John Bresee

The cusp season of fall into winter is the sweet spot of the year. The water off of Cape Cod is warm, yet the humidity of August is gone. The deep pounding heat of summer in Moab relents and it becomes the desert playground again. In Vermont the spectacular colors are queued up and begin their show. And in San Francisco, the cold 52 degree days of summer end and its 49 square miles of perfect temperature begin.

Weekends are time to scramble and get the long rides in, the multi-day hikes, the last gasp paddling as water levels drop to stone-grind. Finally you have the best lungs and legs of the year and the rides are faster and smoother than ever.

As the nights lengthen beyond what we need for sleep, we sort the summer gear into their storage slots, clean out the deep sand of Burning Man, unpack the sleeping bags and unfurl the Thermarest. We pull out the old Powder Magazine’s and ancient videos. Give, Harvest, Sick Sense, Ski Movie or even Blizzard of Aaahhh’s one more spin.

In October the first few storms roll in from the coast as the jet-stream starts to tease; In November we begin the ritual of checking the snow cams where curiously the best picture is often no picture at all. One storm marks the change, the warm pavement doesn’t fight back as quickly against the snow, the grass doesn’t poke through and suddenly you’re into your next obsession. –John Bresee

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Let’s be honest, no gear will ever equal the pure excitement of a new pair of 1. Keds. That one week when your new sneaks could actually make you jump higher and run faster was the best week of the year. The feeling of added power and performance became my desire—whether the improvement was real or not. I remember running down the sidewalk outside the shoe store and leaping with every ounce of spring I had to try to tag the low hanging signs. Smacking just one finger on the No Parking sign was scientific evidence of the higher jumpability of new Keds.

Twenty-eight years later I’m still making my gear purchases with the hope that they will give me that same thrill. Here are the ones that did:

2. Motobecane Nomad Sprint 10 Speed—Mountain bikes didn’t exist when I was a kid. Everything was a 10 speed…except for my bike. I was riding a three speed Schwinn that might as well have had a flowered basket on the handlebar. My parents never understood that one lame Wicked Witch of the West-style bike could ruin a kid for years. So when that Motobecane was sitting underneath the tree one Christmas, all sleek grey and red pinstriped, I knew my ship had come in.

3. Teva Sandals—That first leap off an improbably high cliff into deep green water was the first sign I was onto something cool. My feet spanked water with a sound like a dominatrix at a Weight Watchers convention. But the souls of my feet were blissfully pain free. I wore that first pair of sandals every moment I was awake until they fell from my feet in worn rubber shreds.

4. Webbing for my first harness—The first time I tied the narrow blue webbing into a climbing harness was a victory like no other. I think it was about three hours and 30 false starts before I got something that my instructor would allow me to risk my life on. Still, I loved the way that webbing looked coiled purposefully in the bottom of my backpack, as if it were saying, “Yeah, I could climb El Cap, I just choose not to…”

5. Patagonia Fleece Sweatshirt—What happened to that heavy thick fleece they used to make? My favorite hung on me like the pelt of a synthetic bear. It’s been with me on almost every hike, every peak that mattered to me, descents, insane powder days, one horrendously bloody car crash and been “borrowed” by two errant girlfriends.

6. Ortovox Dual Frequency Avalanche Beacon—It remains the coolest piece of gear I have ever owned despite its early design flaws. With the Ortovox strapped on, I stopped being a wayward college student avoiding a first job and instead became a backcountry skier.

7. Dynastar 4X4 Big—These skis were a true testament to the power of gear. They added an easy 20% on the top end and made me feel like a god on snow. Ullr, watch out. I regretted selling them the moment the deal closed and I’m still looking for the skis that can replace them.

8. The North Face Mountain Bibs—I was too poor to afford decent outerwear; dishwashing at Snowbird isn’t the bling job that it appears. My sympathetic brother kicked down the crazy $300 to get me the bibs. Forty bucks to hem them for my stumpy legs, and 12 years later they still make the scene each winter. Every time I pull them on I hear Mike Hattrup laughing as he says, “going lobstering?”

9. Kelty External Frame Backpack, Red—I mean bright red like a cherry. I was 13 years old heading out for five days on The Long Trail North when I first overloaded my Kelty. A big block of Cabot cheddar cheese is heavy, it turns out. But the Kelty hung tough. By the end of every day it was like a mill stone strapped on my back, crippling me. But every morning it packed up beautifully. I would hike it onto my back, cinch the waist belt down and feel tight. Canteens jangled off the outside like a one man band; where I hiked wilderness would cede into the background, animals fleeing for their lives. But when I got the groove going with that big pack everything was just alright.

10. Sea and Ski sun lotion—Slapping on the thick goozle with that sweet coconut smell remains the sign that something good is about to happen. You don’t often put on sun lotion to clean the house or scrub pots. Pretty much it means you are heading to the hills or the ocean, and those remain the places where life actually happens.

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Incoming

This is the simple story of nine days, six heli-ski guides, four skiers, three helicopters, and more than a 100,000 vertical feet

“It’s my birthday, and my Dad says I can have whatever I want, and I want your bicycle.”—Pee Wee’s Big Adventure

When I was made editor of Powder I laughed, my friends laughed, and somewhere deep in the Earth, Satan laughed as well. It was like giving Charles Keating responsibility for Social Security. In the first editorial planning meeting of the year I looked around the large conference room table with as much sincerity as I could muster. I said, “it’s time we gave some coverage to the hardworking folks who are flying helicopters in the lower 48. It’s time to go back to the heartland because that’s where the best skiing really is. What we need to make this work is one big roadtrip through the West, nailing the crown jewels of US heli-skiing. To do it we’ll need a couple of fast cars, lots of money, a hot ski model, big fat skis and lots of heli-time.”

They looked at me like I was insane. But being editor is like being king and until someone takes your head off you get your way. Absolute power corrupts absolutely…or something like that. So March 19th we hopped into two borrowed Volvo’s, both all-wheel-drive turbocharged wagons, one of them electric blue with 240 horsepower. The Volvo press guy was nervous, saying, “you know Road & Track gets that one next…it’s the only one of its kind in the US.” By which I think he meant, “please don’t flog this through the Bonneville Salt Flats at a buck fifty spraying mud like a man possessed.” Sorry.

“Mummy, I want an everlasting Gobstopper, get it for me.” –Violet Beuaregard in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

Two days into my abuse of power I found myself atop a no name peak in the Snake River Range of Wyoming, being hammered with the stinging nettles of propwash snow, as my ride, a Bell JetRanger, dropped for the valley floor like it was dodging ack ack fire. I cowered with Dave Peck, a lifelong friend, Darian Boyle, K2 Team rider, and Lee Cohen, walking flashback to the ‘70s and legendary ski photographer. After the heli cleared the LZ we scrambled to get our gear on with a manic energy that was reminiscent of Micah Abrams scrambling to get laid in Vegas. Unlike Micah, we all got gear. Because contrary to our guides lectures—safety never takes a holiday—we would not be descending in a safe and responsible manner. It was every beater for himself and last person to the gunship…well that would be Lee, because he was toting the Angry Midget, a pack stuffed with honking big lenses that, from a Freudian point of view might suggest a lack elsewhere.

But I digress; descending is what we set about doing, and damn fast. The snow was six inches of crystal light, on top of perfect wind groomed pitches. With each turn the snow flitted up in light sprays, and it cut with the sound of tearing newspaper. It was the kind of smooth that challenges you to push for more speed, and I found just enough to duck in front of Dave and steal his line. Mortal sin my ass, this was skiing. Darian worked us both ripping 100-yard turns across the tops of the bread loaf like hillocks, cutting back just before the edge and throwing up a jet ski spray. Darian is six foot of catwalk worthy model and a Green Mountain Valley School graduate—she waxed us without breaking a sweat and was first into the valley.

The Snake River area was as massive as ten Jackson Holes, from every peak you could see ridge after ridge of skiable backcountry, without another soul skiing—and it was all in High Mountain Heli Skiing’s permit area. Jagged peaks, massive bowls, and incredible winding drainages, it was a million-acre terrain park with only four kids in the pipe. The day became a series of fevered attempts to poach lines, rip down mountains, and cajole our guide, John Shick, into taking us to steeper and steeper terrain, to which he resisted with lines like: “Heli-skiing in the US is not extreme skiing. This isn’t Disneyland, there are no safety brakes on this ride.” Ummm…yeah, whatever, can we ski something steeper now?

We spent two days with High Mountain Heli Skiing and stayed in the lap of luxury at the Teton Pines, a country club cum ski getaway. Anna Olsen, PR guru from Jackson Hole met us for an evening at The Pines restaurant,. And like all good marketing people she knew how to put a good spin on things, so several bottles of wine later the chef brought every one of The Pines fifteen desserts. The PR worked, and with editorial integrity pushed into the back of my head, I can say that Jackson Hole–where the billionaires are driving out the millionaires–is the most kickass resort in the West.

Our two-bedroom condo at the Teton Pines came replete with five bathrooms, an amenity that told me the rich really are very different from you and me. We were just starting to kick it when the front desk rang with a message, “Wasatch Powderbirds will fly you as soon as you can get there.” Another night with not enough sleep, but one more day in a bird. It was a fair trade.

“Don’t you know who I am.” –Lee Cohen, upon meeting the Jackson Hole Marketing person

There’s one downside to heli-skiing…same problem with fishing and hunting, to do it right you have to get after it at the crack of dawn, or at least nearer to the crack than I am comfortable. So with three solid hours of sleep under my belt and my legs moaning like a Kansas City call girl, I approached the start shack of the Wasatch Powderbird Guides. Only it’s no longer a rough log cabin stuck next to the highway. Now it’s a plush world war three bunker, replete with two landing pads, fueling system, and an incredibly comfortable Ledo deck. We went through the safety drills, cocky, because we had some days under our belts. But at the Powderbirds they take it all a little more seriously. Efficiency is everything with Greg Smith’s operation, and the guides worked like a crack SEAL team, strapping avi-beacons to guests chests, instructing skiers never to lift their skis with two hands, (see they can go into the blades, which is bad) and generally running us through some sensible training. At the Powderbirds they fly a sweet A-Star, powerful enough to operate safely in the 11,000 foot range, which conveniently was how high the mountains were around there.

When the sun cracked the valley rim we were airborne, heading past Snowbird into The Bush. Well, actually nobody calls it The Bush. We headed for regular ol’ Wasatch backcountry, perhaps the finest skiing this world has to offer. The day started with a buff corn run, but the corn hadn’t set up yet. Corn-soon-to-be, is much like ice, but the downside is that when you slide out in a frozen back bowl, it can quickly become a 2,000-foot ripper. Darian, always trying to please the camera, accidentally dislodged a 1,500 lb. tombstone rock that slid for a thousand feet throwing off a bow wave of snow. Oh yeah, we’re not in Disneyland.

After teasing us with this run, Oly, guide to the stars, took us into his private stash, and as is only the case in the Wasatch, two weeks after a storm and we were skiing thigh deep super light. This was helicopter skiing. Yet when we got to the ‘copter, we shut up about the snow. There were two groups waiting for lifts and we were all looking for the same snow. Oly, got on the radio and told the other guides, “we’re gonna work some photo shoot stuff for a while, you guys probably wouldn’t like it over here, but it has good light and that’s all that matters to this Powder Mag group. Suddenly Oly had become greed’s conspirator, so we hogged the pow filled trees all morning, lapping through the only powder left in Utah. At the end of the day I slipped Oly a shiny quarter as thanks for going the extra distance.

Darian continually offered to huck off every bump, rock, branch, and snowflake that could be found. I was all for it, “Yeah Digger, launch that cliff. See if you can break a hundred.” Lee, ace lensman, was not amused. Contrary to the image of photographers who send their skiers off impossible cliffs, he wouldn’t let anyone huck in the variable conditions. And when someone did launch something, invariably Lee had the lens cover on, or was changing film, or searching the Angry Midget for a snack. Dave tossed three or four forward flips for the camera, and you would think it was Lee’s first day with a Cannon Snappy from the way the shots came out. Two blurred shots of Dave’s bunger, and all he got out of it was a pronounced limp.

Toward the end of the day, my legs were toast, weakened from months of SoCal desk jockeying. So I urged more photo shoots, “Lee, let’s barbie here for a bit, send them ski models on a hike, we need distant silhouette shots to capture the grandeur of this place.” While they sweated out yesterday’s wine, I reclined in the Utah sun. Greed sometimes is a beautiful passive thing, but yes I bordered on stealing some of Sloth’s thunder.

We ended up in the White Pine area, hallowed ground for Utah backcountry skiers, but we didn’t see any hikers, no skintrails, and no gorp, just classic Utah descents. Long sustained runs through five centimeters of flawless corn, then carveable Styrofoam and at the bottom ugly ski sucking pine pitch covered mank. Some say corn skiing is better than powder skiing. They’re wrong, but they say it.

Our day ended as all days at the Powderbirds end, hitting their dining room and getting down with a serious buffet. I was catatonic after stuffing myself. But there was no rest for the weary, we had a helicopter waiting in Nevada at 7:00 a.m. and three casinos to hit between Utah and Ruby Mountain Helicopter Skiing.

I want a cheeseburger…no I want a grilled cheese…no I want two chili dogs….
You’ll get nothing and like it!” –Caddyshack.

Sunburnt, stuffed, and exhausted, we loaded the Volvo’s and soon were running flat out 139mph across the desert. Our wake was filled with the broken dreams of a V-8 Camaro owner who just got his ass kicked by an electric blue grocery-getter wagon. You’re not in Detroit anymore, Toto.

There are only about six roads in Nevada, so quite naturally that’s where the cops are. They tagged me blindly going 46 mph over the limit. $391 ticket, and the best thing that could be said for the experience is that the officer skipped the standard “better slow down” lecture. He knew my days of speeding weren’t over, I knew it, why waste both of our time. But it was a poor and bitter ski bum that arrived in the Ruby’s. I have driven through Nevada many times, and always it was a race to see how fast I could get across, usually en route to Tahoe or San Francisco. This was the first time that I slowed down, not by my own choice, and looked at the mountains. They are beautiful beyond words.

Ruby Mountain Helicopter Skiing fits in with its surroundings about as well as the Amish at a rave. Joe Royer’s operation is run out of a massive country ranch house with huge vaulted ceilings, 25-foot dining room table, and creature comforts wherever you turn. And on the front lawn sits a gleaming new A-Star. It’s what you imagine Ted Turner’s house must be like. Yet the surroundings are true breadbasket, hard working ranches, agriculture based communities, not the average setting for a high-end heli-ski gig.

We quickly fell into a pattern at Ruby Mountain. Get up, check the weather, ski our asses off, then at 2:30, hit the ranch house for Backgammon, where I was trying to win back some of my speeding ticket money from Lee. Unfortunately he used some kung-fu voodoo New York child chess prodigy stuff on me and soon I was $160 down. At 6:00 every evening Francy, Joe Royer’s partner, lays out dinner. It’s here that words fail me. I can only say that each dinner became the best food I had ever eaten, and the entry fee was worth it for the culinary experience alone. Joe and Francy create the most comfortable atmosphere in which to talk, dine, ‘gammon, and relax.

Later in the evenings, the bad guests, the greedy ones, would load into the Volvo for the 20 minute ride to the local casino. Four nights running I took The House to the cleaners. The laws of chance did not apply to me. Nevada was one big ATM, and I just kept punishing them for that speeding ticket. I ended up with so much money that I had nothing else to do but buy a shotgun at a pawn shop. God knows why, but when you win enough, when money is falling out of your pockets, and all your friends are losing, then you buy a shotgun to illustrate just how wealthy you have become and how little money means to you. Returning home from a ski trip with a fat wad of dead presidents and a 12 gauge was hard to explain to my fiancée, but now she thinks I am dangerous and no matter how loudly she yelled I knew that secretly chicks dig danger.

Flying into the Rubies on our first day I was astounded. Joe Royer has locked up the only ski operation in an area that is equivalent to the whole of the Wasatch. In four days we never saw another skier, or ski-track that didn’t belong to us. There were incredible peaks, ungodly steeps, huge bowls, and some of the best couloirs I have ever seen. One shot, The Come Line, is…umm…true to its name. 2,000 vertical feet of perfectly shaped couloir, descending as a straight steep white line amidst impenetrable rock faces. Every day Royer brought us to new ranges, new mountains, new bowls, and every day we sated ourselves with endless untracked. Even though it hadn’t snowed in a couple of weeks he was still able to find us fresh snow every run. And on the last day it snowed about eight inches, and the Ruby’s revealed themselves as paradise. We raced through boot top ego snow, on top of perfectly carveable base. Royer didn’t mess around, no matter how hard we matted it, invariably he was at the helicopter first with a small smile that said, “these are my mountains boys, don’t fool yourselves.” And we didn’t, after nine days of spazzing around the country as fast as we could, slurping heli-time like soon-to-be-12-steppers at a keg party, we finally calmed down. And for a moment we let go of greed, and appreciated the majesty of the mountains, the power of skiing, and how infinitely lucky we were. Then we fought like dogs to get in the ‘copter and do it all over again.

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BackcountryStore.com Gets No Love

LoveSac wins Ernst & Young Entreupreneur of the Year Awards

HEBER CITY, Utah (Draft) – In a lopsided victory LoveSac beat the stuffing out of BackcountryStore.com to become the 2003 Entreupreneur’s of the year. When asked for his reaction BackcountryStore.com CEO Jim Holland said, “Dang.” Co-founder John Bresee’s reaction was “Once again we’re standing in the shadow of Love.”

The upside was that the BackcountryStore.com execs finally had a reason to have a dress code, even if it was just for an evening. They knew the awards ceremony would be a glitzy affair, broadcast to a live audience of 1,200 on abig-screen televisions and attended by the governor–the pair decided that the GORP-centric attire they sell on-line wouldn’t be appropriate apparel in which to accept their award (bahahaha-jokes on them…there’s no award for second place). Bresee and Holland donned formal garb and neck ties for the first time in the companies history. BackcountryStore.com employee number two, Bob Merrill, quickly labeled them as “sellouts” and “corporate suck ups”.

However, when the winners of the respected awards were announced, and LoveSac, a Salt Lake-based manufacturer of beanbag like furniture, was named the winner in the emerging category, the web-based purveyors of high-end outdoor equipment knew they had underestimated their competition. “We got beaned by LoveSac” said a dejected Bresee. LoveSac has been a corporate rocket ship, achieving $5 million in annual sale in only two years of business and signing up new franchisees at a rate of one every two weeks.

“In truth”, said Holland, “I’m incredibly impressed with everything that LoveSac has accomplished and we’re very honored that Ernst and Young included us in their competition. It’s an honor to be in the same room with such a talented and brilliant field of entrepreneurs.

BackcountryStore.com was one of 24 finalists for the 10^th annual Utah 2003 Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year Awards, which are co-sponsored by Utah Business magazine. The finalists were chosen from approximately 50 nominations, and the “emerging” category focuses on relatively young businesses.

BackcountryStore.com – which was named one of 2002’s top 50 e-commerce sites by Internet Retailer Magazine – sells high-end, specialty gear for backcountry adventures, including skiing, snowboarding, climbing, trail running, camping and hiking. The company was founded in 1997 by Holland, a six-time U.S. National Ski Jumping Champion, and Bresee, former Powder Magazine Editor. For more information, visit www.BackcountryStore.com.

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I’ve always had this feeling that I’ll die young…or youngish–at 41 young is no longer available to me. Assuming I take my dirt nap in less than the industry standard 75 years then I am, somewhat, running out of time. I want to get a number of things done before I shuffle off. Why I don’t know, it’s not like I’ll be sitting by the pearly gates saying, “sweet, I checked off ‘Stay in one of those cool cabins on stilts in the Maldives before global warming wipes the islands away.’” I mean, when you’re dead, you’re dead and presumably at that point you either have larger things on your mind or really, nothing at all. But that doesn’t change the fact that every time Outside or Men’s Journal comes out with a “100 Things You Must Do Before You Die” issue, I’m suckered in. And their lists just don’t jibe with mine. I really don’t need to run with the bulls in Pamplona…it just seems like a pointless brutal exercise.

So, in short, here’s my list:

1. Ski Alaska—I mean really ski it, spend a month, fly with Dean Cummings and ski aspects I won’t have the stomach to ski in five years. Have Paul Claus fly me and some friends into the Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and drop us off for two weeks on the glacier….always with the ominous threat that he may not be able to get back to us because of inclement weather.
2. Mountain Bike the San Juan Hut Route (Durango to Moab)—I missed this trip when friends did it before and it sounded like a muddy bloody mess. Can’t wait to check it out.
3. Lotoja—the Logan Utah, to Jackson Hole Wyoming ride. Not just for the cool sticker on my car. A 206 mile one day road ride is epic and I want to say I’ve done it. It’s also a kick-ass training goal. Sadly that amount of saddle time seems to guarantee a nice bout of erectile dysfunction. Sweet.
4. Sail around the Greek islands—nothing gnarly about it, just looks like good clean fun to loll about the deck of a boat in Greece with frosty cocktails and the crisp feel of fresh sunburn.
5. Utah Slot Canyons—All of ‘em. Utah is beautiful beyond words, but the slot canyons, for me, are the pinnacle of the Utah desert experience.
6. Raft the Grand Canyon—ideally on a friend’s trip, but if not then paddle only…not motors please. Three and a half weeks away from everything electronic deep in the Grand sounds like paradise.
7. Appalachian Trail—sadly, this looks farther and farther from the realm of possibility. I just can’t see finding six months for this. But having hiked much of the Long Trail North in Vermont, I long to see more.
8. Chamonix for the winter—I can’t stand crusty French bread, I like mine fresh and soft like the people at Hostess intended. But a winter living among the premiere alpinists, choosing terrifying and exotic massifs to ski might be the finest winter of my life.
9. Haute Route—seems silly to list this after the winter in Chamonix, but it’s my dream and I’m sticking to it. Simply the pinnacle of ski touring.
10. Summit some monster—I’ve never had the “climb it because it’s there” urge. But after forty years of trekking up a slew of relatively piddly peaks, I feel like I need to knock off one big one, just to understand the experience.
11. Alaska to Patagonia—with a big honking V-8 Sportsmobile and all the toys I can stuff in it. Six months on the road.

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Penn,

I want to tell you about a world you may never get to know. Its fall 2008 and my new skis are on the way…ungodly big mothers that are more than I should be meddling with. The winter is coming, still full of promise and prayer. And you turn three on Sunday and I hope to be taking you skiing soon. It will scare you and excite you and hopefully become for you what it has been for me; a lifestyle, a vocation, a way to find my partner in life and the only connection with an ethereal plane that I have ever known.

In a graceless world I find fluidity and rhythm on the hill. The mountains forgive me my runaway-freight-train-fu that is often described as unwise. But it’s mine and anyone who knows me can spot my plume from miles away.

I want you to feel what I feel Penn, I want you to know the bitter cold of the High Traverse in whiteout, the relentless dumping that seems to be Alta’s gift to the world. I want to ski with you and show you all of the shots that I love. Maybe you will let me tell you the stories of when Dad was unafraid. Of a time when to turn meant to admit defeat.

I am a skier. And Penn, I’d like you to have that chance as well. I just pray for the snow to stay in the mountains for enough years that you can know the pure joy of bottomless relentless foolishly deep powder. And when you ski the deep, may it still exist, perhaps you’ll find a church within and be instilled with a faith that only those who enter the white room can know. And when you do, please pray for it to continue for generations to come. It’s good this thing we do, letting gravity have her way with us, ending up soaked head to toe in powder and happy once again that the world is just as it is.

On a rapidly warming planet I know fresh tracks shouldn’t be my first concern…but on your third birthday and the many you have in the future, they are.

Love Dad

Popularity: 10% [?]

Sara is holding my hand as I roll into heart surgery. “You haven’t changed The Will have you?” Uh, no, its minor surgery, it’s like the toe-nail clipping of heart procedures…baby please, focus, healing energy. Her questions continue until the anesthesia kicks. “Who would you like to read your eulogy?” James Earl Jones. Can you think of anything cooler than Darth handling the show? “Where do you want your ashes spread?” Ideally there’ll be no ashes…but she’s onto an interesting question. Easy answer, off the top of Wolverine Cirque, full on paddle-out, everybody hoofing their own way up and taking their own line down, but with prizes for biggest huck and best line, and somehow…somehow Sublime playing really loudly across the whole cirque. These are my thoughts as I drift off.

I wake imagining a list of favorite places and realize I don’t have them as geography but instead as a fusion of locations/times/people that create that perfect, y’know, Zen thing. And sitting by my hospital bed, patiently (for days), is Sara, a storm of tears and bewildered upset trailing across her face.

The moments that I most often try to recreate are the deepest powder days when people stream like ants away from the mountain and the blizzard rages sideways and upside down. On the stormiest days, I like to stop, plunk down trailside in the snow and just hang for a bit. I watch freezing people race home as I sit toasty, layered perfectly with a warm core, clear goggles, wriggling hot fingers. And then I get antsy, because instead of lamenting the intensity of the storm, I soon get to rage right back at it as hard as I can on ungodly powerful skis, busting a track viewed by no one through the deepest snow. Rinse, repeat please.

During the fall equinox I biked the Crest trail with a friend, a pure freerider who descends like mercury and has little patience for “hippy stuff.” A hard snow squall blew across the Solitude ridge-line, heading fast toward our path; we decided to cross back down in a hurry. The fusion of white graupel on brown trail and yellow aspen leaves was intense as we pedaled our legs off. Being at-speed on my bike in bitter weather, yet all of my gear working seamlessly, chasing a ripping rider through epic fall colors, sliding the banks, trying to beat the weather was, well, perfect. The anti-hippy wanted no part of my faux-Zen musings and forced me to chase or be left behind.

Yet if forced, if I just had to choose just one best place/time, I guess I’d go with 6(ish) a.m., September 1^st, 2007, Black Rock City, Nevada, sitting on the hard alkaline soil of the deep playa as the sun rose pink. I wore the perfect piece of gear to sit and watch a cold Burning Man dawn; a GlowFur* jacket powered by sixteen AA batteries, glowing kryptonite green as 47,000 neo-hippy’s dance in the foreground to a thousand different beats, weaving endless fluorescent trails in the desert sky. It’s a very different kind of storm and it’s just too cool. –John Bresee

* www.glowfur.com; courtesy of the king of the playa, David Lee. Respect!

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The steps are becoming smoother…one footfall after another, graupel and crystals spraying from the impact, ankles articulating to off-camber terrain. Somewhere above the tree line you get your physical groove on.

But mentally, ahhh, that’s where the sweet spot really lives—you have finally checked out. Elvis has left the cubicle. The pumping rhythm of your legs and heart are the mantra that enables you to dissolve, for a time, the normal urgent You.

We often make excuses about why we hike, bike, run; we rarely dig beneath the surface. We claim, “it helps clear the mind”, “it’s for our health.” It’s rare that we head into the backcountry announcing, “Gotta be at the church on time.” A house of worship has many doors and many rooms. And yet we sinners fall away from the backcountry; we get lost in the world of pavement, mini-malls and endless cube farms. We forget the healing powers of a clean line, a well-cut skin trail, or a boot pack without false peaks.

All it takes to start back on the path of righteousness is that first painful step on the trail. We sneak away from the office and trundle toward a distant peak, skis strapped to our packs, hydration system a bit skanky from disuse. Quickly the repetitive power of the boot trail starts, and as happens at most Quaker meetings, we melt into our thoughts.

On a good hike your partner only intrudes when they have something meaningful to say. In the Quaker church it’s known as “when the spirit moves you.” And those who are true to the teachings know only to interrupt the reverie of others when what they have to say is meaningful to everyone within earshot. Those are the soulful days.

On powder days worship becomes somewhat like a southern Baptist tent revival. Skiers rip great swaths of untracked while hooting and hollering out of pure rapture. The chairlift riders nod along with each “Wooohoooo” and say “Amen brother. Right on, right on, right on!” Where else in life do we hoot?

And when it’s your turn to testify you nail turn after turn, cutting perfect lines in a pure tapestry of untrammeled snow…and involuntarily the spirit moves you and you get right with The Lord and say, “Wooohooo.” Moments after, your butter pump hammers in your chest as you survey your line, your offering that will quickly disappear…and the riders on the chairlift shout “Amen brother!”

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The patroller wanted volunteers for a probe line. Unfortunately I didn’t know what a probe line was but I figured as long as it wasn’t rectal it beat washing the never-ending pots in the Albion Grill kitchen. In the back of my mind I worried it was yet another in a series of newbie practical jokes that were constantly pulled on me during my first season living in Alta. “You have to wear your beacon at all times on the hill”, “powder cords are a must”, etc. etc. ha, ohh stop, insert belly laugh here, you guys slay me.

I sprinted into my gear, grabbed my shiny, unused Ortovox F1 and beat feet to join the group of far more knowledgeable volunteers than I.

An avalanche had come across the road and one witness thought someone was in it. The powers that be decided it would be bad form to just run the massive snow blower through the slide without giving a quick check for something warm.

We formed up and were handed immense probes. “uhh, how do I know when I’ve found someone?” “What’s a body feel like?”…all these and more I asked. Sensible to me but great big badges of cluelessness to the hardened backcountry goats I was probing next to.

As we probed I could feel my beacon pressed against my chest—turns out when they say wear it close to the body they didn’t actually mean skin-level—and I knew with a hard certainty that the F1 was by far the coolest thing that I owned.

Later, in my two and a half room seven person stanky apartment, I sat cradling the F1 with the crappy ear plug that would never stay in my ear, and listened to the endless BEEP that signaled my roommates Pieps.** It was somewhere past the immense hooka-like bong but not as far as the original Winterstick Swallowtail. I felt confident that if the Pieps had been strapped to a person instead of shoved under a cushion, I would have rescued him quickly.

The drills on snow the next day quickly disabused me of my confidence. The additional dimension of depth really changed the game. That guy would have been stone cold and found sometime in the spring. But through all this the shininess was wearing off and I was learning the first rules of life in the mountains. I learned of the different beep tones of the Ortovox vs. the Pieps, and the importance of dual frequency so that the old timers who weren’t on the new 457 frequency could find you with their ancient SKADIs.*

Over time I learned that the shovel I bought wasn’t just to build kickers; it was also a sled, or part of a backcountry stretcher if you’re more of a MacGyver than I. But the shovel was small, light, and when wielded effectively could move tons of snow in a hurry to save your partners life. My shovel never saved anyone, thank God, but it did help me get my car out time and again. Well, it never lost anyone either…still virginal I guess. One of the earliest lessons I was taught was that if you make the right decisions you probably will never need to begin a search.

These pieces became part of my kit and I treasured them above everything else I owned. It was their quality, their deadly seriousness, their minimalist design that I loved. When I strapped them on I became something other than a college kid avoiding a career—instead I was a backcountry skier.

Over my first two winters I skied many of the classic lines in Little Cottonwood Canyon. I thank those first partners like Bjorn who took me under their arm and taught me what I needed to know. It wasn’t entirely charity, it was his ass on the line as well. And I would have hated to be below the snow with me running the search above.

Every one of us at some point is new to the backcountry. When we are new we rely on those with experience to share it, to help us to understand both the danger and the possibility. The sooner we pass on our knowledge the safer we all are. This isn’t like the line up at Waimea where locals rule. In the backcountry the life you save by sharing everything you know may well be your own.

Three beacons, two shovels later and they are still the best pieces of gear that I own.

–John Bresee

*SKADI’s were the original avalanche beacon developed in 1968. “The word Skadi comes from the old Norse word Skaði, variant Skade. This female is often referred to as the goddess of skis, she traveled on skis, carried a bow, and hunted. She was the daughter of the giant Thiazi, and married Ullr, the god of skis.” –Lou Dawson, WildSnow.com

**The greatest change to the beacon was not going digital but merely the addition of a speaker instead of those terrible ear plugs.

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The cusp season of fall into winter is the sweet spot of the year. The water off of Cape Cod is warm, yet the humidity of August is gone. The deep pounding heat of summer in Moab relents and it becomes the desert playground again. In Vermont the spectacular colors are queued up and begin their show. And in San Francisco, the cold 52 degree days of summer end and its 49 square miles of perfect temperature begin.

Weekends are time to scramble and get the long rides in, the multi-day hikes, the last gasp paddling as water levels drop to stone-grind. Finally you have the best lungs and legs of the year and the rides are faster and smoother than ever.

As the nights lengthen beyond what we need for sleep, we sort the summer gear into their storage slots, clean out the deep sand of Burning Man, unpack the sleeping bags and unfurl the Thermarest. We pull out the old Powder Magazine’s and ancient videos. Give, Harvest, Sick Sense, Ski Movie or even Blizzard of Aaahhh’s one more spin.

In October the first few storms roll in from the coast as the jet-stream starts to tease; In November we begin the ritual of checking the snow cams where curiously the best picture is often no picture at all. One storm marks the change, the warm pavement doesn’t fight back as quickly against the snow, the grass doesn’t poke through and suddenly you’re into your next obsession. –John Bresee

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Fall 2007

I’m chasing the Pink Girl across the ridge line, riding as hard as my short stems will spin, trying to reach the crest before the snow. The graupel is starting to come in but it’s mostly aesthetic on top of brown trail and yellow aspen leaves. Pink Girl is a fast descender, even though she says she isn’t, so I’m pushing to keep up, sliding the banks, popping off little rocks and everything is just flowing.

Four weeks earlier she’d asked me what my favorite place is and I’d been unable to answer accurately; “uhh, Maui is nice but I also like Alta”, or something.

Somewhere in the Aspens, faster than I should be going, when I didn’t crash, when the steam and heat flowed off of me but the rain and snow were repelled, I hit that moment…I don’t know, I guess it’s that Zen thing. I realize that I’m exactly where I want to be, doing the only thing I want to do, with the right person. “Pink, this is it, it’s not a place, I don’t have a favorite place, I just have favorite moments that I try to recreate.” She looks at me, with mud on her face and says, “fucking duh!”, and rips back into the trail. Zen is not for her.

For the rest of the ride I collect all of those moments in my head: bottomless wallowing deep powder days when I’ve chosen the right skis (Sqauds), right jacket (Burton AK 3L), right gloves (those same leather Scott gloves they have been making for years) and right goggles (Smith Regulator TurboCam- So dorky but so key on deep days). I feel like a gladiator, armored perfectly for the battle. I watch others who have not chosen their gear wisely, streaming back inside. The mountain empties as the storm intensifies and I’m toasty and I just couldn’t be more in the groove.

–John Bresee

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Ski shops rule. I’m not talking Sports Authority’s generic pile O’ crap, but the real deal ski only ski shops. The kind of shop that smells of funky burnt p-tex, shuts down when summer rolls around and is filled with the pure love of sliding on snow. As a kid I spent hours hanging around Omer and Bob’s Ski Shop in Hanover, New Hampshire; dreaming of when I would get my first new pair of skis (Kastle) or when I would be able to ditch my lame Salomon 101s and get a sweet pair of Burt Bindings (never happened).

Fast forward 20 years and I find myself launching a ski shop. Hopefully the ski shop. For some reason shops on the web seem to lack the passion of brick and mortar shops. Instead of purely focusing on skiing they seem to veer off and sell any damn thing. Wooden summer chairs, fanny packs, and butt ugly one piece powder suits.

Not in this house. At Tramdock we are selling the best ski gear on the planet backed by the best service. We have a room, somewhat stinky, filled with full-on 100 day tram riding fanatics, sitting by the phone waiting for you to try and stump them. When the phone isn’t ringing they are picking and packing boxes or writing reviews of the gear. Our catalog manager hit Alta’s slopes at 6 am this morning and skied 24” of fresh Charmin smooth pow. Alta doesn’t open for another 20 days.

This company is an offshoot of Backcountry.com, the hardcore outdoor gear fanatic’s site. Tip of the Toque to the hippy’s across the hall…we love ‘em but we’re over the patchouli lovefest and wanted our own patch of the Internet. I’d been bitching at my business partner, Jim, for the last three years about this idea. Saying, “we can build the most core ski site on the web…just kick down the cash you motherless tightwad.” It’s understandable that it took him awhile with that kind of cajoling. At any rate, it looks like a goer. By this time next year the Tramdock crew will have several thousand more days under their belts, millions of feet of ‘vert and be running the Best Ski Shop on the Planet: Tramdock.

Pray for snow,

John

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Mike Hattrup: Godfather of New School Tele

Tele skis never used to be the object of overwhelming ski desire–they were usually earth toned or baby blue and had hippy friendly names like Mountain Noodle, Karhu, Madshus–until Mike Hattrup got in the game. Hattrup did to modern telemark skiing what you always dreamed you could do to Dad’s Chevy—souped it up, painted it black with cool flames down the nose, and he made it rip. Hattrup is the manager of K2s telemark program, but that title is way too small for a guy who has helped create two of skiing’s modern revolutions.

Hattrup sprang into public consciousness in Greg Stump’s Blizzard of Aahh’s, playing the quiet ripper, sort of the base player to Scott Schmidt’s lead vocals and Glen Plake’s screaming guitar. It was as much Hattrup’s cool stylings in Aahh’s as Schmidt’s sick lines that gave a generation of ski bums a new mojo. He was part of the birth of what is now the freeski movement.

Hattrup is disgustingly competent at everything he does. He can out ski, out drink, and out hike anyone, and does it whenever challenged. He jumps seamlessly between alpine and tele, yet his style is the same, rock solid triangle underneath him, deathly quiet upper body, all at mach speeds. Stuart Rempel of Whistler marketing said, “you could set a bomb off under Hattrup and it wouldn’t phase him.” It’s his ability to translate his alpine skiing energy and style to telemark that has allowed him to craft the new school telemark revolution. “The alpine turn and the tele turn are remarkably similar…yet the shaped ski revolution was being ignored by telemark companies. I was just the first guy to really apply the new widths and sidecuts to telemarking. I had the advantage of being able to build on all the knowledge the alpine guys at K2 had developed.” Call it sidecut, call it width, whatever, the real impact was felt with the release of the K2 Totally Piste, the first telemark ski with attitude. It was deep black with Camaro-like flames on the shovel and people fought to buy it.

Six years after introducing the Totally Piste, Hattrup now hangs his hat back in Sun Valley, Idaho with his wife Claudia. He splits time between guiding trips in the Cascades, British Columbia and Chamonix with his work for K2 running their telemark division. New school tele is going off and K2 is a leader thanks to Hattrup. This year the hot item is twin tip tele skis. Yeah it seems crazy to want to backwards freeheel but as Hattrup says, “You can’t always give the public what they want, sometimes you have to tell them what they need and educate them.” His newest educational tool is called the Piste Pipe. Fat, curvy, twin-tipped and it’s showing up in half-pipes and parks all over America. “I never really went after the wool and beard market,” says Hattrup.

Born: August 7, 1962

Birth Mountain: Crystal Mountain, WA

Adopted Home Mountain: Sun Valley, ID

First Skis: XR10- Someone else’s rock skis, but he was just “stoked to be skiing on K2s.”

Higher Education: Seattle University, 7 year BA (fact check school and major)

Current Titles: American Mountain Guide certified skiing guide, director K2 Telemark Society, member of Marmot Design Board, manager of K2 Telemark Division

Spouse: Claudia Hattrup, professional mountain biker and personal trainer who now runs biking camps for women in Europe. Married September, 2001.

Competitive Creds: 1987 National Mogul Team (Fact check- he wasn’t sure of the year–Was that even part of USSA at that point?)

Ski Bum Creds: Waited table and ski bummed in Crystal, WA, Sun Valley, ID, Steamboat, CO, Winterpark, CO, and Squaw Valley, CA.

Why Telemark Skiing: “I was turned onto telemark skiing by Mark Shapiro and Ace Kvale who refused to take me on the Haute Route unless I could tele.”

Why Was Blizzard of Aahh’s So Good?: “During Blizzard we were so green–living that movie was an unbelievable adventure. We were wild-eyed kids, just like everybody watching it.”

–John Bresee

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1. What skills are important to becoming a writer for any form of periodical?
   1. The most important skill is the confidence to pick up the phone to call an editor, introduce yourself and ask for some work.
   2. Clear and concise article queries…and many of them. An editor should have the ability to choose between a wide variety of article ideas that are topical to the magazine’s mission.
2. I have read that a portfolio is important to maintain to be able to get jobs writing. Do you agree with this assessment? What other tools do you suggest?
   1. The most important tool is patience and persistence. Anyone with reasonable writing skills can get published in a national magazine with enough hard work.
   2. Portfolio…yeah, it’s important to see where a person has been published.
3. How do you recommend that someone gets their start writing and getting published?
   1. Choose a local media in which you would like to get published, study the front of the book “news” sections and other very small segments. Look for areas of the book that have items with fewer than 200 words. Study this area until you feel you understand what the focus is, and then write many articles for this section.
   2. Call the magazine/newspaper and find out who the editor for that section is.
   3. Submit your articles. Ask them for feedback. Continue submitting until they publish.
   4. All submissions should be printed double spaced, edited VERY CAREFULLY. One spelling error and you’re toast.
   5. Include a cover letter that states that you are submitting these “spec” articles and would appreciate any feedback you can get.
   6. Include copies of these articles on a burned CDROM in Microsoft Word.
   7. Throw in a bag of M&Ms with your package…bribery works and should not be overlooked.
4. How do you feel about writing on the Internet? Is it different, similar, easier, etc.?
   1. The Internet is an endless maw of mediocre content. They’ll publish anything. It’s a good way to get started but don’t expect to get paid.
5. What other forms of publications have you written for?
   1. Newsweek (paid insert for US Ski Team)
   2. Powder
   3. Bike
   4. Skier’s Journal (bahaha, I owned this. It’s not a real publishing coup. )
   5. Outside (it was short but they put my name on it)
   6. Utah Outdoors
   7. And a bunch of other mags I can think of t the moment. Lots of gravity oriented things. Most of ‘em are dead now.
6. What tips have you acquired through your experience writing?
   1. See above
7. What resources do you recommend for writing?
   1. Strunk and White
   2. Dictionary.com
   3. McDonalds

1. Has a piece of your work ever been rejected? If so, how do you deal with this? Do you use rejection as an aid to help critique your work, or ignore it? DO you see any value in it?
   1. Not that I can think of.
   2. Lots of aggressive editing and that can be hard. Sometimes the editor just doesn’t understand what you are trying to do.
2. Is there anything else that you feel is important to writing for a publication?
   1. Edit, edit again, edit again…then start all over. Every item that I published was edited at a minimum of 10 different times after we received it. There’s nothing an editor likes more than someone who takes the time to do their hard work. The cleaner the copy, the more likely you are to get published.
   2. Editors will change your work…don’t assume it’s for the worse, talk to the editor and try to understand why they made the changes.

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Awkward and it tries too hard. Other versions won out.

The heat of summer slides away, and with its passing we set our focus on getting out those last few times before we pack up the bikes, the climbing gear, the boats, the tents in exchange for our winter passions. Every minute seems to count more heavily than the last. It’s that quiet-now voice in the background reminding us that in a few months our minds and bodies will focus wholly on the pursuits of the frozen world; the adventures and epics of the warmer seasons won’t register more than the idle scratching of that scar you picked up on the Crest Trail. Get it while you can. It’s not because we worry we won’t have another opportunity, nor are we upset about the impending onset of winter—far from it, we’re stoked—it’s because that is how we live our lives, as though every moment is more valuable than the last. Seize it. You only live that minute once, whoops, too late, it’s time for the next and the next and….you know it; you live it too. We chase moments as children chase fireflies, and it doesn’t take long before we all realize the objects of our pursuits are ephemeral.

Unabashedly speaking, this very strongly parallels the gear found on these pages. Get it while you can, because in a few moments it will all be gone. Within, find the best deals on the best gear around. As usual, our gearheads scoured the globe for the best of the best, and we pride ourselves on passing those incredible deals on to you. So get in there, get some, and then can get outside and hit it a few more times before the snow flies.

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( I have a better, more tightly edited version of this somewhere and I’ll update with that version soon. Sorry.)

The snow blows like stink above the ridge at Eddie’s High Nowhere, my favorite place in the world. The spume kicks across the rocks, cutting through my goggles. It’s up at Eddie’s, while six of my fingers are numb, that my partner points to the valley and says, “spring is coming, you can feel it, we’ll be biking soon.” I couldn’t feel shit, but I trusted him because he has a weird Rain Man like connection with the weather.

Spring is a kick-ass season, top three for sure…and it always seems to come right when you need it. When your knees are shot from endless turns, your shins reduced to rubble and you just stone-cold need a break from the relentless nature of Old-Man-Winter.

My son was just born and my aspirations on day one were simple; keep him breathing. Days two through thirty it was all about keeping him from turning blue. And then I just began to hope that with hard work I could keep him from one day ending up in a bell tower with a high-powered rifle. I’m not aspiring to eagle scout status in parenting, a man has to know his limitations.

But as spring comes along I start to think about what I have to teach him about the outdoors…the simple stuff like, wet = cold or sand in your bathing suit just plain sucks. Somewhere along the way I was taught to laugh at rain, to revel in it rather than being one who scurries, head bowed …I hope he gets that. He will learn to pack light…probably by packing heavy a few times. He will learn that the answer to the question, “how far to camp” is always answered with “about a mile.” Somewhere, accidentally, he will learn that he has far more strength than he ever thought possible. That when others in the group are hitting the wall, wigging out about being lost, or are just plain cold and miserable…he will have reserves deeper than he ever knew and be able to help the group move on.

The gift of the outdoors often starts simply, as it did for me, with a beautiful brass whistle and compass from my grandfather, Big Bill. I didn’t understand what he gave me but I raced through the Vermont woods shrieking with the whistle and failing completely to navigate anything with the compass…and I rubbed them raw as I played with them and tried to understand their purpose.

I’m not sure how I’ll foster Penn’s gear addiction, but I’ll probably start it with something simple, permanent and beautifully made like a Gerber multi-tool. Shortly afterwards he’ll get his first pack, sleeping bag and tent. When he has these pieces the world will expand for him, first to the backyard, then to a campground and one day to the whole world.

Welcome to your first spring Penn. –John Bresee

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10 years of trying to become the best outdoor gear etailer (written in 2005)

Ten years ago we placed an order from our first vendors: one pair of Atomic Tourcap Light skis, one pieps 457 (pre opti-finder), Life-link probe poles…that’s all I can remember, but it may well have been our entire inventory for the first year. It was peaceful in those days; a man could put the answering machine on and tour in piece back then, knowing that no business would disturb him. Oh how it’s changed.

We began working on a t-shirt to commemorate this anniversary, something for those who have been part of the freight train…and we batted ideas around and one that seemed to stick was a word cloud, a collection of words that resonate with the people in the company, shaped like our venerable goat logo. Here are some of the words that made it and some that didn’t:

Glenn—the long suffering UPS driver who had to endure ever larger piles of gear going out the door. Sandy Brown—the sales rep who first took a gamble on us. Christian—the one man locomotive, don’t get in his way. Breezecom—the wireless network that occasionally connected us to the internet from the sticks of Heber, Utah. Rhett—who answered the phone when the Breezecom wouldn’t talk. ShopSite and BarneyBooks—you were so good to us when we were young, but as in all dysfunctional relationships, someone had to grow up. Patient partners—the enduring constancy of my partner who had the stick-to-itiveness to know that there would be light at the end of the tunnel. Sid Ewing—first developer, ‘nuff said. Spaletto/Lajoy/Uhland—there isn’t a golf swing amongst them, but good partners are hard to find so we’ll keep ‘em. Snake Creek—sucking two-stroke fumes at seven am from the company snowmobile on the way to the Backcountry.com private reserve. Grover—for his honest feedback. OR—for putting on a show in our back yards. Google—Sergey, Larry, nice work boys, we owe you one. Interchange—the hardest working open source platform in the business, why must you be so complex. Sara and Beth—who suffered and celebrated along with us. Dustin—who put up with my half-assed management style at three different companies. He has gear and ecommerce more deeply embedded in his DNA than any other man on the planet. Jeff Carter—who took our cold-call while at the Sundance Company and was visionary enough to see where we were going. Midnight server crashes, Hat in a Bag, Backcountry Bob(s), water filters, snow clogs, Suunto’s, Erin, trekking poles, SnowThug.com, SteakFry.com, bcstore.com, Axis41, Luther, WebSideStory, Cheryl, Sam, and on and on…too many words, memories, people.

Gearheads–the people who work at Backcountry.com, the people who wake up dreaming about gear, live for testing it, and have worked their butts off to make this the company that it is.

Gear Freaks of the world–For ten years we have fought to bring you the finest gear on the planet, describe it in an honest light-hearted way. Ship it to you faster than you thought possible and always, always treat you as we would like to be treated, with honesty and respect. Thanks for your faith.

The Wasatch Mountains—without our church none of this would have been possible.

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The risky way is the safe way and the safe way is the risky way

We stood at the top of a line we had never skied. It was steep, three tight moves over small cliff bands, straight line, then done. Fast, fugly, but doable. As always the Tan Farmer dropped in first, nailed it and moved on. Loki followed seconds later, looking kind of spazzy all backseat, no rhythm, another displaced east-coast bumper trying to ski the West. But he was through cleanly, no lost shoes. I was left with Lawyer-boy, a better skier than the rest of us, smooth. Lawyer-boy said, “I have a job, I have a wife, I love skiing, I have a bad back, I don’t need to do this shit, I’ve got nothing to prove.” And then he dropped in and proved the thing that didn’t need proving.

And like a thousand days before I stood alone at the top of a line, fully gripped. Riddled with self-doubt…and then I dropped. And I came out the ass-end of the chute–jacket chattering in the wind—ripping like I was channeling Seth Morrison, alive! Seth would have laughed at this shot but it was great to be me.

It’s amazing how we have to keep relearning the same simple rules; the risky way is the safe way and the safe way is the risky way. There isn’t much difference between dropping that line and taking a risk at work; or committing in relationships, having a child, starting a company, riding your first century. In all cases the easy way, the safe way is not to go, to stay at home, stay single, stay on the couch.

Eddie Aikau was one of the pioneers of big wave surfing. He disappeared in 1978 attempting a 20 mile life or death paddle between islands. Afterwards his friends would look at the surf and say, “Eddie would go.” I think about Eddie, I think about him in the boardroom, in the backcountry, on top of peaks and during especially tense and painful moments in relationships. Eddie would take the risk, Eddie knew that only in risk is there reward.

As I look at 10 years of work on this company, the hundreds of thousands of man hours that have gone into this, I see the fruition of many hard and painful decisions. Every worthwhile thing seems to come through hard fought gains. Appreciation only comes with sacrifice. And thankfully the people at Backcountry.com have had the courage to ask and answer the question of whether Eddie would go. And they do, time and again, hang it/out risk it all, until they succeed.

Every time I have to relearn this lesson I am surprised at myself, surprised that the lifelong battle is always against fear and if I am not consciously fighting it then I am quietly losing to it.

Thank you Edward Ryan Makua Hanai Aikau

And thank you Larry Hamill for writing the inspiring book, Leading the Revolution. I use your ideas to shape my life.

John on the Playa, happy

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It’s a scary world out there for many people. They see malice and risk at every turn. For these people I recommend staying at home in a barca lounger and getting one with the remote. These folks are why home pizza delivery was invented. The wilds of urban hotels are too great risk to life and fifth limb:

“On Thursday, April 09, 2009, my husband and I and our two children,
ages 6 and 3.5, checked into the Omni Shoreham Hotel in Washington DC.

After a bad experience with the front desk manager, who made a
number of errors, then upgraded our room to a suite in apology, we
ended up having an experience so negative that one can only label it
surreal.

Things started out bad but not horrible. For example, one of the
gifts promised to us did not arrive originally. The desk manager
insisted numerous times that my credit card was being declined, then had to eat her
words after calling American Express. And, worst so far, our suite
had a huge crack in the window, which we requested that the hotel
repair while we were out for the afternoon.

When we returned that evening after dinner, my husband ran an errand
while I went to the room with the two children. We had all undressed
and were ready for a nighttime bath. I was in the living room
looking for the children’s shampoo and my two children were naked in
the bathroom when I all of a sudden heard a crash, then a blood
curdling scream. My 3.5 year old son ran out of the bathroom,
screaming at the top of his lungs. I asked him what happened, what
happened, but all he could say is that it hurts, it hurts, it hurts!!!
I examined him and noticed that his penis was extremely dark purple.

I picked up the phone and called the operator. I asked the operator
to call a doctor, to send a doctor to my room, to call 911. The
operator kept asking me what was wrong. I was trying to tell her that
my son was injured but she couldn’t hear because my two children were
screaming at top volume. I asked her please to call for a doctor, and
she said she would not do so if she didn’t know what was wrong. So, I
hung up the phone and called 911.

The 911 operator could barely hear me, as I tried to explain that I
was at the Omni Shoreham Hotel, and of course I didn’t know the
address. They kept asking for the address, for the address, it didn’t
show in my call. I said I didn’t know. The children were melting
down.

I put on my jeans and sweatshirt, and asked my 6 year old daughter to
put on her clothes, and we all went down to the lobby. We saw my
husband arriving at the same time. I asked the concierge for ice, but
he said he was helping someone with an emergency. I told him that
this too was an emergency, that I had called 911. The concierge
glared at me and told me to stop interrupting. I again asked him for
ice.

Just then the ambulance arrived. The security guards came to talk to
me about what was wrong. I explained that I had called the front desk
for a doctor but they refused to call one for me, so I was forced to
call one myself. He said it was hotel policy to find out what was
wrong first. I explained that I did not know what was wrong because
my child was in too much pain to speak.

I ran away from the security guards to obtain ice myself from the bar.
The ONLY helpful person in the entire hotel was the bartender, who
quickly wrapped up ice for me in a towel and helped me bring it to my
son, who by then was sitting naked on the concierge’s stand with my
husband. The paramedics found him and began examining him.

The paramedics explained that they believed that a toilet seat fell on
my son’s penis, causing severe genital injury. They said that the
needed to bring him to the hospital to examine him more fully. My son
then left in the ambulance with my husband.

I then returned to the room with my 6 year old daughter. We went into
the bathroom and examined the toilet seat. It was currently down. I
lifted it up to see if it would stay up unassisted, and it quickly
fell down and crashed onto the toilet below, making a loud sound. I
lifted it again. It stayed for a short while and then fell again, in a
very heavy manner. Clearly the toilet seat was defective and
dangerous.

Thinking only of the safety of my family, I immediately called
housekeeping and asked for my seat to be replaced. In a few minutes,
an engineer arrived with a screw driver and tightened the seat. I
pointed out that the seat was still loose. The engineer left.

I received a phone call asking me if I was satisfied. I said I was
not satisfied and would prefer a new toilet seat as my current toilet
seat appeared to be defective and dangerous.

A few minutes later, my husband called me up, alarmed: how will they
return from the hospital, given that they did not bring a car seat? I
meanwhile was in the room with my daughter who was exhausted and
needing to go to sleep.

Having stayed at many high end luxury hotels in the past, including
several stays at Ritz Carltons, Four Seasons, Loews, Fairmounts and
other Omni hotels, I did what most people in my situation would do: I
called the front desk and the concierge for help. Here were my
questions and their responses:

Q: can you please send a car to pick up my husband and son when they
are ready to leave the hospital?
A: No. Car service is not available at this time.
Q: Can you help me arrange an alternate car to bring them back with a car seat?
A: What is a car seat?
Q: A car seat is the device that is legally required in most states
and provinces for children to use when they ride in cars.
A: I don’t know about that.
Q: Can you please ask someone if they know what a car seat is?
A: Hold please. (10 minute break.) The concierge said that car
seats are required in D.C. but for liability reasons we don’t provide
them.
Q: Can you please find out if car seats are required in cabs?
A: (long break) Car seats are required in cabs.
Q: Is there someone who can take a car seat from my rental car and
bring it to my husband?
A: No, we will not do that.
Q: is there someone who can arrange for a babysitter to watch my
daughter sleeping here while I go to the hospital and pick up my son
and husband?
A: No, we do not provide babysitters.
Q: Can you think of any other idea to assist me in helping my husband
return from the hospital?
A: I am sure they can catch a cab. Have you thought about a cab?
Q: Are you aware of why my husband and son are at the hospital?
A: No.
Q: They are at the hospital because a broken toilet seat fell on my
son and injured him.
A: I’m not aware of that.

I had to get off the phone because an engineer arrived with a new
toilet seat. He installed the new toilet seat.

I asked to keep the old seat in case my son’s injuries were severe.
The engineer insisted on recovering the broken seat. I refused to
give him the seat. He told me that he was going to call security on
me if I did not give him the seat. I told him that I had no choice
but to keep the seat.

I had just managed to finally get my 6 year old daughter down to bed
when 2 security guards who appeared to be armed arrived at my door.
In an intimidating manner they ordered me to leave the hotel. In no
uncertain terms, they told me that I was being kicked out of the
hotel, that I needed to gather my belongings and leave.

I explained to the two armed guards that I needed to stay at the hotel
because my son was in the hospital with my husband and that my other
child had finally fallen asleep, and leaving the hotel was not an
option at this time. They told me that they were under strict
instruction to kick me out of the hotel and that they were instructed
to call the police if I would not leave. I told them that they were
going to have to call the police as I would not leave. My daughter
meanwhile woke up and started screaming in fear, “mommy, mommy, why
are we being told to leave? Mommy, mommy, but Ari is in the hospital?
Mommy what is going on????!!!”

The armed guards heard the screaming and said that they would not kick
me out of the hotel for now. I asked them to whom I had to speak to
explain the situation and they would not tell me.

I picked up the phone and called down for the manager. After several
times where I was sent to voice mail, a woman named Ann Peterson
finally picked up the phone and explained to me that she is the
General Manager of the Omni Shoreham Hotel.

I asked her if I could explain to her what I had been through that
night, and she said: “I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN THROUGH. ALL
I KNOW IS THAT YOU HAVE BEEN MISBEHAVING ALL NIGHT AND I WILL KICK YOU
OUT OF THE HOTEL IF YOU DO NOT IMMEDIATELY PROMISE ME THAT YOU WILL
BEHAVE AND SAY NOTHING ELSE.” (I am putting this in all caps because
she was, in fact, screaming at the top of her lungs.)

I asked her again if I may please explain to her my situation, that if
she understood what had happened perhaps she would see my point of
view. She screamed, “I WILL NOT LISTEN TO A WORD OUT OF YOU OTHER
THAN THE WORDS, ‘I PROMISE TO BEHAVE.’ ALL YOU ARE ALLOWED TO SAY IS
‘I PROMISE TO BEHAVE.’ IF YOU CALL ME OR ANYONE ELSE AT THE HOTEL ONE
MORE TIME, OR SAY ANY OTHER WORD OTHER THAN ‘I PROMISE TO BEHAVE,’ I
WILL CALL THE POLICE ON YOU AND HAVE YOU ESCORTED OUT OF THE HOTEL.’”

Again, I said, “But, maybe…” and she interrupted “ALL I WILL HEAR YOU
SAY IS ‘I PROMISE TO BEHAVE.’ WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO CALL THE POLICE
RIGHT NOW? I WILL CALL THE POLICE RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!”

I said, “I promise to behave.”

Ann Peterson said, “GREAT, YOU ARE NOW ALLOWED TO STAY THE NIGHT, BUT
I WILL SEND SOMEONE UP TO ESCORT YOU OUT OF THE HOTEL FIRST THING IN
THE MORNING.”

I said nothing.

I called up my husband, my parents and my local friends for
assistance. I posted my predicament to facebook. Soon my husband
arrived back with my son. They traveled by cab without a car seat and
were not happy about that. They made it safely.

My son is in recovery. I am angry. We still don’t know the extent of
my son’s injuries, but we do know that we are appalled by the behavior
of the Omni Shoreham Hotel and its General Manager Ann Peterson and
seek an apology, at least.”

Yo R, I’m sorry for the little one’s pain. Perhaps you could spend some time training him on up and down of  seats. Zippers are also torture machines for the young males of our species. I speak from experience. The heady pellmell pace of our society combined with the razor edged knashing of an endless number of YKK products can lead to shocking insta-briss with nary a moment for prayer. Luckily, it’s self teaching. One never gets caught unawares again.

But sensing that you have some ire (it creeps around the edges of your story, unintentionally i’m sure), i’m willing to bet that you decide to ignore that fact that our legal system is groaning at its limits and instead choose to take the wee ones penis into court. There is circumcision and then there is brute force tort emasculation. The boys traumatized penis will never see the light of day again.However I’m not sure what will do more damage, a free swinging toilet seat or his mother’s angry free swinging mouth. See, it’s scary to be a young boy toddling toward pubescence and scarier still if one’s mother litigates about his tiny Johnson. Go easy.

More damage is done by emotionally emasculating mothers than all of the toilets in the world.

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