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February 6, 2007

Return of the Sun

Nisa and Susanna atop the toe of the Valdez Glacier - Photo by Michael Sharp

Snow fell almost solidly for 6 weeks, then with the parting of some far away curtain, the snow stopped and the sun appeared. It shines down on us, everyday, for the past 10 days, like some benevolent god. What a miracle.

Each day the sun climbs a tiny bit higher in the southern sky, each day is just a bit longer than the last. It is wonderful to see blue sky and green water, the sparkle of the stars at night. It is, however, not nice to see the bright white peaks surrounding us turn shiny, they announce their icy crust with a fervor. The sun on my face beckons me outside, the promise of skiing under perfect blue skies, the use of my darkest sunglasses. Thought I think it is a trick, this blue sky, the snow grows crustier and crustier with each passing hour.

The sun teases me. “Come out. Play. Bask in my warmth!” The sun cries out from her position in the southern sky, “I am Helios, I am Ra, I am Wi, I am Ah Kin and Aja.” Teasing me, taunting me like some siren from the heavens above. All the while she turns the snow to diamonds. Mercilessly she builds a crust of diamonds held together by the wisps of memory; my memory of knee deep powder only a few weeks ago. I love the sun, she warms my skin. I curse her, she destroys the snow with ruthless attention.

The Jet Stream moved, that is why the sun graces us these past 10 days. The Jet Stream, with hundred knot winds, denying us the snow we crave. Oh the battle, the snow and sun.

We take what the sun offers, like beggars on some street corner, we toil under her blue lid, we toil under her cousin the sky and we wait, we wait for the snow to fall.

The sun brings dreams of the summer rushing towards us. The sun brings thoughts of truly endless days, days without nights, days that bleed through sunset right into sunrise. There are many days betwixt now and then. So we ski and explore. We play on the toe of the Valdez glacier. Nisa the leader and point-dog, leads us up a split on the toe then across the surface to a view of the frozen glacial lake and mountains beyond.

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Posted by Michael at 8:38 PM | Comments (7)

February 1, 2007

Night

By the Light on My Head - Photo By Michael Sharp

A few unbelievable statistics: In the past 6 weeks over 250 inches of snow fell in Valdez. Snowplows work night and day moving snow. In places the piles tower more than three stories tall. 60+ inches of snow smothers the grass in the front yard. All the while, Thompson Pass, where we ski, receives three times more snow than Valdez.

The skiing exceeds all my expectations. Knee deep every day, hip deep every other day, each day filled with endless untracked powder. We earn our turns, working as a team, breaking trail up the gullies and faces we want to ski.

On the way up we pay attention to the snow, how it feels, what it sounds like, how it behaves. We stop to dig pits to expose the buried layers of snow. We look to see how different layers bond together, we look for weak layers that might break under the weight of a skier, causing an avalanche. After climbing for a few hours or more, we stow our skins, don our big gloves, helmets and neck gaiters and contemplate the light.

Valdez sits at 61° North, and the sun rises just enough to peek over the mountain tops of the southern horizon. The Chugach Mountains often trap intense cloud cover. Like dragon’s teeth in flesh, the clouds wind between the peaks and settle into the valleys. The light and clouds combine to create an intensely blue, unbelievably flat light. The flat light obliterates all perceptions of up and down, left and right. Only the sickening feeling of gravity in my gut would tell me I skied off a cliff.

On any powder day, in any other location, everyone covets first tracks. Everyone craves the sheer ecstasy of floating through perfect fluff. On a flat light day in the Chugach, first tracks mean only your toes will know where the next roll is, only your nose will know if the fall line changes. First tracks mean skiing by Braille, with a hefty dose of flat-light vertigo. So the question remains, how do I defeat the flat light?

One solution: Wear glasses or goggles with yellow lenses. If this doesn’t make you nauseous, you might see a bit better. A better solution: Ski at night. No flat light at night, actually no light at all. No moon, no aurora, no stars, only darkness and clouds.

The solution comes from a local guy. Having grown up here, having battled the flat light all his life, he builds 30- and 50-watt halogen headlamps from parts available at the hardware store. The homemade light, wired to a small motorcycle battery carried in my ski pack and mounted to my helmet, prepares me for the darkness.

The son of a ski patroller and ski instructor, my love of the turn began at an early age. Skiing breathes life into my soul. For as long as I can remember I wanted to spend a winter in Valdez skiing these legendary snows. The voyage north to get here this summer taught me that darkness doubles everything. Darkness doubles my exhilaration and anticipation. Darkness doubles my perception and focus and at the very minimum, darkness doubles my fear.

The homemade headlamp strapped to my helmet vanquishes the darkness, yet my senses remain doubled. The darkness of night, illuminated by ingenuity, concentrates my perception into the bright spot before me. All the details lost to the flat light of day, pop with spectacular intensity. Snow glitters and flies against the black backdrop of night. I cannot think three turns ahead. Outside the pool of light emanating from my head is nothingness. Only one turn matters, this turn, it comes from deep within me and out through my toes. My mind quiets, leaving me weightless, surrounded by glittering flakes. Over and over, the turn comes, left then right, left then right. I hear nothing, I see nothing, I feel nothing. I can’t wait to go again.

Posted by Michael at 5:35 PM | Comments (3)