There’s still plenty of snow up high at Crystal. The groomed pistes are skiing great, but later in the day yesterday the non-groomed stuff got pretty sticky. Bring your wax.
May26
May25
Crying Like a Girl with a Skinned Knee: Why stoicism isn’t all its cracked up to be
I am tough. I can handle whatever comes my way–whether its a torn ligament, a mouse trying to nest in my hair, or my husband’s brush with a deadly cancer. I can take it.
At least that’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
I’m not sure when I decided I couldn’t show my weaknesses publicly. It has taken me years to learn that sharing my little flaws actually helps me connect with people. Who wants a perfect friend? You know the one. That guy or gal with flawless hair and skin? Chances are if you know someone like that, you secretly hate him or her. My husband reminds me that it annoys him when I’m perfect (although I have to admit that even in this context that perfection-striving ego of mine always loves these comments). He’s specifically referring to my ability to be calm under pressure, tough in an emergency and generally “get all Zen” when the s**t hits the fan. But I’m like a dog working for a bone. I love positive feedback.
I was twenty-two years old when I got my first dose of positive feedback for being tough. Rollerblading was all the rage in the late 90s and I was getting the hang of it. Too cheap to buy knee pads and a helmet, I preferred to roll along the Sammamish River Trail unencumbered by such nonsense, listening to Hootie and the Blowfish on my Walkman and weaving around pedestrians.
Up ahead I noticed a grate covering a drain and figured I’d just ride around it. No problem. The Sammamish River Trail was busy that day. It was one of those rare early summer warm days when the entire population of the Greater Seattle area goes outside to dry out the webbing between their toes.
The grate was just a few rolls away, so I glanced over my shoulder before making my move. Thanks to the rocking tunes in my earphones, I didn’t hear the cyclist as he passed me. He was one of those bearded recumbent guys–all geared out and chill. I couldn’t veer around the grate, I’d have to go straight over it.
I hadn’t yet mastered the brake on my rollerblades, and instead of slowing down, I sped up as if to launch across the four foot expanse. The recumbent guy and I were neck and neck. There was no room for error. I had to go for it. I would have to clear the grate by jumping over it.
I almost made it too.
The wheels of my right blade nearly made it across the grate. But instead of landing of solid concrete, they landed on the drain and wedged neatly between the metal bars. My foot stopped instantly. My body flew forward and I landed hard. My right knee took the brunt of it, and my palms absorbed the remainder of the impact.
It took me a while before I could stand. My right knee was splayed open in three distinct flaps and I could see the white bone of the patella flashing obscenely inside. Later I would find out I’d chipped and cracked the knee cap. But at the time, all I knew was that I was a long way from the car.
A couple stopped to ask if I was okay, their eyes wide and their nostrils flaring in disgust. I smiled and cleared my throat. I looked down at my knee. Blood oozed from the gash, creating a long line that soaked my sock and disappeared into my rollerblade.
“Wow,” the woman said. “I can’t believe you’re even standing.”
I kept smiling. My knee hurt, but she was impressed. I could tell.
“Do you want us to call somebody?” The man asked.
“I’m fine. Really.” I left the couple and started back towards the car. I passed numerous runners and cyclists, each alternately horrified and amazed at my toughness. I kept rollerblading. I put my earphones back in place and held my head up high. Later, my knee would stiffen up and the wound would someday look like a pitchfork splitting my kneecap. But for the moment I was numb, I was headed home and I was tough. I hadn’t cried like a girl with a skinned knee.
Of course now, all these years later, I would have taken the couple up on their offer to call somebody. I would have received a ride and put ice and a bandage on that wound right away. I don’t have to be so tough now. I’ve found that stoicism isn’t all its cracked up to be.
Specifically I’ve found that if you are always tough, then others expect it. No longer amazed by your stoicism, friends are confused when you do show weakness. More than abandoning stoicism I’ve also learned to ask for what I want. If I need a ride because I’ve split my knee open and just looking at the wound makes me want to throw up, I’ll just go ahead and ask for it.
But I probably will, at a later time, look to my husband and ask if he thought I’d “been tough enough”, to which he will roll his eyes and answer “Yes Kim. You’re always tough enough.” Which is yet another reason why I love this man.
May23
Smoothing out the Bumps
The beach before the erosion
We recently took out the breakwater at our lake house. While our neighbors on each side and most of the residents still have sturdy, wave-reflecting walls along their shoreline, we now have a beach. Big waves created by boat wakes and wind hit our beach now and dissipate, the beach attenuating the disturbance and smoothing it out. Instead of reflecting back the chop, the beach absorbs it, swallows it, takes it on.
But there’s a price for this smoother water. The beach is eroding. She can’t absorb all this disturbance without losing a little of herself. The small pebbles that once stretched twenty feet out into the shallow water have disappeared, and the waves are starting to gouge into the log-and-dirt-hillside. We’re losing land.
I haven’t decided if I’m okay with this yet. Last summer I fretted over it, worrying that winter storms would rip away the logs embedded above the beach. But that didn’t happen. The pebbles are now in a state of happy equilibrium. The logs are firmly in place.
I am this beach. I am soft on the surface, attenuating waves and smoothing out the rough parts of our lives. But I, too, have sturdy logs anchoring me to the land.
The beach on a calm day
When I was a little girl, my father drove our K5 Blazer into a pond. He did it on purpose, trying to prove to my mom that this was “not a Cadillac, Clare. It (was) a four-wheel drive vehicle.” The Blazer almost made it, plowing through the brown water and whining up the far side. When it lost traction and slipped backwards, the water poured through the window, where I stood in the “way back” starting to panic. I’ve never lost my fear of bumpy surfaces. Now the anxiety rises with the waves. Riding in a boat on choppy water is so frightening that I have to grip the seat hard to keep myself from jumping out. Evelyn thinks this is funny—that I would rather swim in the waves and chop then smash through them in a boat.
Watching a boat rock at anchor or worse, on a dock, makes me sick to my stomach. I think of all the things that could go wrong–the dishes that could fall out and smash to shards, the books and papers that could skitter across the floor, the little girls that could drown if water poured in through an open hatch.
Our beach is smoothing out the waves. That is what beaches do. These pebbles absorb the power and send the water back out.
I want to learn to do this. Perhaps this summer I can practice this calm, not only at the beach but in my life as well. I will try to be a little bit more like this beach. I will try to stay smooth, stay calm and be the place where others come to feel a little peace.
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May21
Weekly High-Five Report: Liver Day, a tribute to a hero
Whitney and John all smiles after the transplant
Four years ago yesterday my husband received a liver transplant. Thanks to the generous donation by his living donor, Whitney Meriwether, who gave up nearly half of his liver, John is now alive and thriving. While many friends and family stood in the queue to help save John’s life, each one of us was rejected for various reasons. I was a good match but diabetes prevented me from donating. Whitney was rejected twice, but he kept trying. Most people would give up. Most people would tell themselves they tried, patting themselves on the back for the effort. Not Whitney. He figured that with a few dietary changes he could save John’s life. In a living donor transplant the right lobe from the donor is transplanted into the patient and in just one month regrows to full size in both people. It reminds me a little bit of the scene from Woody Allen’s Sleeper, like a nose that will grow back into a person. It’s strange but amazing. And now my husband has a very important piece of Whitney inside him. I’m just glad that Whitney never gave up. The day before the surgery his mom told me that Whitney doesn’t like to be told “No”. Thank God for that. Four years ago today John and Whitney walked out of Intensive Care (well, Whitney walked, John rode on the gurney). This weekend John and I reminded ourselves of our good fortune. He’s alive. He’s cancer-free. He’s still a father, a husband, a friend. If you’ve ever wondered what a hero who has learned firsthand the regenerative powers of the liver does next, check out Meriwether Distillery, a craft distillery making spirits in the Georgetown neighborhood of Seattle. Now here’s a man who knows how to use his liver. Thank you Whitney. High-five brother.
Related articles
- Son’s organ donation saves his mother’s life in Pueblo (denverpost.com)
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May15
Weekly High-Five Report: It’s Not the End of the World
Turns out the Mayan Calendar doesn’t expire at the end of 2012. In fact, according to National Geographic, who funded the discovery, the ancient calendar continues thousands of years.
Well, that’s a relief. I was starting to worry I’d never ski again.
Nat Geo isn’t just spinning out reality shows like Alaska State Troopers and Outlaw Bikers, they’re also allaying the fears of some 21% of the world population that seems to think the world is going to end in an Apocalypse in their lifetime.
A Brave New World
Archaeologists have uncovered an older version of the Mayan Calendar in the jungles of Guatemala, which is much more extensive than previous versions. While it shows something is ending on December 12th, 2012–namely a Baktun or “cycle of time”–something else is starting. Whether it’s just another Baktun or en entirely new age, that remains to be seen. Perhaps this new age will bring along a change for the better. I know we could all use some good news. And just like the dream that accompanies the purchase of a lottery ticket, we now have a little over seven months to contemplate the new age we’ll usher in on December 13th. I’m hoping it looks a little bit like this:
- Global warming ends
- It snows a minimum of 6″ every night in the mountains for the next four months
- A cure for cancer is found
- An engine that runs on sea water is discovered
- I learn to talk to animals
- I learn to surf big waves
That’s just a preliminary list. I have a few more months to dream.
So high-five Nat Geo and all those geeky ancient Mayan scientists/soothsayers. Bravo.
Now let’s stop worrying about the end of an age and start making our new one better.
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May12
Cayuse Pass Open
Cayuse Pass is now open. Check out this snowpack. These plow drivers have been hard at work.
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May11
Spring Skiing: Almost like cheating
Mount Rainier from Crystal Mountain
Luckily for me the splint protecting my thumb still allows me to hold onto a ski pole. With Crystal opening for the weekend tomorrow and me in dire need of exercise I skinned to the top of the ski area today to check out the conditions and test my new splint.
While I might not be ready to haul a 200 pounder down the mountain in a toboggan, I was able to hold a pole in my right hand for the first time since the injury nearly a month ago. For anyone with a superstitious bone in their body, it is interesting the note the date of the fall. It was Friday the 13th.
Unfortunately the surgeries aren’t over for me. I also tweaked my left shoulder that day and now that I have the use of my four right fingers I figure I might as well get the shoulder surgery out of the way.
Still plenty of snow in Green Valley
A day in the mountains is a good reminder. This could very well be the last weekend of skiing this season for me. With sunny weather and warm temperatures in the forecast the snow might melt before I recover from my next surgery. So today I slowed down and experienced every 15 minute segment of the day. It was quiet and buttery and easy skinning.
The conditions are prime right now. The snowpack has cooked down to a creamy, not-too-sticky consistency and my turns down were heavenly. The snow cats were out on the hill, which made for some lovely private groomers for me. It almost felt like I was cheating. Almost.
If this is the last weekend of the season, then so be it. It was worth it. For those of you coming up for the weekend, this will be the best spring conditions we’ve had so far. Not too much has melted out and the snow has finally started a legitimate melt-freeze cycle.
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May8
The Ski Industry: Caught between inbounds and out-of-bounds
The Holy Grail
Crystal’s Hike to the King
It’s no secret. Untracked stashes are the Holy Grail of skiing and riding. People want their own private powder, dawn patrol sessions and access to the soon-to-be-shunned term “sidecountry” (see below). The ski industry is changing—AT gear is hot, split board sales are on the rise and “freeing the heel” is going mainstream. Seems everyone has a transceiver and skins these days.
Whether skinning up the ski area in the morning or using chairlifts to access terrain outside of the ski area boundary, those taking up this new trend in the sport are forcing the hand of ski area operators.
As a skier, I say this is great. I love to ski uncrowded and untracked slopes as much as the next gal. As a ski patroller, I wonder a little if some might venture out when they probably shouldn’t. At Crystal, I’ll be the one to go out with a headlamp after hours to look for them. As a ski area owner, I wonder what it means for the industry.
The ski industry has historically been about uphill transportation. From ropetows to Funitels, one way or another ski areas are in business to get you to the top of the mountain. Say what you will about the present state of the industry—if it weren’t for a need for people to get to the top of the mountain, we wouldn’t be where we are now.
What’s in a Name?
Uphill transportation is the name of the ski industry game
With more people venturing out of bounds, the ski industry (namely NSAA) is taking note and asking questions. Number one, they want to know what to call it. What’s been increasingly referred to as “sidecountry” can be misleading. Does that mean controlled backcountry? Gate-accessed true backcountry? Unmarked, explosive-controlled terrain? Hike to? Chairlift accessed?
Soon the term “sidecountry” will need to be more fully defined. We probably won’t even use the term anymore, returning to the more clear inbounds vs. out of bounds nomenclature. And yet, ski area marketing people love this term because it’s catchy, it’s cool and it’s embodies the zeitgeist of today’s ski consumer.
Number two, the industry wants to know how to let skiers and riders access this Holy Grail of terrain without either ruining the experience or breaking the bank. More chairlifts would obviously ruin the backcountry feel. But purchasing land or adding into a ski area’s current boundary permit might be impossible at worst or very expensive at best. Questions of public land use and wilderness designation also come into play in much of the West. In Telluride a local land owner/real estate developer, Tom Chapman, has forced the ski area to close it’s backcountry access gates into Bear Creek because skiers must cross Chapman’s 30-acre strip at the bottom of the run. Obviously this didn’t sit well with local skiers.
Off-Piste, On-Piste
Europe manages terrain much differently. It starts with land use in the Alps, where the land is owned individually or cooperatively by farmers and ranchers. In the Swiss Alps, for example, cow owners are Kings. The ski company owns the lifts, the grooming machines and many of the restaurants. Some ski areas, such as Val Thorens in France, are actually run by two separate companies—one that runs the lifts and another that runs the ski patrol and grooming. This system lends itself to their On-Piste/Off-Piste terrain management. The named pistes are inbounds. Everything else—including the moguled edges of the pistes—are all “off-piste”. If you get hurt “off-piste” you pay extra for rescue.
Patrol marks everything on the pistes—even putting large pads around the trunks of trees that lie between the piste-markers. Everything else—whether a 1,000-foot drop off at Crans-Montana or gaping crevasse in Argentiere—is unmarked. I guess they figure if you’re stupid enough to go off-piste and kill yourself, then it’s your own damn fault.
In North America, we manage terrain very specifically. Named runs are marked, avalanche hazard is mitigated through explosives and ski-cutting, and expert terrain is signed and often gated. Chances are if you find yourself atop an expert run, you passed by several signs letting you know where you were headed. We mark major hazards, put ropes around big drop offs, use signs and pigtails and reflective tape to make sure skiers and riders don’t accidentally go over a big drop. We pad every tower, whether on a named trail or on a double-black diamond run.
Crystal’s Terrain Management
At Crystal we have compartments of terrain (I wish I could think of a better term than “compartments” which seems like a selling feature of luggage, not a ski area, so I’m open to suggestions). We have our main area—including everything that isn’t accessed through a gate. Then we have Bear Pits, which is surrounded by a rope. The warning signs are all the entrance to the gate, and once you enter, you won’t see any further signage. In Northway we also post signs at the entrance gates, however you will also encounter Cliff signs and Caution signs. Southback is managed differently, with very little “improvement”. We don’t mark much out there other than a few key spots. But we do use avalanche mitigation and we also sweep it at the end of the day. So it isn’t true backcountry, nor does it fall under the suddenly ubiquitous “sidecountry” term either. It is inbounds terrain. But it feels like out-of-bounds, which is increasingly rare these days.
More and more ski areas are offering gate-accessed backcountry, such as Jackson Hole and Brighton. Once you leave the ski area boundary through a gate, you are on your own. Crystal’s “Far North” gates, marked A, B, C and D are signed and managed this way.
Where Do We Go From Here?
These questions remain:
Crystal’s Holy Grail
- What to call the terrain. Do we call inbounds, gated, expert terrain such as Bear Pits the same term as Southback? How does the industry keep the caché of the “sidecountry” terminology and lose the liability?
- How do we as an industry embrace this evolution in our sport while still keeping in mind that this is a business and needs to turn some kind of a profit to continue? In other words, if we’re in the business to provide uphill transportation and people don’t want that anymore, what the hell are we doing here plowing our parking lots and roads and paying employees?
- What can skiers and riders do to ensure their Holy Grail of terrain remains open and accessible?
What do you think? Is this just navel-gazing from an industry insider or questions that apply to everyone? I’d welcome comments, suggestions and discussion.
Related articles
- ‘Sidecountry’ skiing holds more risk (seattletimes.nwsource.com)
- You Should Have Been Here Yesterday (kimkircher.com)
