The Art of Living Simply: A Backcountry Trip Report, Part II

My cousin Johnny G. was cool to share his photos from the backcountry trip.  Rather than typing some overly-worded essay on the ethereal nature of backcountry skiing (did I really write "Gaia's temple" in the last post?  Note to self, cut back on drinking and blogging), I'll simply post up the pictures and let them speak for themselves (well, plus some captions; blogging is by definition narcissistic so I can't help but impart some Woods Hippie flavor).  Enjoy.

Yup.

Dreamscape.

Camping and skiing here is one of the coolest things you can do without involving a 9-iron, pack of condoms, and some illegal fireworks.

We're, like, totally hardcore and all, but you can't argue with chowda' bread bowls and cold pints!

Long distance runner, what you holdin' out for?
Caught in slow motion in a dash for the door.
The flame from your stage has now spread to the floor
You gave all you had, why you wanna give more?
The more that you give, the more it will take
To the thin line beyond which you really can't fake.

Fire! Fire on the mountain!

Saturday was a tryst between orographic snowsqualls and an emergent spring sun.  While the cosmos had yet to declare winter or spring as victor , we as riders won big.

Dear couch potatoes.  It's okay, we understand that you didn't want to miss the next episode of Idol.  We made sure all this powder got skied.  And by the way, while you were letting the television rob you of your mind and an actual life, we were thriving in the woods and continuing the great survivalist tradition.  It's cool though, but don't get mad at us and those like us when this society goes to shit and we procreate with your girlfriend and inhabit the woodlands while you sit uselessly on the couch, trying in vain to click a remote control at a blank TV screen while wondering what the hell to do with yourself...

I should have waited one more week to shave the beard.  It was friggin' cold out.

Winter is but a distant memory here in CT, and Johnny G. is onto the next thing, along with the rest of us.  Marquis nailed a top-10 finish in his first MTB race of the season, and my running shoes have been hitting the trails on the reg.

The Art of Living Simply: A Backcountry Trip Report, Part I

"Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them."

-Thoreau

Perhaps this post should be titled, "The Art of Simply Living".  Either way, the message is the same.  I am pleased to report that the Woods Hippie ski tribe plucked the finest of fruits during a recent extended excursion into the wilds of northern Vermont's backcountry.  In a fitting tribute to Thoreau's notion of economy (please read Walden if you have not already), we resided in a simple cabin with Spartan accomodation and our souls were enriched by tending to our most basic physical needs of food and shelter while living for days on end on skis and snowshoes.  We lived and breathed the ski lifestyle for a few ephemeral days, and, with the cares of a grinding civilization temporarily behind us, our thoughts were able to circle around to the direction of the wind, the condition of the fire in the woodstove, the tilt of windblown icicles on the high-mountain spruce, the interplay of sunlight and shadow on freshly-fallen snow, and...so as not to sound too erudite...the level of beer in the keg.  Replace the Gore-Tex with leather, skis with muskets, and fresh powder stashes with bison and we could have just as easily been a band of spirited mountain men in the pre-colonial past...both scenarios boil down to men thriving in wild pursuit of adventure in equally wild places.

The cabin was at once an incongruity and an extension of the mountainside...an incongruity in that such a crude structure should not reside in Gaia's temple; an extension in that its simplicity somehow just fit in with the woods, a permissible excursion of man's modest need for shelter in a cold place.  In many ways our small cabin was a modern version of Thoreau's; a shelter that serves to grow the spirit of wilderness travelers without unduly imparting itself on the experience.  Except, as Thoreau ultimately discovered, the cabin was so magically simple that we couldn't help but make it the centerpiece of our excursion.

Thoreau harvested beans and we harvested powder.  Other than that, not much else differed.
Kindling still needed to be split in 2011 as in 1845.

The crew was mixed this year with two seasoned vets and two cabin rookies, though the cabin rookies were no strangers to the outdoor lifestyle.  Johnny G. jumped into the fray with a fierce head cold and shone through by tending the fire and providing some rich venison stew.  Jamie joined the party with a 5-gallon keg of Trapps Golden Lager (hauled over a mile from the trailhead by Marquis de Richmond, I must add) and a home-grown ham dinner.  Marquis and I toasted the third successful installment of the cabin trip and lamented the absence of one of the founding triumvirate.  Everyone found a sheer delight in the remarkable late season snow conditions; late season by calendar only...Mother Nature gripped us in the full force of mid-winter with below-zero nighttime lows and howling daytime winds choked with copious orographic snow.

The woodstove stood as the silent sentinel over the day's activities; a source of heat and purified water and a catalyst for conversation.

The day's explorations unfolded with minimal forethought; we suited up and stepped into our skis and snowshoes and struck off on the high mountain trails, guided by the occasional marker until our search for powder and trees found us navigating the woodlands by map, compass, and dead reckoning.  After two years of teasing us with variable snow conditions, Ullr finally blessed us with shin-deep pow on top of a gracious base.  Skis and 'shoes expedited travel, but the base was firm enough to prevent postholing on late night latrine runs...

Johnny G. gettin' his.

By late afternoon on the second day, all parties converged at the cabin.  With woodstove blazing and night falling, the temperatures on either side of the thin wooden walls made their respective shifts, and our attention turned from skis and trees to cold beer and hot food.  The non-campers and spouses out there might ask, "What do you do on those camping trips?"  Jamie succinctly offered, "Mostly burping and farting..."

In all reality, a ski cabin trip is an age-old tradition in the vein of deer camps and fishing lodges.  I won't even attempt an explanation.  Those who know, know.  Those who don't, don't.

Marquis gettin' his.

Then he got an idea.  An awful idea.  The Grinch got a wonderful, *awful* idea!
Looks like all the Whos in Whoville will get their presents this Christmas...

Stay tuned for Part II, hopefully I'll figure out how to embed Johnny's sick GoPro footage.

The Evolution of a Backcountry Skier

If you've had anything more than a passing interest in New England skiing or snowboarding in recent years, you've undoubtedly noticed the blossoming of the backcountry riding scene.  It seems that every internet ski forum has elegantly photographed homages to the skin track and the accompanying backcountry lifestyle, and such popular tomes as Goodman's guide provide the roadmap to the better known off-resort stashes in the North Country.  Now, I realize that the backcountry tradition is strong and longstanding in New England but there seems have been a definite larger-scale acceptance in ski circles of late.  I can only speculate as to the reasons why, but I suspect that outrageous lift ticket prices, crowds, and homogenized resort experiences are contributing to the backcountry migration.  I say "migration" with tongue-in-cheek because in all reality, the masses will continue to ride the resorts with a select enlightened few making the transition the backwoods, so we need not fret about our pristine mountain escapes being overrun by hordes of greenhorns seeking freedom from resort monotony.  I have some confidence in that statement since the average skier, in my estimation, finds his or her way into the backcountry after a long apprenticeship on the groomers and chairlift.  I'm not trying to sound elitist by saying that the backcountry folks are the creme de la creme, but they have almost always sharpened their teeth over years, if not decades, of plying the manicured slopes.  The progression to the backcountry, at least in my case, was the direct result of that apprenticeship.

What is it about Tuckerman Ravine that makes
shorts and long tights socially acceptable?

The ski history of the Woods Hippie began circa 1988 by all accounts, at the tender age of 7 or 8.  Hell, I can't remember that far back but my mother claims to have had me out on the slopes at that point, and who am I to question my mother?  I do remember Mom riding some vintage '70's gear, which wasn't really all that out of date at the time.  Anyways, by the early 1990's my brother was old enough to ski and the three of us graduated from our local slope in central Connecticut to Loon and Cannon in New Hampshire, where I continued my two-plank education in earnest.  As my father reinvigorated his interest in skiing and my cousins came of age, the entire family clan took up the ski cause on the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont.  Indeed, those pre-teen ski trips remain among my finest memories of youth.  As the 1990's progressed, my cousins and I, one by one, grew bored of skiing and made the switch to snowboarding, which is still my snow technology of choice!  At this point we were still shreddin' the ski areas but began exploring the gladed runs and all manner of trailside booters as if it were our job.  When I was a senior in high school, my parents treated my brother and me to a week-long ski trip to Utah where I was greeted with my first experience with deep...ridiculously deep...powder.  My brother, who was still on skis at that point, struggled in the deep pow while I figured out how to surf the shit on my snowboard.  He lives in Salt Lake now, so I guess he got the last laugh there...

Those crazy bastards sledded down Mansfield's Teardrop Trail!
(Photo by Marquis de Richmond)

The college years proved to be a hiatus of sorts from the scene; I would ride when the occasion presented itself but my passions were, understandably, consumed by the college lifestyle and all that entails.  The catalyst for making the hyperspace jump to a backcountry junkie came at an unlikely place - work.  Soon after joining the career world fresh out of college, I encountered two like-minded outdoorsmen in the company with predilections for the snowy season, and the rest is history.  With various backgrounds in snowboarding, alpine, and nordic skiing, we made an instant bonds and immediately began scheming up unforgettable adventures.  All of us had done some winter camping in various capacities (I hadn't since Boy Scouts a decade earlier), but our common interest sparked a fury of gear purchasing, and our individual campcraft congealed into a proficiency that allowed us to forge into the woods unencumbered by trepidation or inexperience.  Together, we pushed deep into the wilds of Vermont and New Hampshire, first on snowshoes with snowboards strapped to our packs, then on waxless backcountry nordic gear.  We made notably stupid descents of such classics as Teardrop and the Mt. Moosilauke Carriage Road on cross country skis, but we also killed it on snowboards at the Birthday Bowls at Smuggs and elsewhere in the Mansfield BC.  Each trip added to our catalogue of backcountry knowledge and ski ability.

Setting camp near Sterling Pond, VT.

Ever on the path of personal growth as snow sliders, we quickly turned to telemark skiing, which gave us the ability to climb and descend on the same gear.  Tele blew the whole thing wide open.  With our discovery of the telemark turn, free-pivot bindings, and climbing skins, we were no longer held back by the technical limitations of nordic equipment or the weight of traveling with snowshoes and snowboards.  And there's no stopping here; no reason to be held fast by a dogmatic attachment to one style of turn (no offense, TTipsters).  Tele is fun as hell and I've finally nailed it after five years of getting schooled by sore quadriceps and wobbly rear skis, but the future is aglow with visions of alpine touring gear and...*behold*...splitboards!  Ah yes, nothing quickens my heart like the thought of ripping turns and wild powder wheelies on a board and then breakin' it down and skinning up to do it all over again.

Morning life at camp on a four-day outing.

Though telemark is here to stay in the Woods Hippie repertoire for the time being, the clan's preference in backcountry accommodations has changed drastically.  The tent, that fabric enclave which sheltered us on many an excursion, has fallen by the wayside in favor of our latest discovery, cabin camping!  Unbeknownst to many, there are numerous backcountry cabins and shelters in the North Country that are available for a nominal or nonexistent fee.  Our latest digs affords us the opportunity to sled in Coleman stoves, lanterns, mini-kegs, and pots of stew and relax in the radiance of a woodstove and some tasteful iPod selections after a sick day of backcountry adventure.  Other than those concessions to comfort, we still have to melt snow and poop in the woods while wearing skis, but the bitter endurance of below-zero nights and cooking on a Whisperlite in a tent vestibule is a thing of the past for now, but not forever!  Consider it a temporary transition from Type II fun to pure unadulterated Type I fun.  The New England backcountry is so diverse that before long, we will shoulder overnight packs once again and strike out in search of the untracked line somewhere just beyond that next ridgeline...

Whisperlite at night.

The rich backwoods traditions do not end with us, the current generation.  Though the apprenticeship never truly ends, the next round of greenhorns always comes up behind us, thirsting for adventure and an escape from the rigors of their complex lives.  My cousin, an experienced snowboarder in his own right, will join the clan this winter on his first backcountry expedition into the wilds of Vermont.  With any hope, the tribal knowledge will pass once again; those little tips such as how to keep warm at night by placing a Nalgene full of hot water at your feet or between your thighs (which, by the way, means you don't have to melt snow in the morning), or how to prime a white gas stove, or how to strip skins without taking off the skis, or how to pack down the snow with skis before pitching a tent, or how to use snowballs in lieu of toilet paper (yup), or how the slope aspect can be the key to a fresh powder stash, or any other of the infinite bits of wisdom that have been accumulated over the years.  To circle back, the great P-tex riding hordes will not move into the backcountry en masse, but there will always be those willing few who love cold nights, spruce-flavored meltwater, hair-raising descents on sketchy snow, and grand fun in the company of great friends.  And that, folks, is the spirit of the backcountry.

Ski Ascent of Ascutney

My partner in ski-crime, Marquis de Richmond, and I tackled a mid-winter ascent of Vermont’s Mt. Ascutney on Saturday amid challenging conditions that would be best described as “skill building”.  The following is strictly a written narrative of our adventure since, in an oversight unbecoming of a blogger, I forgot my camera.

The original plan was to skin up the east side of the mountain via the Windsor Trail, traverse to the ski area trails to scope out the conditions, then bag the summit.  The Windsor Trail follows the north side of a steep drainage, and we immediately encountered icy conditions that we suspected was a nasty sun crust, seeing as how the north side of the drainage has a southern aspect.  After 500 yards, we realized that the icy ascent of the narrow snowshoe path would amount to little more than a death-defying luge run on the descent, so we retreated to the car and decided to evaluate conditions on the northeast side of the mountain via the Brownsville Trail.

We jumped on Brownsville by 10AM and, to our great dismay, discovered that the thick crust was evident on the northeasterly aspects and was probably the result last weekend’s rain.  We pushed through the traverse to Norcross Quarry and reached the ski slopes on the northwest side of the mountain.  The ski slopes were our ace in the hole, our last hope for a shady powder stash but alas, the crust was even more evil here.  Dispirited, we discussed and dismissed the option of summiting via Brownsville for the same reasons we bailed on Windsor.  With the clock pushing noon, we made the ultimate decision to ascend via the Toll Road, which had been tracked by snow machines based on an early morning reconnaissance.  First, though, we patronized the local general store to procure a can or two of celebratory brew in anticipation of a successful summit bid.

The ubiquitous crust did not relent on the Toll Road, but the snow machine tracks eased our upward passage and the wide road eased our minds for the ski down.  The 3.7 miles to the upper parking lot in the col between the mountain’s two summits passed relatively quickly, but our stamina waned in the last miles as our morning forays began to exact their revenge.  Tired, we skinned to the parking lot kiosk and groaned inwardly at the trail sign that indicated an additional 0.7 miles to the true summit.  Having come too far to turn back now, we pushed on and made the summit via the Slot route.  Marquis was fortunate to have full climbing skins and dispatched the Slot, a narrow snow-choked gap in the granite ledges circling the summit, with relative ease, but I was sporting kicker skins and was forced to sidestep with the aid of handholds on the rock.  With our legs thoroughly shelled at this point, we donned layers of clothing, climbed the observation tower, and savored the view of the Connecticut River valley to our east and the rolling tableau of farm and forest to the north, west, and south.  The views further west towards Okemo and the spine of the Green Mountains were obscured by a rapidly advancing snow squall. 

Cooled off by the brisk summit winds and bitter temperatures, we retreated to the cover of the conifer forest beneath the observation tower and cracked our celebratory beers and shared some pepperoni and cheese.  Yeah, yeah, I know, cold beers don’t help much in cold conditions, but we earned them.  Invigorated, we skied off the summit just as the squall struck Ascutney.  The effect was surreal; snow pounded down with vigor and the visibility dropped to nil as we stripped skins and battened hatches for the descent on the Toll Road.  The ride down was fairly enjoyable once we learned to keep both skis evenly weighted; any bias towards one side would result in that ski breaking through the crust and a spectacular crash was nearly always the result.  The squall added enough fluff to the surface so that we enjoyed a few good telemark turns here and there during the 40 minutes or so it took to descend the mountain.  Arriving at the car, we collapsed in a heap of skis and sweaty polypropylene, cranked some Yonder Mountain String Band, and began the migration home.

The day was a prime example of what we jokingly call the Dynamic Decision Matrix (DDM).  The lesson, as always, is that any plan, no matter how well laid, is subject to change based on conditions, and the outdoorsman is wise to heed those conditions.  Though we didn’t get to ski the closed trails at the resort, we did stand atop the summit and gathered valuable beta on gladed lines all over the mountain, the locations of which I will not reveal here.  Go out and recon them yourself…I guarantee you'll find the goods and have a blast in the process.

The Magic of...Magic

Every outdoorsman has his secret stash; a hidden riffle that always holds trout, a stretch of singletrack untread by other mountain bikers, or a stand of oaks too far from the road for the casual deer hunter.  Each stash is a testament to hours of diligent reconnaissance, success after repeated failures, or just plain dumb luck.  Powderhounds are no different.  The hardcore riders at any given mountain will quietly slide away from the lift and disappear into the trees only to be seen some time later in the lift line completely dusted with snow, twigs protruding from their helmets, and ear-to-ear grins plastered across their faces.  The powder connoisseur may spend a lifetime accruing knowledge of which groomers will soften first in the morning sun, which tree lines will go untracked for days after a dump, and which lifts will be empty when others are crowded.  When experienced riders flock with birds of a feather, the conversation inevitably turns to the goods that each mountain has to offer, and the result is a strategic mental map of the best snowboard beta around – unwritten tribal knowledge of the most refined caliber that no Internet forum or ski area marketing campaign can hope to match.

And like the fisherman or deer hunter, the powderhound is wise to keep his mouth shut about his favorite stash unless in the company of trusted companions…loose lips may not sink ships in Vermont but will result in burned-out glades a la Jay Peak.  Therefore, it is with understandable trepidation that I am about to reveal not just a favorite tree run, but an entire ski mountain.


Tucked away in a quiet corner of southern Vermont,  just past Okemo but not quite as far west as Stratton, lies a timeless nugget of ski-dom, a throwback to a better era of low-key lodges, slow-as-molasses chairlifts, bare-bones bars with good beer on tap, and flat-out challenging terrain.  A skier's mountain that refuses to bow to the pampered needs of the ski glitterati.  A place where folks clad in duct-taped snowboard pants, neon CB parkas, greasy Carhartts, or pre-"parabolic" skis are more likely to share a ride on the Red Chair than someone decked out in the latest waterproof/breathable threads with late-model, crud-busting, vibration-dampening, toe-warming, torsionally-rigid yet laterally-compliant (?), ego-inflating gear.  The initiated will instantly recognize my description of Magic Mountain in Londonderry, Vermont, and the uninitiated would do well to take notice especially if they have grown weary of the relentlessly-groomed low angle boulevards that the neighboring mega-mountains pass off as ski trails. 

Here's the deal.  Magic is the ski experience stripped of all the bullshit.  You buy a ticket at a price that most ski areas blew past a decade ago, you ride a slow double chair to the top (the only lift option), and then you shred narrow, winding trails that test your mettle run after run.  Snowmaking covers only a fraction of the mountain so you are forced to develop your skills to maneuver on mixed conditions.  Magic has one functional groomer, so many trails are allowed to mogul up giving the hardcore an on-piste playground.  The payback for your testicular fortitude is a powder day.  The mountain is basically closed during weekdays unless a snowfall of 6 inches or more occurs.  So, you can show up on a Saturday after a Wednesday dump and ride fresh pow if you know where to look.  Even if there is a weekend crowd, the lift capacity is so minimal that the goods take a long time to get tracked out.

The true hardcore will get off the lift, close their eyes, and point to any patch of the woods on the mountain and will be guaranteed a sick tree line if they have enough sack to bash though eye-gouging pines, schwack through stands of striped maple saplings, and drop the occasional cliff.  Most other mountains would sanitize such tree lines so that even the greenest greenhorn  might take a run with little hesitation.  Magic leaves the woods as woods should be and they don't give a shit if you don't have the ability to ski them.  You must raise your game to ski Magic, because the mountain will not lower the bar to cater to your self-inflated "skillz".  Oh, and if you're looking for a "terrain park", keep driving.  If you want to ride some the steepest in-bounds REAL terrain in SoVT that is guaranteed to pucker your sphincter, park your car and come on in.  The snow is great.

If by some chance you desire to take a break from all this madness at lunch, feel free to kick back in the parking lot with a few beers from your own cooler...no one will bat an eye.  Don't feel like buying their meager offerings of horseburger and fries?  Bring your own sandwich and belly up to the bar with a cold pint of Switchback Ale.  Or Longtrail.  Or Magic Hat.  Or any number of other fantastic Vermont brews.  Watch a replay of the last UVM Catamounts game (pick a sport) while discussing the snow conditions with the nearest flannel-clad bearded brewhound.  Only then may you fully enjoy your afternoon, fully fed and hydrated.

Inevitably, the afternoon will slide past like a dropped Telemark ski without a tether, though your legs will be well aware of every passing foot of vert preceding the witching hour of 4:00 that signals the last ride on the Red Chair.  High-fiving like the teenage boys that you still are inside the adult shells, you and your buddies retire to the car and begin the trek home, wherever that may be.  Unlike Okemo or Stratton, you will not be encumbered by ski traffic exiting the mountain.  The Connecticut-bound travelers would be wise to stop at exit 2 in Brattleboro and grab a pulled pork sandwich at the Vermont Country Deli and eat it at McNeil's Pub with a pint of Dark Angel Imperial Stout.  Or, stop at the Scottish pub in Chester just past the gas station on Route 11 and have yourself a sit-down with all the atmosphere that the "apres-ski" scene at a bigger mountain couldn't hope to touch.

Magic is struggling to stay alive as a viable ski area.  This is the type of place where, when you hand over your $58 for a ticket, you can envision the clerk handing the cash to a groomer operator so he can fill the machine with diesel for the next day.  The lift needs constant maintenance and the lodge is in sore need of a spruce up.  The only way to fill these needs is with increased skier visits, and it is this very reason that I am willing to share my secret stash.  The alternative would be for this gem to go bankrupt and close down.  Any true New England rider will instantly recognize the travesty of this fate in the current age of corporate resorts that cater to a tax bracket far above my means.  So my friends, take the ride to Magic.  Love it or leave it, it's the real deal.

Favorite Outdoor Places

Outdoor Blogger Network currently has a photo prompt to encourage bloggers to post pics of their favorite outdoor places.  Here are a few of mine throughout the years...

Mt. Hope Bay, Bristol, RI.

Calves Island, Connecticut River, Old Saybrook, CT.

Mt. Madison, Presidential Range, NH.

Vermont/Massachusetts border, somewhere on a gravel road. 

Lihue, Kauai.

Yellowstone National Park, WY.

Porcupine Rim Trail, Moab, UT.

Mt. Marcy, NY.

Martha's Vineyard, MA.
Thanks to Gut Feeling Charters

Somewhere in the High Peaks Region, Adirondacks, NY.

This blog brought to you by...Black Diamond!
Bolton, VT

Somewhere high on the Ammonoosuc Ravine, NH.

Colorado prairie east of Walsenberg.

Hanging garden near Corona Arch, Moab, UT.

Jenny Lake, Grand Teton National Park, WY.

Cold and wet in Yellowstone.

Missouri River, somewhere.

Mt. Frissell, MA.

Mt. Hope Bay again.  I like the lighthouse.

Na Pali coast of Kauai in a Hughes 500.