to roll in. Ultimately, we made the decision to shoot a more conservative line.
About to tee up for some AK sized mini-golf
Lining up the shot...
Four!
The second tour on Hatcher was up Hatch Peak, across the road from Microdot. As if to drive home that point that nothing here comes for free (or even easily), the climb involved some bulletproof snow and a rocky scramble, while Alaska's dread beast, “The Nothing”, was unleashed again for our descent.
Navigating the final pitch
Happy to be at the top
I was quite occupied with contemplating the direction of gravity as my one remaining directional reference, and thus the ride down went fully undocumented.
Phoo
Observer
- The Last Dance -
There is certainly something to be said for taking your time, paying your dues, and learning the lessons as a mountain traveler. Each year, numerous backcountry skiers and riders gather on Thompson Pass, just outside of Valdez for a ten day long festival called Tailgate Alaska. Most participants rely on snowmobiles ($$) and helicopters ($$$$) to access their lines, and invest additional large sums of money flying to AK and renting the RVs (more $$$). This year, the festival was greeted by a month long high-pressure/no-snow weather system, accompanied by bitter cold temperatures and howling winds that scoured the earth down to dirt, rock and ice. The Facebook page and Instagram feed for the event were filled mostly with photos of people standing around drinking instead of riding. Arriving about a week after the close of the festival, and having struggled with our own set of interesting conditions for the better part of the last month, the relative merits of “lucky” and “good” became somewhat suspect.
I suppose I'll never truly know the answer, but after swimming through the flattest of flat light on Hatch Peak and spending a day drying out in a nearby budget motel, things started to swing in our favor. The new snow in Thompson Pass (our big objective for the trip) had bonded, that sun was out, and temperatures moderated. Spacepod burned one more booster stage, pushing us the six or so hours from Anchorage to the pass.
Our guide book suggested a run called Cracked Ice as an introductory test piece of sorts for those new to the pass. It has all of the charm and all of the hazards one would expect on a trip to Thompson, but in portions that are easily managed. Fantastic, well preserved snow. Wide open but mellow, alpine slopes. Yawning, Volkswagen eating crevasses. All of these things were promised and delivered on our first day at the pass by the appropriately named Cracked Ice.
It was so good, in fact, that we needed to make the hour round trip into Valdez for a supplementary beer run.
On day two, the figurative training wheels came off, and we made the call to go after something a little bit more ambitious. Our six-ish hour tour took us all of the way up Worthington Glacier, past the ice fall, past some rather hungry looking crevasses, past the helicopter drop-off zones, and up the back-stop peak of the notch carved out by the flowing glacial mass. The reward for this effort was a six mile, downhill ride back to camp.
It's always an interesting day when snowboarding requires ropes and harnesses
Ice fall in the not so distant distance
Suckers taking the easy way
Taking a breather before the final pitch back to camp
Day three, the last day, greeted us with a lovely, van-internal rain shower, and the return of funky lighting. The guidebook suggests a line called Crudbusters, sitting at the eastern extreme of the Thompson Pass bubble, is a good bet when the weather is less than cooperative. That end of the pass sees less precipitation (and hopefully less-flat light) and is not glaciated (and thus free of crevasses). It is worth noting, that at this point in the trip, pulling on soggy, stinky, dirty clothes each morning, while shivering in a soggy, stinky, dirty and also cramped minivan is a supreme act of will. I would estimate that about forty-five or so minutes passed before the thick fog of grump began to lift. Shortly after, our jovial neighbors*, camped across the parking lot in an RV** caught up with us. Shortly after they caught up, so did the clouds and associated flat-light-vertigo. Being the last day in a magical place for all of us, none of us were really bothered by it, and the last trip down was relatively without incident, save for the post hole/wading across the river bed at the bottom of the slope.
TCD with some of our friendly neighbors
Nearing the top of Crudbusters
Lost in the sauce
Back at the cars, we toasted roadside celebration beverages and lounged out for a quick spell before blasting south for the promise of warmth, showers and proper rest.
* To our luck, we were befriended by a group of four buddies from Fairbanks. They fed us grilled salmon, caribou tacos and invited us into their toasty-warm RV.
** No doubt, being in an RV, rather than a steel can the size of a Gemini space capsule contributed to their apparent joviality. My next trip to AK will be a bit more posh.
There is certainly something to be said for taking your time, paying your dues, and learning the lessons as a mountain traveler. Each year, numerous backcountry skiers and riders gather on Thompson Pass, just outside of Valdez for a ten day long festival called Tailgate Alaska. Most participants rely on snowmobiles ($$) and helicopters ($$$$) to access their lines, and invest additional large sums of money flying to AK and renting the RVs (more $$$). This year, the festival was greeted by a month long high-pressure/no-snow weather system, accompanied by bitter cold temperatures and howling winds that scoured the earth down to dirt, rock and ice. The Facebook page and Instagram feed for the event were filled mostly with photos of people standing around drinking instead of riding. Arriving about a week after the close of the festival, and having struggled with our own set of interesting conditions for the better part of the last month, the relative merits of “lucky” and “good” became somewhat suspect.
I suppose I'll never truly know the answer, but after swimming through the flattest of flat light on Hatch Peak and spending a day drying out in a nearby budget motel, things started to swing in our favor. The new snow in Thompson Pass (our big objective for the trip) had bonded, that sun was out, and temperatures moderated. Spacepod burned one more booster stage, pushing us the six or so hours from Anchorage to the pass.
Our guide book suggested a run called Cracked Ice as an introductory test piece of sorts for those new to the pass. It has all of the charm and all of the hazards one would expect on a trip to Thompson, but in portions that are easily managed. Fantastic, well preserved snow. Wide open but mellow, alpine slopes. Yawning, Volkswagen eating crevasses. All of these things were promised and delivered on our first day at the pass by the appropriately named Cracked Ice.
It was so good, in fact, that we needed to make the hour round trip into Valdez for a supplementary beer run.
On day two, the figurative training wheels came off, and we made the call to go after something a little bit more ambitious. Our six-ish hour tour took us all of the way up Worthington Glacier, past the ice fall, past some rather hungry looking crevasses, past the helicopter drop-off zones, and up the back-stop peak of the notch carved out by the flowing glacial mass. The reward for this effort was a six mile, downhill ride back to camp.
It's always an interesting day when snowboarding requires ropes and harnesses
Ice fall in the not so distant distance
Suckers taking the easy way
Taking a breather before the final pitch back to camp
Day three, the last day, greeted us with a lovely, van-internal rain shower, and the return of funky lighting. The guidebook suggests a line called Crudbusters, sitting at the eastern extreme of the Thompson Pass bubble, is a good bet when the weather is less than cooperative. That end of the pass sees less precipitation (and hopefully less-flat light) and is not glaciated (and thus free of crevasses). It is worth noting, that at this point in the trip, pulling on soggy, stinky, dirty clothes each morning, while shivering in a soggy, stinky, dirty and also cramped minivan is a supreme act of will. I would estimate that about forty-five or so minutes passed before the thick fog of grump began to lift. Shortly after, our jovial neighbors*, camped across the parking lot in an RV** caught up with us. Shortly after they caught up, so did the clouds and associated flat-light-vertigo. Being the last day in a magical place for all of us, none of us were really bothered by it, and the last trip down was relatively without incident, save for the post hole/wading across the river bed at the bottom of the slope.
TCD with some of our friendly neighbors
Nearing the top of Crudbusters
Lost in the sauce
Back at the cars, we toasted roadside celebration beverages and lounged out for a quick spell before blasting south for the promise of warmth, showers and proper rest.
* To our luck, we were befriended by a group of four buddies from Fairbanks. They fed us grilled salmon, caribou tacos and invited us into their toasty-warm RV.
** No doubt, being in an RV, rather than a steel can the size of a Gemini space capsule contributed to their apparent joviality. My next trip to AK will be a bit more posh.
Phoo
Observer
Well, that's it for the AK expedition. I'm currently back in the lower 48, in a long radius orbit around the greater northwest region. I'll be here for another month or two, sliding sideways on volcanoes, getting back on the mountain bike, and plotting a course for the next phase of my trek. For an interesting counterpoint on the AK experience, I've dropped some links to TCD's (my touring/traveling buddy) thoughts and photos.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRo-3pyDNLN/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRuQj02jJY9/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRuRPHJjs2a/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRzlUfXDAgt/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BR4cmS8jiCF/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BSIKJ1Kjozr/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BSILt1RjYMz/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BSg-RrGjzEe/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BSwbZ5MjNh_/?taken-by=thecorydog
Thanks for reading!
-Phoo
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRo-3pyDNLN/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRuQj02jJY9/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRuRPHJjs2a/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRzlUfXDAgt/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BR4cmS8jiCF/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BSIKJ1Kjozr/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BSILt1RjYMz/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BSg-RrGjzEe/?taken-by=thecorydog
https://www.instagram.com/p/BSwbZ5MjNh_/?taken-by=thecorydog
Thanks for reading!
-Phoo