Ice climbing at Loch Vale with Jay R. – 12/30/11

Jay and I have been climbing together for a few years now so whenever we’re out together it’s like “olde times.”  Despite the brutal and fatal winds, we decided to stick with our plan of climbing at the Loch Vale ice area up in RMNP.  Getting out of the car at the TH proved to be one of the bigger challenges of the day.  Hurricane-force winds have a tendency to do that, stripping a climber of all motivation.  The forecast wasn’t pretty but we made a go of it anyway and, as so often happens, fortune favors the bold: we had a great day of climbing!
It’s been a number of months since Jay was last climbing so we started on the easy “Mo’ Flo’ Than Go,” which Jay quickly and easily demolished under a flurry of well-placed ice tool placements.  After a couple laps, we climbed the easier upper tier of the same route to get in some rope-work/descending practice for Jay.  Next, we climbed a few variations on and near “Crystal Meth,” a longer, steeper, harder route just a couple hundred feet away.  Blood stains spattering the ice from a previous climber’s battle gave the climb an intimidating feel but, in the end, Jay emerged unscathed.

Arms flaming, calves pumping and…what’s this, hot?  Yes, the winds had died down and temps were downright balmy for ice climbing.  We ended the day with a couple laps on the better-than-it-sounds “Lochluster” route.  On our way back to the main trail, we met our friends Victoria and Cory (the only other climbers we saw all day).  In the end, the weather cooperated and we had another awesome day of ice climbing in the Park.

Keyhole Route, Longs Peak – August 2, 2011

Pat and Dale Ralston, hailing from Louisville, KY, heard about me and the Colorado Mountain School through a mutual friend.  They’d been thinking about attempting the Keyhole Route on Longs Peak but were apprehensive about climbing it on their own.  The Ralstons contacted me early in the summer to set up a climbing date and ask a few questions.  Through our correspondence, I figured them to be fit, athletic hikers with lots of previous experience hiking around RMNP on other hikes and peaks.
We met in Estes at 1am to grab the technical gear and then drove to the TH.  We started hiking around 1:30 and were soon above treeline.  A large group of teenagers were leap-frogging us throughout the morning as we made our way up the trail.  As we neared Granite Pass, a few of the kids asked me what I thought about the weather.  Clouds obscured the stars and certainly looked foreboding enough but I felt confident in our pace.  We kept going.
We enjoyed a beautiful sunrise at the Keyhole itself but the mists moving over the Diamond and summit suggested that we keep moving.  The route overall was dry but heavy rains from the day before made things more wet than usual.  Where this would have the greatest impact was in the Trough where loose rock is already an issue.

We put on our technical gear at the Keyhole and were soon roped up as we passed through the Ledges where the passage of thousands of climbers has polished the rock.  A fatality here last year has prompted me to treat this section of the route more cautiously so I gave Pat and Dale an attentive belay as they climbed.  The Trough was as loose as usual but being early on the route had its benefits.  Aside from a few other climbers, we were alone and without to need to worry about climber-generated rockfall.

We roped up again at the top of the Trough and carefully crossed through the Narrows.  Soon we were scrambling up the Homestretch but the altitude forced a slower pace.  Nevertheless, we reached the summit at 8am, 6.5 hours after starting from the TH.  There are few pleasures greater than helping my guests realize a goal, especially one they’ve been focused on for so long.  It it such a joy to share a summit experience with people like Pat and Dale.  After hugs, handshakes, photos and 20 minutes of soaking up the 360-degree summit views, we once again roped up and began our long, and thankfully uneventful, descent down.  After a vertical mile of climbing, descending 5200′ can seem like an eternity but the Ralstons’ hiking skills and fitness kept us moving.  In fact, I think that we went faster as we lost elevation!  We reached the TH, and respite for the knees, at precisely 12.5 hours after starting our day.  Thanks goes out to Pat and Dale for sharing a summit and a beautiful day in the mountains with me!

Mt. Rainier – May 22-25, 2011

Not too much to be said other than we (my brother Daniel and I) were blessed with ideal weather and reached the summit quite easily via the Ingraham Headwall/Disappointment Cleaver route.  Our original plan of ascent (Emmons) was stymied by the trailhead being closed, unreachable due to unplowed roads.  With neither of us having been on the mountain before, we weren’t bummed to just check out the standard route, even if it was with lots of other folks around.
Day 1 – Skinned up to camp Muir after a relatively late start, taking us 4.5 hours.
Day 2 – Alarm set to PM instead of AM so we overslept and got a late start (again) for the summit; left camp at 3:45, on the top around 8:30.  Hiked/skied back down to Muir, melted more snow for water, and then continued skiing over the Paradise Glaciers back to the car.
Day 3 – Left the Paradise TH around 6am and skinned up the Nisqually until near white-out conditions, moderate winds, and heavy snow made bailing the more prudent option.  We skied out the Nisqually to the bridge, skiing well over 3000′ in less than 3 hours round-trip, and hitched back to the car.
With poor weather remaining in the forecast, I was happy to pull the plug, go watch Pirates of the Caribbean and eat sushi.  So, a quick 5-day trip resulted in nailing the weather, finding good conditions and being reminded (again) that I’m glad I don’t guide on Rainier for a living.  I had an awesome time hanging out with my brother!

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Adventure on Notchtop

“Thunck,” “chk-chk.”  “Thunck,” “chk-chk.”  We’re on our second pitch of a beautiful mixed alpine route in RMNP and I’m leading up relatively easy ice.  In the moment, I hear nothing, think nothing, feel nothing except the rhythm of my body’s movement, a movement I know well: the rhythm of ice climbing.  Each swing of the tools elicits a solid “thunck,” followed by two quick steps of the feet, “chk-chk.”  I waste no time looking for footholds or analyzing hand sequence, as I would do rock climbing, but just plug away in an almost effortless series of swings and steps.  I just climb and occasionally stop to place an ice screw.  Suddenly Karsten starts yelling…

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Karsten and Lindsay, in town from North Carolina, are fellow AMGA-Certified guides and my partners for the day.  They were looking to do something in the Park and my plans for Indian Creek had just been canceled, so I’d suggested we climb the 1000′ Northeast Face of Notchtop, a relatively easy route (5.7, WI3).  The forecast was good and it seemed this would be the last good day before a week-long storm blew in and made winter alpine climbing in the Park more miserable than usual.  Confident in the forecast, we got a relatively late start and didn’t start the route until around 11:30am despite hiking “guides’ pace” on the approach.
Most of the lower face involved easy snow climbing up to 40-degrees, with a bit of 4th-class rock scrambling, before the real climbing began.  Given the thin nature of the first pitch, its unknown length, and its relative difficulty, we’d decided to “caterpillar” the ropes.  Karsten would lead on one 70-meter rope, Lindsay would go second and drag the second rope, and I’d come up last.  Slow, for sure, but safe.  As anticipated, the first pitch was the hardest due to thin ice, mixed moves and sparse coverage but Karsten led us through.  As he climbed, the weather began to deteriorate.  At first, it was just graupel bouncing down the rock but after five minutes it turned to actual snow.  Soon I couldn’t see more than 30′.  Lindsay started climbing and that’s when the sluffs began.

As is my lot in life, I was standing gloveless and holding my thermos of tea when the first big sluff came over the cliff above and landed directly on me.  A rush of air and a hiss was all the warning I had before my jacket was filled with falling snow from the hood down.  My insta-frozen hands stabbed for my puffy’s pockets only to find them, too, filled with snow.  The next five minutes was spent in a flurry of shaking, twisting, jumping, brushing, and flapping to rid myself and clothing of the now-melting snow.  Now you may wonder why I didn’t vacate my position but, in my mind, it was either the “occasional” neck-numbing sluff or stand under Lindsay and risk getting hit with falling ice.  So I stayed and warmed myself by practicing my most alluring dance swaggers and jumping-jacks.

If that first sluff was annoying, the second one was mildly terrifying.  As luck would have it, I was flapping my puffy’s hood free of snow when the sky seemed to darken above me.  I stopped mid-flap, holding my hood open with bare hands as if to say, “Here I am,” as I looked upwards at the descending mass.  I dove for my shallowly-placed ice tools, tucked up against them and held on as the torrent of snow tried to rip me from the ledge I’d stomped in the snow.  Finite eternity passed and I remained on the mountain…once again looking like the Michelin Man, my jacket stuffed with snow.  I tried looking on the bright side, at least there were no rocks in the sluff.

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Midway up pitch two, I hear the wind roaring over the Continental Divide 500′ above me but it’s perfectly windless where I am.  It’s stopped snowing finally but not before depositing 6″ in an hour, we later found out.  The sluffs have cleared out a pathway up the route, exposing the ice underneath.  “Thunck,” “chk-chk.”  I am where I love to be, in the moment, focused and finally warm again.  “Thunck,” “chk-chk.”  The cool, thin air at 11,500′ doesn’t phase me, the byproduct of living, working, and playing in these mountains 300 days a year.  “Thunck,” “chk-chk.”  For a moment I indulge myself, marveling at my mastery of this environment…a very brief moment.
“Big one’s coming, Andrew, big one!  BIG ONE’S COMING!!!”  I hear Karsten yelling at me but it takes a few seconds to register.  From their position, Karsten and Lindsay must be able to see something I can’t.  I arch my back to peer up and see another large sluff pouring down our route!  With only seconds to react, there’s no time to place a screw and I’m 20-30′ above my last one.  I move to one side as quickly as I can.  “Thunck, thunck, thunck,” I swing my tools in and then…”THUNCK, THUNCK,” swing them harder.  Visions of getting avalanched off the route race through my mind but there’s nothing more I can do.  I tuck in, bow my head, and hold on tight as the first chunks of snow start to pelt me.

Somehow I’m in luck.  I’ve moved just far enough to the side to avoid the main flow of snow.  Again, eternity passes in what is probably only 15 seconds.  I haven’t quite panicked but am frozen in place, waiting for it to be over.  “THUNCK, THUNCK, THUNCK, THUNCK.”  What is that?  Oh…it’s my heart pounding in my ears and I’m breathing really hard.  The snow stops flowing past me and I quickly drive in a screw, suddenly relieved.  “Ha,” I think to myself, “I live!”  Well, it’s only up from here so I climb until I run out of rope.  I build a 3-screw anchor, yell off-belay, and put both ropes on belay to save time on this easier, more open terrain.  As Karsten and Lindsay climb I realize what’s happening above us.  The new snow that was on the face has already sluffed off and it’s sunny and clear, giving us the illusion of safety.  But the 60mph winds tearing at the ridge above are depositing much more snow on the upper Face than we’d realized.  Periodically, the upper bowl sluffs and just entrains more and more snow as it descends.  At this point, going up will be safer than going down.

As I’m thinking this, I begin questioning the integrity of our anchor.  It’s three screws but one is 13cm and the other two are 10cm, the smallest size made.  They’re placed in a solid-looking slab of ice, properly spaced and equalized.  But occasionally I feel the ice popping, cracking and shifting at my feet.  With new snow covering everything, it’s difficult to tell what exactly I’m anchored to.  I keep the belay tight.  As soon as Karsten reaches the belay, I ask him to put in another screw 5′ away from our primary anchor…just in case.  I must seem paranoid but my nerves are shaken.  When Lindsay reaches the belay, they both hand me all the rack…I guess I’m leading again.

The next pitch is only 100′ but I’m plagued by the thought of another sluff catching me in the unprotected terrain before the next anchor.  It’s a difficult choice: I can either climb fast without stopping to place screws but risk a huge fall if a sluff does catch me or I can stop to protect myself but risk more time in the danger zone.  I do both by climbing fast and drilling in a couple screws as I leave the belay.  My lungs hurt and my legs feel like lead, so tired.  I just want to stop but some intuition drives me upward without resting.  I’m maybe five steps from the safety of the next anchor when Karsten yells again, “Here comes another one!!”
I dive upward, drive both shafts of my tools to the hilt, and get small.  The sky gets dark and once again I feel the snow tugging at me but, once again, I’ve managed to find a spot just right of the main flow.  But my thoughts are not for myself.  I’m thinking of Lindsay and Karsten at the last belay, getting pummeled by the debris, getting knocked off their stances, falling onto the anchor.  I hear myself praying, “Please let the anchor hold, please let the anchor hold.”  If it fails, we’re all done for.

The avalanche turns from a loud hiss to a roar, deafening as it tears past me.  All I can do is hold on and wait.  Then, sort of anticlimactically, it’s over.  I hear someone yell, “Are you alright?”  “Yes,” I yell back, “Are you guys ok?!”  “Yeah, we’re good.”  I fire in a 4-piece rock anchor, all solid gear but I’m scared now, and I feel a trembling in my legs.  It’s not the standard “sewing-machine” or “Elvis” leg syndrome you’ll get when finding yourself at a hard move or scared.  This is somehow deeper, completely emotion-driven and uncontrollable. I’ve felt it once before, when climbing “Smear of Fear” on Longs Peak and the ice climb “Wrecking Ball,” collapsed as we started up the second pitch of the Smear.  I thought we were going to die, that the Smear was going to collapse next, and I just started shaking.  Now on Notchtop, I know we’re fine but I can’t stop the shaking.  It is, literally, awesome and weird.

When they reach the anchor, I apologize to Karsten and Lindsay, feeling our predicament is my fault.  I query if either of them want to lead the next pitch but, I know, it’s mine.  It’s the steepest pitch but it’s all ice and should be quick.  Once again, all I can think about is getting flushed mid-pitch but I just try to climb fast and efficiently.  Over the top, I race the last 100′ to another solid rock anchor.  My partners follow without issue.  The following two pitches are also uneventful, mostly steep snow, rock, and shrub climbing.  And then it’s over.  We’re in the long descent gully, laughing and relieved.  It’s just a 1000′ of 35-to-40-degree snow, some down-climbing, and then we’re back on flat ground.  The winds have their way with us as 40-50mph gusts rake the earth clean of fresh snow but we’re safe.
As we walk back past Lake Helene, I look back up at the Face and I remember that brief feeling of mastery.  I scoff at myself.  There is no master in the mountains but God and the mountains themselves.  The Northeast Face is an easy climb by most standards, something I’ve considered soloing many times.  But this time, on this day, I was reminded that the mountains don’t care what your ability is, how bold you are, how easy the route is or how many times you’ve climbed it.  For better or worse, that’s just the way it is.

Pagoda’s “N. Buttress Direct” (5.7) – July 24, 2010

On Friday afternoon, Grant and I hiked in to the upper reaches of Glacier Gorge’s long alpine valley.  Our objective: Pagoda Mountain’s “North Buttress,” a 5.7 ridge route.  I’ve been guiding in the Park for nearly 5 years and Grant has been climbing in the Park for more than 20 years.  Yet neither of us had climbed this route nor even set foot on Pagoda’s summit, though we’ve climbed all around it on Chiefshead, Longs Peak, and Spearhead.  So up we hiked, eventually setting our bivy close enough for quick access to the base of the route for the next morning. 
We awoke to a thick, wet mist enveloping the entire Glacier Gorge.  Everything was damp, nearly dripping wet from the cloud.  Back to bed.  An hour later we got up and enjoyed an amazing sunrise as the mist drifted in and out around the summits of McHenry’s, Arrowhead, and Spearhead.  Soon we were off, boulder-hopping our way to the shores of Green Lake and beyond to the base of Pagoda’s long NW Face. 
The standard “North Buttress” starts quite high, requiring an additional 30 minutes of painful hiking to get to the base of the route.  Instead, we opted to add some pitches by doing a more direct start.  This slowed our progress, sure, but we got in a lot more climbing which any climber finds more enjoyable than hiking.  Having no prior info on this part of the mountain, we just made it up as we went along.  We roped up low on the easy-5th class slabs and just stretched the rope out.  The difficulty slowly increased as we ascended.  Another shorter pitch (130′) took us to the base of a steeper wall.  From below I’d seen cracks through this steep face but upon closer inspection these were mere seams or tiny, moss-choked cracks.  A little gardening with the nut tool revealed a bomber anchor below this steepness, thankfully. 
We thought about traversing left to easier ground since we were climbing into unknown terrain but I decided to take a look right of our belay.  On went the climbing shoes…this was going to be harder climbing.  I’d spied a weakness from below and, fortunately, found protection as I followed a flake system that took me through a short chimney and onto a beautifully blank granite face.  Up another 50-60′ and I reached a small ledge 150′ above Grant’s stance.  Another 100′-or-so of climbing took us somewhere in the vicinity of the standard start of the “North Buttress” route.  Sweet!
From here it was easy going, cruising up a series of left-facing dihedrals and the occasional mini-roof.  The quality of the rock wasn’t as good as below due to scruffy lichen but at least the route-finding and protection was easy.  As we climbed along the ridge, we climbed into the sunlight and warmth.  Watching Grant climb out of the shadows I was reminded of Pantera lyrics from “Cowboys From Hell:”

Under the lights where we stand tall
Nobody touches us at all

So out of the darkness and into the light
Sparks fly everywhere in sight
From my double barrel, 12 gauge,
Can’t lock me in your cage

Watching Grant climb and singing these lyrics to myself, I was reminded of why I love to climb.  I love the freedom of being alone as a small team, self-sufficient and decisive, standing apart from the norms of everyday life, making our own way, sharing something sacrosanct and rare.  As climbers we are often viewed as foolish or, at least, a little odd.  So are all mystics.  And such we are, communing with the divine nature of the mountains, returning with a glow on our faces, babbling to others about insights into mysteries that transcend ordinary human knowledge.  Sure, we’re weird.  All passionate people are in their own way.

We finally reached the “crux” of the route but found the climbing easier than our additional pitches now far below.  Still, the climbing was steep, the rock was good, and the views were amazing.  Another short pitch took us onto a narrow, jagged ridge of rock that would take us to the summit.  From here the climbing was much easier, the approach shoes went back on, and we scrambled to the summit.  At this point the technical climbing was over and we began a long and tedious descent back into Glacier Gorge.  Reaching the valley floor was like entering the gates of Shangri-La: green grass, alpine flowers, gurgling streams melting through the lush tundra, sky-rocketing peaks surrounding us, and huge boulders all around.  I think I could live up there. 

But a couple of hours later we were back at the trailhead, ready for our flip-flops and beer.  While perhaps not the best alpine route in the park for the grade, the N. Buttress is definitely a worthwhile route.  For a couple of guys who’ve done most of the moderate alpine routes in the Park, we were pleased with our choice to climb Pagoda and I would certainly do it again.  This route stands as a testiment to the amount of unclimbed and relatively unknown rock in the Park.  For those willing to travel the less-beaten path, there are infinite alpine possibilities up here.

Kieners, Longs Peak–July 20, 2010

We met at 1am in Estes Park, confirmed we had the needed gear, and drove off into the night.  Steve and David had been in Estes a total of three days, fresh in from New York City, and were acclimatizing as best they could.  Two days before, on the 18th, we had driven up on Trail Ridge Road for easy access to rock, snow, and altitudes exceeding 12,000′.  We’d worked on ice axe and crampon techniques, climbed some steep snow, and then climbed a 400-500′ ridge of technical rock below the Rock Cut.  Kieners isn’t an easy route, demanding a wide variety of skills, but after seeing these guys in action on the 18th, I knew they’d do great.
We began hiking at 1:30am and by 4:30am were gearing up at the base of Lambslide, a 40-45 degree couloir that accesses Broadway Ledge, the middle portion of our route.  Temps that night never reached freezing so Lambslide was still soft but that gave us good edging and steps most of the way up.  Sunrise at 5:40 greeted us on the southern edges of Broadway, where we stopped to soak up the rays, rest our legs, rehydrate, and get a bite to eat.
Broadway is amazing!  The further along you go, the greater the exposure as the Lower East Face drops precipitously away below your heels.  We enjoyed dry conditions all the way across to where the Ledge intersects with Upper Kieners.  Soon we were climbing Longs’ perfect, dry granite in one of the most amazing settings in the Park.  400′ of climbing took us through the crux of the day and into the fatiguing scrambling that would eventually deposit us on Longs’ broad summit.  Perfect, clear, warm, calm weather allowed us to revel in the summit views for nearly 30 minutes.  The Front Range far below was socked in under a cloud all day; to our east the valleys and plains were covered under this blanket and made us seem so much higher.
Then we were off, descending the North Face, another technical route.  Careful scrambling above the 2000′ Diamond brought us to the first of our rappels.  Steve and David cruised through with no problems and we were able to pack away the technical equipment while checking out the stunning vista from Chasm View.  The altitude was finally catching up with Steve and David so we hustled down to the Boulderfield and then to the trailhead.  Our round-trip time was just under 13 hours, an excellent time for any roped team especially for guys from sea level.  The weather couldn’t have been better, the conditions were great, and we had a great day enjoying a fun climb on an amazing peak.

Ski Guides Course – Wasatch, Utah 2010

It’s been a couple of weeks since the SGC wrapped up, which has allowed enough time for reflection (despite it being a busy two weeks).  For 12 days, a group of 12 guides from around the country got together to train in the Wasatch Mountains just east of Salt Lake City.  For some of the guides, this was their first AMGA training and served as an intro to the professional guiding world.  For me this course was more of a review as well as a necessary step onwards to the Ski Mountaineering Guides Course and the final ski certification exam.  Despite already having ski guide training and having guided ski outings for quite a while, I still walked away from the SGC with a fair bit of new knowledge.  It just goes to show there is always something more to learn.  You only stop learning when a) you stop paying attention or b) you think you already know it all. 

Personally, I was relieved that we spent very little time on avalanche education during this course.  All of us were required to have at least a base-level understanding upon enrolling and I wanted to spend as little time reviewing this as possible.  Our instructors, Amos and Peter, did a great job of keeping the learning moving forward by refining our ski technique, introducing some hard skills, and mixing in the oft-overlooked soft skills as well.

The first couple of days were spent at the Canyons ski area near Park City.  Here we focused on turn-types, speeds, instruction, and analysis of balance through edge-control, rotation, and pressure.  Having only one ski lesson in my life (earlier this year), this was valuable critique of my personal skiing style.  This definitely helped me to refine what I’m already doing and become more confident on two boards rather than one (I’m a snowboarder at heart).  We also spent time focusing on down-guiding which is, for me, one of the hardest components to guiding on skis.  Everything and everyone is moving really fast compared to climbing and ski guiding requires a balance between safety and keeping a flow. 

After our resort days we had a couple of skills days where we focused on track-setting, pace management, spotting kick-turns, anchor-building, short-roping and rescue-sled construction.  We also did a couple of shorter tour days; one was an instructor demo day on Gobblers Knob and the other was spent picking lines in Wolverine Cirque. 

Guiding other guides is definitely the hardest guiding around since everyone does things differently, has strong personalities, and speaks up when they disapprove.  Still, Peter did a fine job and we managed to skin up Gobblers via its NW Ridge and then ski down its West Face in surpisingly good snow.  Couloir skiing is the name of the game in Wolverine Cirque where we were able to focus on some of the more technical skills (ie, skiing with a rope on) in a couloir named “Tips and Tails.”  This 50-degree couloir is aptly named because your tips hit rock on one side and your tails on the other.  We wrapped up the course with a 3-day/2-night trip into the Uintas, a mountain range further east of the Wasatch.  The terrain was much more like the Front Range backcountry I’m used to and, coincidentally, so was the snowpack.  The focus of this trip was to ski with heavy packs, run some beacon drills (my time was 5:50 for 3 beacons), refine winter camping skills, construct snow shelters to sleep in, and assess overall fitness, all while guiding each other around.  To me, this trip really separated those who’ve done a lot of guiding from those who are just getting started…on many levels.  Some people struggled to read a map, read the terrain, or read their “clients.”  Others simply struggled with fitness.  Guiding, training, and playing with CMS guides has definitely helped me in all of these areas and it was an encouraging way to end the course. 

There were many highlights to the SGC but the best day for me was an ascent of Superior’s long East Ridge and the beautiful skiing down its North Face.  We chose more technical terrain to allow for rope-work; short-roping on snow-covered rock in crampons with skis on your back is quite a challenge at times.  Higher up, we skinned along the ridge until it got too steep at which point we holstered the skis once again and blasted for the summit.  I was given the honor of guiding the descent down a fun, 40-degree couloir into a wide-open apron.  The snow, the terrain, the weather, the partners…it was all awesome!  It was definitely the best day of the course. 

Overall, this was a really good course.  I say that because in addition to learning some new things we also had a lot of fun skiing and hanging out with other guides.  As is the story of my life, as soon as we left Utah the snow started falling in epic quantity.  One local estimates that in two weeks they’ve received over 150″!  Can’t wait to go back there and ski more of those beautiful mountains.

Outfitting Dynafit with Wider Brakes

It seems every year ski manufacturers produce fatter and fatter skis. Gone are the days when 88mm underfoot was considered a good backcountry width. These days, most people are rockin’ 100-110mm for their go-to backcountry ski. I picked up a couple of wide skis myself this season: a pair of Black Diamond’s “Justice,” (115mm) and a pair of K2’s “Darksides,” (130mm). As with most things, fatter means heavier and I was looking for a way to take these muffin-tops into the backcountry. The obvious answer was Dynafit bindings.

 

Pic. 1

With the “Justice,” the 110mm Dynafit binding brakes were just wide enough to work. However, the obesity of the “Darkside” rendered Dynafit’s binding selection obsolete. If I was looking to mount a Dynafit binding on these fatties, it looked like I was going to have to ski with the dreaded ski-leash, a serious backcountry fashion faux pas. But then I found out that I could replace Dynafit’s brakes with a pair of Salomon’s basic 130mm brakes and, with a little bit of finagling, save myself the embarrassment of tying myself to my skis. This was news to me and maybe to you as well, so here’s the step-by-step process (complete with photos) to help you create the ultimate backcountry powder set-up:

Pic 2

Step 1: Get your skis mounted with/without the Dynafit brakes (mine were without) but hang on to the two brake assemblies because you will need them.

Step 2: Buy a pair of Salomon’s 130mm brakes (has blue “legs”) (pic. 1, here shown already disassembled)

Step 3: Unscrew the rear DIN adjustment all the way (pic. 2)

Pic. 3

Step 4: Make sure you remove the inner plastic cap (shown here) before pulling off the heel piece from the main assembly (and don’t lose it!). (pic. 3)

Pic. 4

Pic. 5

Step 5: Break the legs off your Dynafit and Salomon bindings. (pic. 4) I know, it’s scary to break something that’s brand new and perfectly functional but it has to be done. Besides, you’re not really breaking anything, more like “disassembling.” And it’s actually not that hard to do and the brakes slide out easily once they’re disconnected. (pic. 5) Just don’t be too rough and bend any metal.

Pic. 6

Step 6: Now for the really scary part. Find the right sized drill bit (make sure it’s not too big) and drill out the leg-holes on the Dynafit assembly (pic. 6). The reason for this is that the Salomon brakes are a bigger diameter than the Dynafit brakes and won’t fit otherwise. It helps to have a new, sharp drill bit too.

Step 7: Reassemble the Dynafit brake piece with the Salomon brakes one leg at a time (pic. 7). This is like putting together a finely-tuned puzzle, requiring patience, finesse, and a little bit of oomph. Once assembled, the brake assembly should look like this: (pic. 8 )

Pic. 8

Pic. 7

Pic. 9

Step 8A: With the heel piece still off, slide the newly outfitted brake assembly firmly into place (pic 9). The “wings” of the brake assembly should click around the heel post and allow the “washer” to sit flush on top of the brake assembly (pic. 10) This will allow the heel assembly to slide back into place on the heel post and keep the brake assembly in place.

Pic. 10

Pic. 11

Step 8B: My brakes were removed incorrectly during mounting which widened up the “wings” of the brake assembly so that they wouldn’t click into place. This was remedied like so: (pic. 11)

Step 9: Slide the heel assembly back onto the heel post over the newly-attached brake assembly, remembering to put in the inner plastic cap (from Step 4) back in before screwing the rear DIN and spring back into place. At this point, you’re just reversing what you did in the beginning, putting it all back together until you have the finished product (pic. 12).

Pic. 12

There is a small, clearish plastic sleeve that connects the stock Dynafit brake legs inside the brake assembly. It’ll come off when you “break” the Dynafit legs out of the brake assembly. This sleeve helps stabilize the legs and keeps them operating together but isn’t wide enough to accommodate the bigger, Salomon legs. I didn’t put this sleeve back into place when reassembling everything but the brakes operate fine without it. However, I’m hanging onto these little sleeves in the event that I decide to drill them wider and add them back to the brake assembly if, for some reason, the current operation doesn’t continue to work and/or I feel like it needs some beefing up. Have fun blowing up snow like a powder gangsta’ on your fatty boards with a legitimate backcountry set-up. And good luck!

March 11, 2010 – Inaugural blog post

 

There’s so much out there in the world, too much for any one life.  We are the lucky few who get to experience even a fraction of its beauty and mystery.  Much of the Modern Age has been focused on solving the mysteries, taming the wilderness, conquering the loftiest summits, extinguishing danger and, in essence, destroying our world’s raw and natural beauty.  In our age, one could argue that it’s all been done and there are no more blank spaces on our maps.

Inquisitive to a fault, it is our nature to explore.  From childhood, we explore our physical capacities and every corner of our worlds until, at last, we grow up thinking there is nothing left to explore.  But there is so much left!  There is no better way to explore our world and ourselves than by purposefully seeking out the beauty and mystery, where we come to learn from it, to love it, and to protect it.  Clearly biased, I’m of the firm belief that the best ways to find this mysterious beauty are found in the mountains of this world.  Whether it be skiing down or climbing up, there are an infinite number of beautiful mysteries waiting to be discovered. 

The more we know, the more we realize how little we actually know.  But our nature compels us to keep going.  For me, it’s always to discover what’s around the next bend or over the next rise.  Each upward pitch reveals answers found by only a handful of others or, in some cases, by no one else.  Each shimmering ski descent brings me into contact with tiny, metamorphosing hydro-meteors, snow grains that no one else will ever appreciate again. 
We who travel through, live in, and explore the mountains are indeed among the most fortunate.  Through our puny discoveries we learn how much more lies undiscovered.  In the process we begin a metamorphosis of our own, where we learn to love the mystery, adore the beauty, and we become like children again.  It’s no longer about conquering or keeping up with the world.  The complexities of life simply fade away like a mist as we come to terms with the fact that we, too, are just a puff of smoke.  The beauty and the mystery remain.