Oh, and just a quick FYI to POWDR Corp…you misspelled powder. Awkward at this point but the way you’re snapping up resorts you might want to fix that before somebody notices. You don’t see people struggling to spell all of our other synonyms for snow: ice, graupel, sleet, knee-cracking glacial death crust, etc. And really Powder is the best variety, no matter what the corn snow advocates would claim. So, y’know, kick down another “E”; we won’t confuse you with the magazine.

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“National Geographic Adventure will cease operations, it was announced today, a victim of the down economy and systemic changes in publishing. The final issue is December/January.”

Bummer. That about covers that. No need for me to do any clever editorializing. I’m sad to see it go; it’s been a solid bastion of true adventure journalism amongst the thick weeds of men’s magazine‘s that offer editorial breadth of a weightlifters glutes: Endless teasers which claim they can make any desired body part either grow or shrink, depending on the need.

Steve Casimiro was the west coast editor…a title that seemed odd for an adventure magazine that covered the globe. It didn’t seem the title stopped him from taking a bevy of hot models to Ibiza to test “30,40,50 SPF – We Tell You the Truth.”  Steve has lined up the finest jobs in the magazine world as the most well known editor of Powder magazine and the co-creator  and first editor (with Rob Story) of Bike magazine. Casimiro is a man who knows the soul of adventure. I’m hoping his next beat will be another great step in the life of one of the finest adventure writers and editors in the world. He’s also handy with the Cannon Snappy.

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The first rigid frame tent Dad bought was a tan three-man from LL Bean back when they were the cool gear company. Dad was in awe of its ability to hold itself up just by flexing a few aluminum poles. When the coastal winds of Maine ripped the tent off the beach and flung it skating across the ocean surface Dad just said, “wow, look at it float, look at the way it holds its form.” He watched until it sailed out of sight.

Last night I spent eight hours gear testing a Tent Cot—the unholy mating of a hunting cot and a boy scout tent—and thinking semi-deep thoughts about tent design and tent life. Any time I was tempted to stray to a different topic another drop of water would form on the nylon ceiling above my forehead and, water torture style, get me back on track.

I remember the Bedouin-style tents Dad would erect every summer on the coast of Maine. The gargantuan center pole was as heavy as an I-beam, surrounded by four stout pig iron poles at each corner. The trick was to rig a series of high-tension guy lines all around the tent—and in the full dark of the first night Dad would swear a blue streak as he rigged these origami like structures. The lines functioned like crafty trip-wires and at least once every trip I’d bring the homestead tumbling down when I face-planted over a line. Our clan of seven lived in these circus domes for three weeks every summer. Dad called it vacation.

The best-designed tent I ever spent the night in was on a bitterly cold -26º Vermont night, with winds peaking at over 50 mph. We were students of Sterling College on a four day winter hike and the only tent materials we were allowed were two sheets of cheap plastic and some rope. My hiking partner Steve Bastress channeled MacGyver as he bent a 12-foot sapling over, sheared off two downward facing limbs, and made stakes out of them. Then, using 18 inches of line, he staked the tip of the tree to the ground, forming an arch. Over the top of the arch he strung one plastic sheet. The limbs of the tree splayed naturally to form the perfect frame of a dome tent. All night long we heard our teammates’ two-stick-poles-and-a-plastic-sheet tents whipping about and collapsing.

In the morning the instructors seemed to feel we’d bent the old “leave only footprints, take only artifacts” commandment when we hacked into the virgin sapling. Apparently it was okay for them to teach us Swedish limbing techniques in class, but it was not so kosher to practice it in the field. These outdoor instructors, so fussy.

Last night I lay in the badly leaking Tent Cot and looked enviously out on The North Face Vector that I had foolishly loaned to a friend. Throughout the pounding hail and rainstorm I watched my loaner tent sit unperturbed. In the flash of lightning I could see the Unobtanium poles–as light as a muon–hold the shape of the tent just so and send the water packing.

In the morning I was wet in that eight-hours-in-a-completely-soaked-sleeping-bag kind of a way. My buddy hanging in my TNF continued to saw logs as I glared in his direction. To fail at Warm and Dry 101 is a quick Darwinian slap, a reminder that in many ways we are lamer than those who came before us. Dad would have rigged up some line and oil skin to keep himself dry. Steve Bastress would have built a log cabin. Me? I’ll be getting my Vector back.

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June 26, 1997

Steve Casimiro

Surfer Publications

PO Box 1028

Dana Point CA 92629

Dear Steve:

Thanks for the day at the Powder offices. It was both challenging and fun. I mulled your interview questions over on the way home, and couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “What makes you snap?” Is roughly equivalent to “have you stopped beating your wife? Answer yes or no.” In an interview situation it is never easy to jump into a topic as awkward as the last time I snapped. Yet in the face of questions like this, and “rule breaking” one is left with two alternatives, the truth, or a bald face lie so transparent as to be pathetic. “I, sir, never snap!” was the obvious, yet unacceptable answer. At any rate, I enjoy mentally awkward situations, and in retrospect it was fun.

The group at Powder seem like a great team, and it was good to meet with everyone. I appreciate your effort in putting the day together.

I rudely neglected to thank you for lunch, so please accept my belated thanks.

Sincerely,

John Bresee

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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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