Ski or Die

If I could run everywhere, I would. I am racing the clock. Every minute I conquer, there is another. Fast as I can. On to the next. I was born this way, in a hurry, like an eye freckle or short temper. Where is the finish line? I have searched the depths of Lithuania’s underground techno clubs to the rings of Mexican cock fights. No sight. On my way to the sun I remember the Earth I left behind. The thought of home makes me sad, a place I once resented. My eyes quiver, releasing a tear. I am a child again, crying against the world.

This child lives in my happy place. Often, I lose him in the chaos, but I always know where to find him. He is playing in the snow or climbing to the top of a mountain. I made some time last weekend for him, skiing Tuckerman’s Ravine. A perfect adventure for the soul, long overdue. Tux, as known by locals, is a cirque located on Mount Washington. It is a rite of passage for any East Coast skier, and some of the finest backcountry skiing in this neck of the woods.

I established base camp in Cozy Conway, 30 minutes from the trail. North Conway was a delight, with a quaint main street and hikes right in town. How could you not love eating at the Muddy Moose or ice cream at Lickety Splitz? Echo Lake left me speechless and the farm-fresh jam was a sweet surprise. I was home.

My lazy start the next morning was provoked by the pleasantries of the town and the crisp it-is-no-longer-winter weather. I ripped Dunkin’, housing a large coffee, avocado toast with bacon, and a bagel with cream cheese. I gathered my trail snacks, a can of SpaghettiOs and M&M trail mix. It was a zoo at the Pinkham Notch parking lot, and the weekend warriors must have caught wind of the 10-inch snowstorm that blew by. I drove to the outskirts of the Pow Wow and began to stuff my bag. I shot the shit with Ron Livingston, who imparted his wisdom from his previous trip. “How do you think the weather will hold?” I ask. “Hmm, thunderstorms this evening, could hit any time between one and eight in the afternoon.” I thanked him for the insight and marched off.

Heading up was mixed signals. Clouds loomed over the summit and glared at me. Crampons, ice axes, and the faces of men off to a bloody battle. I was only consoled by the number of my companions and their lack of physical shape.  To them, I was a madman, traveling light and fast. The trek to Hojo’s, the caretaker's cabin, is not for the faint of ankles. The 2.4-mile straight shot is well-marked, but it is a rocky 1,770-foot vertical. There are restrooms and shelters offered at Hojo’s. East Coast hikers love amenities. I chatted with the caretaker, who loved their social outpost in the woods. If any questions remain when you get to Hojo’s; speak now or forever hold your peace.

The remaining half mile was a Stairway to Heaven. A 400-foot climb spit me out at the base of Tux, who took me in with open arms. As I strapped up, old friends from the trek up trickled in. The real Pow Wow. We assembled a posse and boot-packed up Left Gully. This was a classic boot pack, a 1,000’ vertical in half a mile. The 35 to 45-degree pitch was enough for a big tumble, but soft enough that you would likely survive. Halfway up, the group decided to cash in their chips and ski down.  While I proceeded to the top, I felt they made a good call. It's always better to stop early than fall to a brutal death. They were all “double black” skiers but had never skied out west before; it was likely the first time they had ever skied such terrain. 

  I punched my boot pack onward; punch, step, rest, repeat. Just shy of the top, a couple of skiers were perched, preparing for their descent. Many stopped here, for teeing off the top appears to be a blind drop into the ether. The headwall has a 55-degree pitch, which is steep skiing even for the West Coast. For the last push, you can dog straight up or take a dicey, rock-laden wrap around. Straight-up required either crampons or steel nuts and a death wish, so I climbed around. Here, I would like to heed caution. The hike up to Tux is not technical and the boot pack up Left Gully is straightforward. The top of the head wall is a little heavier and requires prior winter scramble experience. I was comfortable in my ski boots, but an ice axe and crampons would have been nice. 

I met one lone skier enjoying the view at the top. A Northeast dirtbag with a passion for the backcountry. He was going to school in Colorado next year, a solid move, I reassured him. I have nothing but respect for these East Coast types, gritty as hell. He warned me about getting caught up in my sluff, then he was off. This left me a touch nervous, but my inner child was giddy with excitement. Now for my turn. Well, off to the ether. This is my happy place.