Memorial Day Weekend, 2007 -- Goat Rocks ROCKS!

It started out innocently enough...

While hanging out with the tele gods in the White Pass bar a while back, the dad said, "yeah, we're going out to the Goat Rocks for Memorial Day, you should come along." It was merely a polite gesture, and he offered some details like, "just follow our trail" to describe how to get there. I was not put off. Ever since the Super Bowl Sunday tour to Hogback, I've been fantasizing about the Goat Rocks. And the opportunity to go with the tele gods was too good to pass up. They know stuff, and by hanging with them, I'm gonna learn stuff. That's the goal. Plus, I was going to learn stuff in the world's most beautiful classroom. After some hemming and hawing (and recent personal events) I finally decided that I was definitely going.

I started buying maps, and checking out resources -- asking friends who were familiar with the area what they knew. Tried to rope in some participants, but received not so much as a nibble... until Tuesday or so when Emily dropped me a line and said, "it's ON!"

You probably won't even find them all weekend
I asked a buddy of mine who'd been out there not too long ago how to get to Warm Lake. He offered some advice like, "if you don't know where they'll be, you probably won't even find them all weekend", and "take hiking shoes", and "there's a lot of windfall", and "take an avy beacon", and etc. He wasn't discouraging in the least, but none of his warnings were comprehended. I've only hiked once before and that was in the Wallowas. I thought "a trail's a trail". Ok, so we needed to do some route-finding; ok, we needed hiking shoes; ok, some windfall; ok, we'll borrow avy beacons. Nothing sounded like a deal-breaker to me.
I do believe i forgot to pass on some of the beta to Emily, i blame that on my tunnel-vision. We WERE going to the Goat Rocks, we WERE hiking out to Warm Lake, and by god we WERE skiing.
She arrived at my house at 3:30, we loaded the dogs and her stuff and headed for the Trailhead. It's TACO TIME!
There were, no shit, a LOT of rednecks out. I use the term losely to describe people who have big-ass trailers pulled by big-ass diesel trucks carrying big-ass people who ride big-ass ATVs. And they were thicker than the mosquitos. We stopped in at a campground on the South Fork of the Tieton river to empty our garbage (veggie wrap bag, green tea bottle, gum wrappers). We also stopped to use the toilet and this is where we remembered that we forgot to pack toilet paper. Fortunately, my glove box contained some three hundred Taco Time napkins from previous road trips. From that point on, any bathroom action became known by the code word, "Taco Time!" We stuffed the napkins into a pack and ticked "toilet paper" off our packing list.

Do you think this is stable?
Emily and I figured we'd start hiking that night, go as far as we wanted, and then camp. We were equipped. We had everything we needed. We could do it.
We loaded our packs, parked the car, and began marching from the trailhead by around 7:00 pm. We pretty much hit windfall within the first 1/4 mile of the trailhead. This involved doing one of the following things: finding a route around the massive obstacle, doing our best to shimmy over the obstacle, or crawling under the obstacle. Note: the packs with skis and boots on them were, basically, friggin' huge. No option appealed to us as "easy". Even so, we forged ahead.

We lost the trail several times, instead bushwacking in the general direction of our destination. Of course, it was dark, so that added to the difficulty of finding the trail. Finally, at a river crossing, we lost the trail. I mean, we really lost it. No clue where it went, it had all been flooded out. We poked around the piles of debris left by flooding, looking for a clue where the trail might be. I turned and saw some logs that looked suspiciously parallel...

"Hey, Em, I think I found a bridge!" The "bridge" had recently been buried under several logs, many of them as much as 18" in diameter. During flooding the logs had washed onto the bridge and got trapped there, looking like a drunken beaver had tried to build a dam. It was not clear whether the bridge even spanned the entire river, or if it was resting in it's original location or had been washed down. I climbed up onto it, as it was a good 4' above the ground.

"Do you think it looks stable?" asked Em. I was thinking exactly the same thing, waiting for it all to collapse around me. I poked around with my ski poles and stomped on a few boards and logs... nothing moved.

"Yeah, actually, it looks good." and so we crossed the bridge, crawling over logs, easing back down onto the bridge, trying not to roll our ankles or fall into the river. The bridge stopped a good couple of feet from the shore, but it did appear to be a trail on the other side. So, we hopped onto shore and plodded onward.

What the hell is this, the Elk I-5?

We finally lost the trail. It was probably 10 at night, very dark, and we couldn't continue due to massive windfall, and couldn't work out where the trail picked up again. We had enough, and decided to set up camp and continue in the morning.
Murphy and Cricket decided that, in fact, their fun was not over yet, and took off into the night. Great. I hate when they do that. I was relieved when Murphy came back fairly soon... but not impressed with the 23 porcupine quills poking out of his muzzle. As his punishment, I sat and drank a beer while he pondered the meaning of life and porcupines. Em had a pocket knife. After downing the beer, I pinned murphy down and began pulling the quills out. ugh. poor guy. He had them in his lips. All I could keep telling him was, "dude, i've had a bikini wax before, i know how you feel." He took it reasonably well, he only really fought when I had to yank the deep ones. Sheesh.

We all went to bed.

And then woke up to the sound of clattering hooves, breaking branches and the thunder of elk running through our camp. No kidding, i thought they were jumping our damn tent. I was scared to death. Em pretty much slept through the whole thing. I seriously reconsidered the merit of our plan. Should we really be out there? i mean, we were essentially clueless as to where we were, we had no idea where we were going, and there were friggin' mutant human-eating elk stampeding our camp! I lay in bed and said a prayer that went something like, "Jesus Christ what the Hell are we thinking???"
When the sun came up, i got some sleep. Somehow wild animals are smaller, cuter, fuzzier, and tamer in the light of day. We decided to continue.

The Goat Rocks Plan is IN PLAY

Steve and Jesse arrived at our camp just as we were about to throw our packs on. By "throw" our packs on, I mean, one of us helps the other heft it up as high as we can, the other wriggles under the pack, and then there is the "stabilization" dance of standing with your legs increasingly further apart whilst wobbling back and forth and trying to cinch the waist-band of your pack. Not wanting to allow virtual strangers to witness this less-than-graceful procedure, we stood coolly by our packs and made small talk. Steve offered some helpful advice, "go right at Surprise Lake". Cool, ok. They went on ahead. We made sure they were out of viewing range, and then began to "throw our packs on".

The trail was easy to pick up again in broad daylight, as one would expect. Steve and Jesse waited for us at the fork, and pointed the way (right), then blasted on ahead of us. Apparently the rest of the group was behind us.

The Arrival of Robert

The windfall became thicker and heavier, until we found ourselves on game trails more often than regular trails. We crawled up steep banks, trudged through mud, squirmed under fallen trees, and finally stopped for lunch. It was 10:30 am.


The best lunch in the whole wide world is a peanut butter and goo and gummi bear wrap. mmmmmmmm!!! I had two, and they were decadent. We hydrated, snacked, and rested before putting our packs back on to continue the slog. As we began to move out, someone approached along the trail. We didn't recognize him, but after some introductions (and the observation that no one else in the state would be out there with skis on their back unless they were with our group) we proceeded together in search of steve and jesse's tracks.

We did not find them, but at least had another person in our party.

Then we hooked up with the rest of the group

And that took all the guesswork out, but left us with some interesting hiking to still do. We gained elevation quickly and were hiking through mixed snow and mud. The trail was still intermittent and choked with windfall. Em and I changed in to our tele boots. My Chacos had had enough and I seriously doubted their ability to make the trip back. Besides, my toes were cold from the snow.

While we changed, the group got a little ahead of us, no worries.

"I said, come UP the waterfall!"

As we trudged along, looking for our group's tracks, we heard a voice from on high. It was not god, but Johnny. We couldn't see him, but could only hear him say, "Come up the waterfall!" Emily turned to me, "What did he just say?" I said, "I think he said to come up the waterfall." To our right was about a 20' waterfall of snowmelt on rock. We were in stiff telemark boots. With large packs on. With cumbersome skis tied to them.

"What?" Emily yelled back to him.

"I said, COME UP THE WATERFALL." Johnny yelled back down to us. Let it be known, Johnny's voice carries well, and we really did hear him the first time. However, before ascending a waterfall wearing tele boots and giant packs with skis tied to them, a person typically wants to verify that, yes, "come up the waterfall" is what they were directed to do. It was, and we did. The holds were all good, so it wasn't quite as bad as you might expect. However, I didn't expect, ever, to be hiking up a waterfall with a pack on. EVER. This hiking thing is bullshit, let me just say...

At the top we found our group, sitting down, resting.

Rock! OH FUCK ROCK!!!


Those were the words I heard as I looked up the avy chute to see a large, about 20 lb boulder trundling toward my head. We'd just post-holed some 100 yards up a steep, steep chute, literally kicking our boots into the snow and crawling on our hands, just so we could get to a rock-scramble up about a 20' cliff. I decided to wait at the bottom of the cliff with the dogs so they wouldn't knock loose rock onto people, or knock people over. My legs shook in anticipation of the crawl up that cliff with no protection. I didn't dare look down at what my landing might be if I lost my balance. I already knew. It'd be a long, tumbling, icy, fast fall down an avy chute, bouncing off the rock walls on each side, then sliding down a snow-field and into the trees far below. And, if I survived that, my only choice would be to probably try it again. So, imagine as I began my ascent, perched with barely the toe of my boot on a questionable lip of rock and one hand clutching another boulder, when above me I heard the unflappable Kurt sounding very flapped, yelling, "Rock! OH FUCK, ROCK!!!" The boulder bounded toward me, pinballing from left to right, gaining more and more air with every bounce. Shit. If it hit any part of me, even my skis, I was going down. I braced and tried to time my duck if it came at me. It bounced about 8 feet above me and then flew past my head, probably 3 feet away, but it felt like it barely missed me. I felt nauseous. But, then it was time to start the climb.
Turns out, wearing a pack with skis on it, and telemark boots to climb an avy chute is basically a bitch. No two ways about it. It was a total gut-wrenching, terrifying struggle. I hated every second of it. The only thing that kept me from having a total breakdown was the fact that I was with people I barely knew. Em and I still can't believe we did it.

Not too far after the chute, we switched to skis with skins and skinned up to the knoll which was camp.

The Rocky Knoll

We camped on a wind-scoured knoll at the base of Gilbert. It was a lovely location, a pinnacle from which you could look up the valley at Gilbert, or turn and look down the valley at Surprise Lake, and more mountains. Just wonderful.
We pitched our tent in the snow, next to a snag... it was awesome.

Did I mention that we skied?
Yes, really! We slept in Sunday morning, had a lazy breakfast, and headed up the glacier. By then the rest of the crew was returning from Gilbert Peak. Em and I were positive that the Peak was not where we belonged, so we were happy to cruise along at our leisurely pace. The dogs had a total blast, the sun was shining and the trek to the saddle (in the pictures, the saddle is to the viewer's right of Gilbert Peak) was very enjoyable. We got to the saddle after several kick turns and traverses, and rewarded ourselves with a peanut butter and gummi bear wrap. MMMM!!! The north side of the saddle had total boilerplate, and the south side (our side) was beautiful mush. Just lovely. a bit heavy, but SO fun!
We skied back down to camp, enjoying the wind in our faces, the sun, the sweet snow, and the satisfaction of being there.
Em, the dogs, and I all decided to take a nap. Why not? We were on vacation! :)
We awoke at around 6 pm to gale-force winds and snow. And cold, ohmygod, so cold! At night murphy would shiver, so I'd drape my down vest over the poor little dude. Cricket did fine but murphy got cold. So, the wind and snow did not appeal to him in the least.
After dinner, afraid our tent would blow away, I returned to our tent and hung out with the dogs -- listening to my iPod and writing in my journal. it was peaceful and cathartic. very nice.
em came to bed and we nodded off, completely satisfied with our day.
Sleeping in the tent was like being trapped in an accordian. the sides of the tent continually collapsed in on us, then heaved back up against the wind. It didn't stop until about 6 in the morning. My god it was unreal. Everything held up fine though.
Monday, time to head down
Em needed to be home by 7:00. Given the trek to get into the place, we thought it prudent to leave first thing in the morning. Fortunately, Jason and Jesse led us out. We totally ditched any possiblity of trying to follow the trail and just made a beeline for the parking lot. The trip down was a breeze. We skied a fair amount of it, then hiked the rest of the way out. We had virtually no windfall to deal with. We just cruised. It was great!

In Sum
Well, holy shit. I can't believe we got in there. it was a chore. We were so stoked though, and had such a great time, i think I'd do it again! :)

Aneroid Basin, Wallowas. 3/17/2007 - 3/21/2007

Irrigon, Oregon
Nobody goes there on purpose. The town is a backwater, bypassed completely by the east-west running Interstate 84 and the North-South running Interstate 395. Irrigon's close to the Columbia River, just below McNary Dam which employed most of the town's inhabitants during construction. It has a Shell station, a restaurant, and a meandering ribbon of two-lane that connects it to the Interstates. Irrigon has nothing that appeals to three women heading out on a backcountry ski trip.
Well, I take that back, it did have one thing, and that's how we ended up there at 5:30 on Friday night, drinking beer in the back of Kathy's car. We were riding ghetto -- our backpacks, daypacks, duffel bags, ski boots, and grocery sacks filled the back of her SUV and threatened to tumble over the back seat and onto my head whenever she slowed down. We parked outside a "restaurant" but opted for the comfortable accommodations of her RAV to imbibe and people-watch. We waited there for Jamie. Jamie called from Portland earlier in the afternoon, hoping to meet us in Irrigon, if her car could make it that far. She stopped in The Dalles, about a hundred miles away, and had a mechanic look at her car. According to his assessment, it had another 200 miles left before it would shit the bed. We didn't know if she'd even make it to Irrigon, but we chose that as a meeting place and so we waited. And watched people... and sipped Fat Tire beer. It was a typical spring desert evening... warm enough to make you want to take your fleece jacket off, but cool enough to give you gooseflesh when you do shed your outer layers. We looked quite out of place with our car full of ski gear and us still having all our original teeth. Jamie arrived around 5:30 in her rumbling little Subaru Loyale (91). Her long brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she was still wearing clay-covered carhartts that she'd had on to plant trees earlier in the day. She looked every bit the free-spirited hippy/forester that she is. We managed to cram even more bits and bobs of ski gear into Kathy's car AND clear a spot for Jamie to sit. Finally, the "Core Four" as we called ourselves, were on the road to Joseph.



Joseph, Oregon... An Evening of Attrition


We paired up in suites at Chandler's in Joseph. Chandlers is a lovely bed and breakfast on the outskirts of town. From the outside, the house looks like Dr. Seuss acted as the chief architect in a still-ongoing expansion project. Rooms and decks were added to rooms and decks. Ramps led to balconies which led to gates which led to a hot tub almost three storeys in the air, with amazing views of the surrounding mountains. The owners (presumably they are the Chandlers themselves) were unfailingly hospitable and wonderful. And the price -- $60 per suite -- included private baths and a huge breakfast spread. Emily, Kathy, Jamie, and I loved Chandlers, no question.

We used the late night hours to make the final preparations to our packs, and I will now share with you the boring details of those preparations in case you, too, want to take such a trip. What I packed:

• Two pairs of panties (note: 5 day trip)
• One bra
• 3 pairs of ski socks
• Two pairs of long underwear
• Two polypro shirts (both long-sleeved, one turtleneck, one zip-neck)
• One hat
• One bandana
• Sunglasses
• journal and pen and paper
• camera
• some beef jerky
• one snickers bar per day
• gummi bears (one package)
• headlamp
• spare batteries
• Zicam
• Cough drops
• ibuprofen
• toothpaste
• toothbrush
• 20-degree down sleeping bag
• GPS
• soft-shell jacket
• rain jacket and pants
• "hardshell" jacket to go over softshell
• gloves
• glove liners
• helmet
• knee pads
• spare footbeds for boots
• skis
• ski boots
• ski pants
• skins cut to fit my skis
• warm wax
• wash cloth
• wet ones
• matches
• tiger balm (very small tin)
• sunscreen
• lip balm
• 1 nalgene each Hot Damn 100 and Rumplemyntz

I don't remember what else I packed, but I'll tell you that the packing in that list had thinned down considerably from what I originally packed. I ended up leaving probably 10 pounds of extra stuff that I'd originally planned to bring. Thank god, because the next day we had to do a fair amount of bootpacking. UGH!!

Morning has broken... like the first morning

... and it was beautiful. The rest of our party met us at Chandlers for breakfast. Roger, the owner of Wing Ridge Tours, had us all introduce ourselves. We hailed from San Francisco, the Portland area, Sun River, Enterprise, and (ahem) the Tri-Cities. We had a physician, a psychologist, musicians, you name it. Our guides -- Jerry and Paul -- read the weather forecast and Roger explained the avalanche situation, giving us the full run-down of every single storm cycle that had passed through the area since October. I didn't understand what any of it meant, and only wanted to get on the trail and start hiking. To anyone with a modicum of avalanche training or savvy, that portion of the introductions would've been titillating. I will ashamedly admit, it meant nothing to me. Yeah, I was one of those dumb, big-eyed, dorky tourists.

We drove to the trailhead and strapped our skis to our backpacks for the ascent up the trail. We gathered at the trailhead and strapped avalanche beacons on, flipped our ski boots into the 'hike' position (incidentally the 'hike' position is no more comfortable than the 'ski' position, and could easily be nicknamed the 'blister' position), and began the trudge up the 7 mile trail to Aneroid Basin. Jerry led, as he did for much of the trip, and Paul hiked last -- always just a few steps behind me. I was trying to recover from a nasty chest cold, and I blame that for my dismal performance for the hike in.

Our group of 12 (including Jerry and Paul) made the 7 mile ascent in about 8 hours. We started at 4500 feet and arrived at Aneroid Lake at about 7500. My pack probably weighed 50 pounds (we had to carry food in as well). The first two miles we hiked a rocky trail in our ski boots. That was the hardest part of the entire trip. We reached the snow level at lunch time. After that we glued "skins" to the bottoms of our skis, which allowed us to walk on snow with our skis on, and still climb. When we rounded a bend in the trail and looked out over Aneroid Lake late that afternoon, we were dripping with sweat, tired, and sore from our packs digging into our shoulders and backs.

Jerry and Paul, being seasoned guides, immediately started dinner and got us settled into our cabins. We sat around on the deck and drank beer.

Welcome to the Silver Tip

Silver Tip Lodge. My home for the next 5 days. The two-storey cabin accommodated Kathy, Emily, Jamie, and I upstairs, and Bill and Aaron downstairs. They took care of keeping the wood stove going all night, and helping us light our lanterns. Bill and Aaron were the best roommates -- kind family men who quietly ignored our babbling and girl-talk, and silently tended to our various needs for wood heat and white-gas lighting. It could best be said that they 'endured' us. Bill, by the way, was an amazing skier. No one in the group sucked, that's for sure.

The Silver Tip appeared to've been built in the 30s. The entire structure had somewhat of a lean to it, but seemed mostly stable. Our beds were "leveled" on the sloping floor with bits of firewood and old scraps of metal. Every log and chink on the inside of the cabin was inscribed with visitors' names, the dates they visited, and the highlights of their trips.

Your hands are in my hair, but my heart is in your teeth

... and it makes me want to make you near me, always. That would be my song to the Wallowas. My heart is in the toothy spires of Aneroid Peak, Dollar Ridge, Pete's Peak. Be gentle with me.

My first evening at Aneroid Basin I walked down to the lake and stood, looking out at the lake and the surrounding cliffs that formed the basin. I was filled with the same sensation that I got when i did the Rogue River for the first time -- that everything in my life HAS to feed my desire to be outdoors. It reminded me of the last dying gasps of my marriage, when I didn't want a divorce so i could be with someone else -- I wanted a divorce so I could have what I referred to as 'an affair with the planet'. hmmm... MUST find those diaries and remind myself. It is so easy for us to forget ourselves and serve the desires that the rest of society tells us we have, and that the rest of society tells us are important.

climb/ski/eat/climb/ski/eat

So it went. We all gathered each morning in the "main lodge" for breakfast. Jerry and Paul advised us of the weather and the plan for the day. Jerry provided exceptional nursing care for our feet as most of us had developed hotspots and blisters. We practiced locating each others' avalanche beacons, and then struck out on a tour of the surrounding area.

Day 1 we covered about 8 miles, climbing as high as 9000 feet. The sun baked our faces and any bit of skin left exposed and unprotected was burned. My lungs were still searing from the cold I was fighting. But the views.... my god the views.... Endless ranges of snow-cloaked peaks, blue skies, Hell's Canyon in the distance...

We dipped down into two different drainages -- first the Imnaha drainage, and then the Big Sheep Creek drainage. The skiing was pretty alright, but got mushy fast, so we traversed to some north-facing slopes in search of harder snow. By 5:30 we returned to our cabins, exhausted.

I rested on the next day while the rest of the gang went on a short tour nearby.

The following day we awoke to 6 inches of fresh powder and cold temperatures. My lungs were still quite bitter about the amount of work they were doing, but there was no way I could miss skiing in these conditions. We explored some local runs and ended up doing about a 5 mile loop. My favorite run of the day was on the north side of Dollar Ridge where I accidentally kicked off a slab of snow that freight-trained past me but quickly settled. The noise of it scared me, but it stopped as quick as it started and the slab was shallow and appeared mostly harmless... For the more experienced person, it was more a little slough than an avalanche, but my perception was tainted by inexperience and adrenaline. I opted for a straight-ish line that would be hopefully less likely to start any more slides and had the added benefit of making me feel like I went super fast. Weeeeeeeeee!!!!!!

Hot Damn and Farfuknugen!

We busted out the Hot Damn and an impromptu party started at our cabin. The rules were simple -- drink a swig of Hot Damn and then yell "Hot Damn" in your best James Brown impersonation. I thought everybody did that. We burned through the hot damn pretty fast, and then came the Rumplemyntz and hot chocolate, to which we began yelling "Farfuknugen", for lack of anything better to say.

Speaking of funny things to say...
I have a list of the funniest quotes. Emily started writing down everything we said that was funny... admittedly, it was only funny to us... but who else is this blog for anyway?

• "I'm Sweep." Teresa (pretty much all I said the whole time).
• CHICK STARTER! (a sign outside of La Grande -- we wanted to try it)
• "We need to move in unison" -- me to Jamie during an impromptu yoga session.
• "Hot Balls!!" Emily, after a drink of Hot Damn. I think she forgot the words...
• "Emily is turning Japanese!" me to everyone when Emily drank Hot Damn and squinted so hard I thought she'd go blind...
• "How did that get out of the hole?" Jamie and Em
• "I was in my bed blowin' o's" Emily's description of smoke rings had everyone curious
• "Aaron, you know, he had the big magical rod." Aaron explaining the origin of his name
• "It's Biblical, goddammit!" Me, defending those who mocked Aaron's explanation of the origin of his name.
• ... yeah, I'm enjoying myself... Sam
• "I'm just going to let gravity work its magic." Me, setting up my backpack using the same gravity-rig method that i use for rafting...
• "i'm just bracing up against you" me. no clue when or why that made it on the list.
• "Sam's going to take fat out of my ass and put it on my heels." (Me, having hotspot issues on my heels) "But then when you're old your heels will droop." (Jerry) .... "We call that a pinch graph" Sam
• "We can each shake turns stirring" Emily
• "I'm no fucking balletist!" Emily.

I'm supposed to say good-bye... but all I can say is good...

The time came to say good-bye to Aneroid basin, the Silver Tip lodge, and acres of turns still unharvested. Our last day broke sunny and warm. The new snow we'd received made our ski back down to Wallowa Lake easy and fast, we made it down in just 3 hours. I can't really speak for anyone else, but personally I dreaded the return to civilization. Life in a cabin in the mountains, where the only work is to trudge to the top of (yet another) breathtakingly beautiful ridge, where the only marks you make on the world are giant S turns on a white canvas, and the major annoyance in your day is futzing with those ill-tempered and gas-barking coleman lanterns, is a life of absolute bliss. Of course there is more involved... like the need for food and such... and my carnal lust for gear (an addiction which requires a full-time job to support). Oh but if this girl could find a way to make it work...

And so we headed back, back to the bowels of reality, down to the mire of "getting by" and "getting on". I plodded along, as always, at the back of the line, letting the Wallowas etch themselves into my memory. You can't really say "good-bye" so I just said, "good".

And that, my friend, is life.

It's been over a week now since we left. Everything is pear-shaped. I can't stand to interact with people. I'm just clumsy and confused. Doesn't ANYONE want to talk about skiing or mountains or trees or anything? Conversations swirl around me, conversations about people's favorite coffee, movies, cookbooks, dishes, neighbors, work, pet peeves, annoying co-workers, you name it. I understand that these things are of some significance -- it is clear by the blood-pressure of those who speak of these things. But I have nothing to offer. It's like they speak a language that just can't be translated to elevation, trails, turns, under-foot measurements of a ski, telemark bindings, pack weight, or waterproof soft-shells. Soon, I'll get back into the swing of things and be able to speak to topics such as Starbucks vs. Stumptown, I'll know what the latest movie offerings are, and who our weirdest neighbor is (probably me!). For now I'm just clinging to the virginal subject of pure white powder, and pining for more. This was my first backcountry trip, and it has changed everything. Everything.