Ticket to ride, white line highway - rang dang diggedy dang di-dang

In spring 2015, a rational person might say something like "Hey, didn't skiing in BC totally suck this season?" And they would have a point. However, it's important not to be too hasty when abandoning *the dream*. I literally received several emails (well, at lest one) questioning whether we should bother going to Eldorado over Easter, seeing as mother nature mothballed her mukluks and got out the lawn chair already. As I'm not the sort of person to let reason or evidence stand in my way, I told everyone it was going to be great and we should go anyway. Plus, I didn't want to lose my deposit on the hut.

Then, with days to spare, the snows returned to the Chilcotins. Last Thursday we made our weary after-work journeys north to Lillooet and the delights of "Canada's Best Value Inn". I've got to admit, it was pretty good value. Skipping past the details of breakfast, driving, waiting, moving cars around, packing, waiting some more, and finally loading up the helicopter - we were on our way. We were flown in on the last flight of the year from Tyax Lodge in one of the Bell 212's they use for heli-skiing. This thing was a monster, swallowing all nine of us, the hut custodian, and all our stuff with room to spare. Then it flew the custodian and a broken oven back out again. There are many things I don't like about helicopters, but being able to plop you in the middle of nowehere with your friends and a selection of fine cheeses is an excellent thing.

Angie, one of the two heli-virgins on the trip got to ride shotgun which resulted in her eyeballs doing this.

Having spent most of the day wasting time, there was an explosion of enthusiasm to use the last few hours of daylight to ski once we got in. It was looking very promising - cold temperatures with fresh snow and no-one had been in the area for a week - a blank canvas for us to mess up. We only had two and a half more days to spoil as much of that pristine snow as possible.

So, we set about it bright and early on Saturday morning:

Apparently the only people who ski telemark any more are either British or Norwegian (mostly British). Luckily Paul was on the trip so I wasn't the only one left living the dream.

This did not suck.

Chris, the other heli-virgin on the trip got to ski this slope, which resulted in his feet making this shape on it.

For two days, the usual skin-up - ski down - do it again cycle developed. Given that none of us had really done much in the way of skiing this season, it all seemed to go very smoothly. Until it didn't.

There were nine, but only eight were to return intact.

For reasons of thrift, and that all the helicopters had gone on vacation to Kelowna we were to ski and then walk back out to the road. This all started off very well, with some actual fun skiing and then some Type 2 fun luge-ing down a crusty track through the trees. Then, just as the snow was running out and we were preparing to start the trudge along the last few kilometers of old road to the truck, there was a problem.

Nikki had already dealt with part of the problem herself by the time we got back to her, which involved yanking her foot straight again from where it had ended up. Ouch. As any good collection of boy and girl scouts (I'm not sure if any of us actually were), we were well prepared. Paul and Angie got a SAM splint in place and we rigged up a sort-of backcountry chaise-longue with packs and down jackets. Luxurious. We had a great plan of fetching an ATV from the lodge below us and driving Nikki out on that, so with Kala and Guillaume dispatched to find the truck and get an ATV we set about responsibly caring for our stricken companion. Or in Nikki's words - "The rest of the group tries to cheer me up, but since that gets a bit boring and the wait is a bit long they start drinking and setting fire to things. That cheers me up".

Marc browsing Nikki's down-jacket emporium.

Then the news came via the winged heels of Chris that the ATV plan wasn't going to work out. Uh oh. Fortunately during the drinking and burning things, Marc had harvested some Alders to make a stretcher. I had some hose clamps handy, and pretty soon we had something resembling this strapped together:

I suppose it looked a bit more like this really, but ours was better because it had hose clamps:

It worked pretty well, and we made it to within about 1.5 km of the truck before salvation appeared in the form of a lovely man on an ATV who the others had recruited back at the road. By this point we had also made contact with the SAR helicopter which had come out from Pemberton, so it looked like Nikki was going to get a bonus ride for her pains. Literally.

More omitted details later, we are now all back in Vancouver and it turns out Nikki wasn't just being lazy, something had gone a bit wrong in the ankle-bone integrity department:

...or as Nikki's analgesic-addled mind would have it:

To conclude, I think we can all learn something from this story; whether it's that giving up is for quitters, cheese is carried in helicopters, hose clamps are good for stretchers, or that I can't think of any more words that end with "-ers". So that's it, ski season is over and apartment painting season is open. Be excellent to each other.

White Lines (Don't Don't Do It)

Here's a thing: Content from Eldorado Easter 2015 One day I will write something about it.

Do not abandon hope, all ye who enter here

My life may be mostly about drywall dust, paint, mortgages, real estate agents, plumbing repairs, scrubbing grout, and buying boring "tasteful" furnishings from Craigslist these days... but all is not lost:

Several things are wrong with this picture. Can you spot them?

The door into a new world of excitement and danger is opening. It just needs some headset bearings, a cog, a chain, and all the other things I've forgotten.

One-in, one-out

I have too many bikes. This is news to nobody. However, in the past three days I have ridden three of my bikes, so I am doing ok there. The remaining four of my bikes that I haven't ridden lately all have good excuses. My touring bike, is deficient in the handlebars department (and I haven't been bike touring), my road bike is no fun in the rain, and my BMX is too frightening.

That's only three excuses.

The delinquent bicycle is that fixed-gear I accidentally built. I did eventually finish it, and it looks nice, but as I expected, I didn't really want to ride it.

Did I fix it? Oh yes I did.

I'm done with the "fix" puns now.

Packing up the apartment for our planned transplant to the Okanagan (more on that later) has led me to get rid of a few things. In this case, the fixie had to be let go. Following time-honored tradition, I put an ad on Craigslist featuring the words "steel", "fixie" and "urban". I couldn't bring myself to put "track" or "messenger" in there. However, it worked and a nice young man with a big beard came and bought it.

If that was the end of the story, it wouldn't really be much of a story. So there's more.

Having broken my own "one-in, one-out" rule for possessions when the fixie appeared, getting rid of it would have been the right thing to do to re-balance my ju-ju. Of course that's not what happened. It turns out there's a loophole in the "one-in, one-out" rule (or perhaps that should be the "n=n" rule, in contrast to the "n+1" rule followed by bike-dorks everywhere). Selling the fixie returned me to "n" bikes, which is where I strive to remain. However, money had been realized by the sale of the fixie, leaving the balance of my resources dangerously askew. My theory is that money made in the sale of bicycles constitutes "bicycle potential" which can be released at any time. I could have resolved this imbalance by buying things I actually need (like food), but of course I didn't. This might be because I got a family sized apple pie from the sale rack at the supermarket on Saturday. In summary, I bought another bike and ate some pie. Despite failing to return to "n" bikes, I still felt like a winner.

Now into the minute details. I bought a frame... onto which I will put all the other things that were once part of this bike that I broke. That bike is still rolling around, and is now quite rusty as I never bothered painting it post-repair. However, it will itself be replaced in function (mountain biking) by yet another new bike that I've been patiently waiting for since I snapped that one. That one will have big wheels though, and replaces the bike I accidentally gave to Lina. Let's pretend it doesn't exist and not get distracted here.

So, where are we? Fixie goes away, money comes in, rusty broken bike gives up parts to create a different bike, then rusty bike will be replaced by another bike. So I didn't get rid of any bikes. I blame the man with the beard.

Thanks for this, Ned.

So, "what is this new bike?" I hear no-one asking. Well, let me tell you. It's will be a dirt-jump bike. You know, so I can do this sort of thing:

I hear the bike pretty much does this for you, at virtually no risk to your precious bodily limbs.

And back in the real world, I will be using it for this, probably even at this exact place (the first bit where the wheels are mostly on the ground, not the massive jumps and spinny-around maneuvers):

pumptrack tuesday from Chromag on Vimeo.

There's also an indoor winter pump-track in Vernon which may prove relevant to this bicycle's future, and mine. So I think I still ended up with one more bike than I had before... but it's getting difficult to keep track of them all.

Winter is hiding in Oregon.

There is a place, where I went once before. When we skiied into that place it looked like this:

Last week, I skiied into that place again and it looked like this:

I know... right, what is with that?

And if that wasn't enough it was raining, which made Kala make this expression - which pretty much summed up how I felt about it too.

Chuck put on a brave face for the camera, but everyone knows he's really thinking the same thing as Kala.

Once we had dragged our soggy asses into Big Sheep, dried them out a bit, built a bridge across the ice-pond, and generally steeled ourselves for action, we headed out into the apocalyptic blizzard once more (exaggeration may  be present).

It was not this:

Chris, exploding some snorkel-worthy pow (if you breathe through your knees) in 2013

But it was this:

Chris, stirring up something that would make a refreshing drink if you poured fruit syrup over it in 2015

Given the almost complete absence of winter here on the coast, I'm not going to complain about snow, whether or not it would make a nice slurpee. I'm also not going to complain about spending the evening in a nice warm yurt, with great people, eating great food - that would be difficult. It was great to get acquainted with our new ski-friends and re-acquainted with the camp, including the fun of the "gimbal-handle saucepan" and the box of vintage Couloir magazines.

Day two arrived like a giant fiery orb peeking above the horizon and showering us with life-giving radiation. Actually, it was a bit cloudy and still snowing - but that doesn't sound so dramatic. The absence of solar radiation and more snow with lower temperatures overnight meant for some pretty agreeable skiing on south-facing slopes.

Kala, having decided to stop living the dream and attach her heels to her skis last year, still seems to be having fun. Personally, I don't understand it at all.

Chris, doing what he does - making the snow come off the ground

Over the next few days, the fiery orb made more and more strident appearances. The south-facing slopes got roasted so we made for the trees like a collection of woodland sprites - but bigger and with skis.

Chuck, adding the tree to his ski.

Some idiot with his heels not tied down properly - I was actually one of three nostalgic flappy-heel fools on this trip, a rare treat these days.

Inevitably, the big fiery-sky thing got so friendly with us that the long dark patches appeared on the ground. Trust me, it was awful.

There was nothing for it but to keep skiing up, and down, and up, and down... like Sisyphus, but more awesome (and with skis).

Chuck attempted to escape by fooling gravity. It worked for a while, but that gravity is tricky stuff.

By the end of it all, there was noting for it but to stand on top of things and look mountainous for the camera.

You've no idea how long it took for Chris and I to co-ordinate our outfits for this picture. 

Atop "Lesser Mt Nebo". Front row: Chris, Dr P, Horton, Kala, and Chuck.

And that's about all I have to say about that, except thanks to those above for the food, photos, and fun times.

For the record, here are photos from Dr P, Kala, Chuck (that one  might not work if you're not me - but as this is really all about me, that seems ok), and Me.

Follow me follow, down to the Wallow(as)

There need to be some words here to explain things, but for now... here are some pictures.

Marriott Basin - home of THE RAD HOLE

Gadzooks, it finally snowed. It didn't snow very much, but at this point I'll take what I can get. 

An intrepid crew of eight passed through the mystical snow-portal of Pemberton, pausing only to eat chili, brink beer, and sleep for quite a long time. Two of the adventurers were missing at this point, but the were with us in spirit, and on the phone. The plucky band braved the not-too-early start and excellent road conditions to reach the hallowed wilderness entry known only as "the pullout opposite the snow shed". The crew (still missing two at this point) strode forth into the mild temperatures and sunshine. Along the way they made elaborate signs to beckon their missing compatriots forward along the true path. This turned out to be entirely ineffective - but never mind. 

After a fair bit of striding forth, the mysterious and fragrant edifice of the Wendy Thompson Hut loomed over the horizon - or a pile of snow at least. The partial gang awaited the arrival of their missing members, and avoided intoxication by the heady vapors of the hut by doing some things outside. One of these things turned out to be most excellent.

The first thing was walking up a small hillock, which wasn't all that really.

This second thing was borne from necessity, but rose to become something truly radical which the happy band had never dared to dream of before. I am speaking of the creation of the world's first RAD HOLE.

Yes! It's a hole for filling buckets... but it's RAD.

You can't even imagine how exciting this was - seriously, you should have been there.

During the excavation of the RAD HOLE, the eight were united, and drank some beer to celebrate. Then we played Frisbee before dinner time and the evening descended into playing Cards Against Humanity, which is best left un-described.

Seven of eight - because I took the picture.

It's amazing what 10cm of snow on top of horrible re-frozen crust can do. A couple of laps above the hut and the ski out were my first real skiing of the season. Hopefully there's more where that came from...