Pillow Line from Kari Medig on Vimeo.

My first mistake involved a severe miscalculation in driving time from Bellingham to Mazama the day before my heli trip. In the summer, Washington’s Highway 20 takes you in just three short hours to the east slope of the Cascades, but winter creates a plethora of challenges when trying to cross the mountain passes. Consequently, a three hour drive transforms into seven, down towards Seattle, over Stevens Pass, up through Leavenworth and Winthrop, and then you find yourself in the small town of Mazama. It actually resembles more of heaven than a town if you are a skier; a store, a heli-skiing operation, and 300,000 acres of accessible terrain in the North Cascades. Mazama has all that you really need.

The circumstances that launched me into this drive on this day in February are quite unique. Last summer working on a blueberry farm on Highway 20 I met Anne Keller, an AMGA guide and truly inspiring woman skier. We exchanged emails during the past seven months, mostly involving me asking her about guiding. Then she sent me THE email asking if I wanted to fill a seat in the bird at the end of February.

As I am driving towards Anne house, that she has invited me to stay at for the next couple of days, I am in disbelief that I met such an incredible person. I show up late, get introduced to Anne’s dog, and head to sleep for an early morning.

I wake-up at 6:45 and Anne is already gone, but she has laid out breakfast for me and left coffee in the French press; Once again, what an amazingly cool and hospitable woman. Along with breakfast is directions to the heli-barn, so I grab a bite and head over, stopping at the store in Mazama to pick up sandwiches and one of the tasty pastries for second breakfast (for some reason skiing has convinced me that second breakfast is necessary, especially when it involves pastries). If you are ever in Mazama and can’t go heli-skiing, check out the store; it will not impress you on the same level as powder in the mountains that loom above, but the selection of products and baked goods will make you feel better.

I arrive at the barn and immediately meet the other three women that will be in the heli; Vikki Buzzard, a paramedic on the east side, Hannah Dewey, a rappeller and wildland firefighter, and Sara Knapp, a hotshot crew member. Wow, and I thought I already knew some badass ladies. Nikki, Hannah, and Sara, showed no signs of ego, but seemed overwhelmingly humble, even though they have all been involved in situations that could make an entire NFL team weep.

We went over helicopter safety, did some beacon and probe drills, watched as the bird was unveiled, and got in the chopper. If you haven’t been heli-skiing yet, you absolutely must before your time on this Earth has passed. Never, ever, have I experienced the exhilaration of being lifted into the sky in a heli and then getting to ski untouched snow amidst the grandeur of mountainous peaks. It is really unfair to other events in life; this was the giant, juicy, everlasting, Maraschino cherry on top of it all. I imagine one could eventually become numb to the smell of fuel and the sound, but for now it is a topper.     

Our first run involves a drop-off on Silver Star Glacier. I was so excited  and when I got out of the heli I left my seat belt dangling outside. Words from the wise, always listen intently to the heli-briefing and don’t leave your seatbelt hanging or you will forever be in debt to the pilot (Seamus I still owe you that beer!)

The day continued, the clouds rolled in slowly, and my satisfaction in life grew like the snow banks in the Northwest often do, quickly and overwhelmingly.

Thank you to Seamus our pilot, Anne for being the knowledgeable and experienced guide that she is, John Devlin for being there to chat about skiing, and Sara, Vikki, and Hannah for the inspiration.  

The check-in!

The artwork.

The beacon drills.

The pilot.   

The girls.

The mountains.

The bird.

The rotor wash. 

Yet longtime Mt. Baker hardcore Rene Crawshaw earned a first-person Olympic perspective from start to finish. As a volunteer coursework team leader for all four cross events—as well as for the mogul and parallel GS competitions—Crawshaw put in 27 consecutive ten-to-12-hour days battling spring-like snowmelt, hand-shaping features and constructing what competitors viewed as a near miracle of a phenomenal racecourse.

"Everybody's dreamed about being in the Olympics and competing at a world level.  And none of the sports that I competed in were in the Olympics so it was a great opportunity to be part of something special," says Crawshaw. "And I think being an athlete you know how the course needs to be so you almost have a perfectionist view of the course. And you know the amount of hours you have to put in to make it perfect for them."

Crawshaw secured his position through a four interview process with the Vancouver Organizing Committee (VANOC), a nine-day trial period at Cypress Mountain's 2009 FIS World Cup event, a clean RCMP background check and six days of training that covered subjects from event planning to team leadership. Due to his performance at the FIS event, his past as a professional freeskier and his experience as a course official at Mt. Baker's Legendary Banked Slalom, he was given responsibility for a rotating crew of fifteen volunteers as well for the sixth-through-seventh sections of the twelve-section Olympic cross track.

Starting up top from square one, his crew worked to execute the vision of White Industries course designer Jeff Ihaksi by helping turn straw bales, plywood forms and mounds of snow into an Olympic-caliber racecourse one feature at a time. When the gates opened his crew kept their section rut-free between training and competition as well as smoothing it out before it set up at night. For his extra effort on one stubborn hard-to-reach corner, the cast and crew christened a prominent bank "Rene's Corner," but he earned more than name recognition from three hundred hours of labor.

"It's hard to find a word to describe it. It's just an awe, being there and actually seeing a few of the events where Canada did win a gold medal and it felt like all of your hard work actually paid off," says the proud Canadian skier. "And then having [the athletes] thank you at the end for such a nice course, even if they didn't win, they just loved the course."

Crawshaw counts his favorite all-access Olympic memories as witnessing four Canadian gold-medal performances at his venue, being sprayed by Ashleigh McIvor's victory celebration in the wax room while toasting with Team Canada's coaches and taking his daughter Winter behind the ropes to see the torch relay in his hometown of Chilliwack, BC.

The coastal Cypress weather caused a few low points, but, he says, the crew understood failure wasn't an option. "We pulled something from nothing. Between the full-timers, the helicopters and all the contractors bringing snow up, this all went together," he marvels. "A lot of people thought Cypress Bowl wasn't going to be a success or even be able to pull off any of their events. And no events got cancelled or postponed so it was a huge success."

With his coursework done, Crawshaw is still under the spell of Olympic afterglow and he has set his sights on one more shot in 2014. As Sochi, Russia prepares to take center stage, he aspires to again be part of the course crew that will build the fast track to gold-medal glory. Only time will tell if he will once again be watching intently from his own Olympic corner.

Some Team Funny Feelings Highlights:

Staffer John Laing, out partying with Jake Bogoch of Skiing Magazine, ends up at a star-studded party where he asks one gal (apparently oblivious to the fact she was still in full race gear): “How was your day?” To which she responds, “Pretty good. I won a silver medal in the bobsled.” John: “Cool.” Later, Mr. Laing, upon hearing something notable about one of the guests, walks up to him and asks in earnest: “Are you the Prince of Monaco?” He was, and simply stared quizzically while his security detail pushed John slightly to the side, and called for the car to swing around front. Bode Miller was also in the house. Laing is like that.

Jessie Lu, Jessie Carlson and myself make our ways to the medal ceremony for the Men’s 4X7.5 KM biathlon relay, Women’s Alpine Slalom, Women’s PGS Snowboard, one of the 10,000 skating events which now escapes me. Afterward K’naan, a Somali-Canadian immigrant from Toronto, put on an amazing show, running through his repertoire of hip hop, Afro-folk, and spoken word to a captive audience. If you have not heard the man, get on iTunes right after this and get some. The African Bob Dylan. Amazing. Afterward, encounter a group of plastered young men with face-painted maple leaves and one sporting a sweet pair of tighty whiteys (red, of course) on the outside of his jeans chanting “Boo-S-A; Boo-S-A!” as loudly as possible outside Citta’s. They were stoked to have me take their shot.

After some laps off Jersey and the Glacier chairs, I opt to head down to the Longhorn and watch the US bobsled team win their first gold medal in the event in 60+ years. The 15 different screens with almost as many events on feed were fairly impressive and provided the best coverage and vantage of the games. The tables of Norwegians trying to shout down the tables of Canadians during the men’s curling finals was an impressive contest in itself. When curling fans go awry, watch out.

We finally leave Whistler, climb into a large American diesel truck, put on Jay-Z and Rhianna’s “New York” and head back for Freedomland. For some group-think reason, we drive straight into the heart of downtown as the throngs are just starting to swell. As we pull up to one particular intersection near Robson, Laing looks down from his driver side perch and says, “Hey that girl is puking out of the cab.” We watch for a few minutes before moving along. Arrival at YVR airport and our previously parked Subaru, forces Laing to pull into the main departures lane when we realize that the height limit for the parking lot is 2 meters, or two and a half feet. You’re cool to park and fly as long as you drive a Miata.

Arrival at the border, like all our border crossings over the duration of the Winter Games is met with a near vacant Customs facility. Homeward bound.

Perhaps the best story of the games I heard was from a friend of mine describing a girlfriend who, about an hour before The Game on Sun, decides she wants to drive up and check it out; walks up to will call with 14 min left in the 2nd period and dude hands her a good seat at face value. Watches one of the greatest hockey games in the history of the sport. Then calmly gets in her car and leaves the sea of red.

For having started out with myopia and malaise, the Whistler Olympic Games rallied to be the most energetic and insane outpouring of stoke the IOC has ever seen. Good times. Thanks much to Michelle Leroux, Ryan Proctor, Christina Moore, and Stephanie for their hospitality and help in attending this amazing scene. Looking forward to Telus already.

JG

Any sport which culminates with athletes collapsing face down in a pool of their own slobber and gun on their back is truly, well, sporting.

The action began early on the shuttle bus to the venue when Team Ruski boarded in full regalia. With fellow correspondent Jessie Lu and I wrapped entirely in Gore Tex and fleece, Team Ruski opted for a more casual look: Russian Starter jackets; white sweat pants; and tennis shoes. The handle of vodka produced by the accredited Russian journalist was also a nice touch. Upon arrival, a quick security check and mile long uphill slog past an impromtu shrine of snowmen, and we arrived to a sea of Norwegian, Slovakian, German and the ubiquitous Russian flags waving proudly in the hammering wet snow. A smattering of maple leaves and Old Glories dotted the landscape as well, as the mass start commenced. Although the US and CDN teams began well, a serious of poor shooting performances knocked down their otherwise solid performances.

It was quickly appearent this was going to be a race between Russia, Austria, and Norway. The other intriguing race was among the horned, painted and clanging Russian and Norwegian fans sprinting from the shooting gallery/finish to the first turns and back screaming at their crew as loudly as possible. With US anchorman Jeremy Teela coming into the finish we made like Ruskis and began yelling with force. A friend of mine went to high school with him, and for encouragement we yelled "Go Cougars!" It was enough to propell Team USA to a 13th place finish.

Indeed, go Cougars.

The biatlon did not disappoint. Crazed Euro fans, incredible skiing and marksmanship. And we even had hot dogs and beer.

Medal ceremony and K'naan concert tonight.

I didn’t attend my college graduation, rarely remember birthdays, and never participate in Superbowl activities; some may consider me a killjoy in regards to culturally construed revelry, but I like to think I simply enjoy more discrete trends in celebration. That is, until I went to the Olympics.  

As a skeptic turned believer, here is what I learned about appreciating the Olympics in Whistler:

1. Don’t get caught up in making the decision about whether or not to go to the Olympics and forget to pay your dinner bill. Running out of a restaurant because you finally decided to make the drive to Whistler justifies a noteworthy amount of bad karma.
2. The best deal you may encounter during your Olympic extravaganza may just be the two bottles of Crown for $35 at the duty free store.
3. Walking around the village at midnight allows only a few hours of getting down at the bars. Go to each bar and tell the bouncer you are looking for your friends. This should give you fifteen minutes at every bar in town, with enough time to at least dance to two songs, sans the cover charge.
4. Drink Red Bull or you will remember how tired you were when you were considering just staying home.
5. Don’t listen to everyone when they tell you that the events will be well advertised or you may end up missing the first run of the women’s slalom because you are trying to find the spectator area.
6. If you can’t find the spectator area and it is snowing, you are in Whistler, so go skiing. Why rush to watch other people ski?
7. Get your photo taken with a life-size Quatchi.
8. Take pictures of yourself with as many different flags as possible.
9. Don’t wear your ski boots to a spectator area that doesn’t involve any skiing.
10. Hide your new skis under random ticket sales booths, no one will steal them.
11. Shake a cowbell, like you’ve never shaken one before.
12. Be patriotic, even if you are American.

The winner Maria Riesch

And her German fans.

The crowd at the base.

A good place to hide your skis.

Gelande Quaffing is an old Jackson Hole Air Force game that started back in the ‘80's when a beer was slid down the bar at a local Jackson Hole watering hole and a JHAF member, acting on instinct, caught the pint moments before the beer hit the ground. Now 25 years deep, the World Championship Gelande Quaffing contest went down February 24, 2010 in Jackson. Teams from the who's-who of Jackson Hole businesses had thirsty quaffers registered for the event alongside company entries and even an intentional contingent: Smith Optics, Powder Magazine, Teton Village Sports, Brew Pub, New Zealand (spy's from a foreign land), Stormshow, TGR, Jackson Hole Airforce and the crowd favorite, The Stage Coach, which featured an all girls team.

Highlights of the night included the The Stage Coach (all girls) knocking out Powder magazine in the first round of the quaff, the crowd chanting 'USA' (no flags were waved) when the New Zealand team took the stage, Dammit Anne of The Stage Coach getting her front teeth knocked out by a fast sliding pint glass and local ski filmer 'RV' of the Stormshow team pounding two pint glasses at the same time.

The final round of the quaffe had Teton Village Sports going at it with local film crew Stormshow. Rumor has it that the Stormshow team was holding secret practises for weeks coming up to the event and these practise sessions sure paid off as they walked away with the title of 2010 World Gelande Quaffing Champions.

Congratulations Stormshow.

Thank you PBR, Smith Optics, Cloudveil and of course Jackson Hole Mountain Resort.

(edit correction, the Stormshow team denied practises as these guys are naturals)

Warning: explicit content.

With Olympic mayhem going full throttle in the Pacific Northwest, I decided to avoid the media frenzy and search for snow. So, I arrived in Jackson Hole today to blue skies--a quick hike to Four Pines confirmed my decision and revealed the goods. Powder Magazine just so happens to be in town for the Powder Week and annual ski test. I'm looking forward to exploring Jackson Hole, rapping with fellow media and testing out next year's product. Sounds rough I know...stay tuned for the next transmission from Jackson.

Pat stared up at the walls with a sigh. “Jesus. The creek even looks easier,” he said, looking up and down the drainage. Then his face lit up. “Let’s hike up the creek!”

There was obviously some hesitation. But something about Pat’s idea sounded enticingly sadistic. We tossed our skis on our shoulders, loosened our boots and headed upstream.

It was the end of January at Mt. Baker, where once again the weather was defying all physical laws regarding H₂O. After weeks of 40-degree snow and 30-degree rain, Baker somehow still had a respectable, 100-plus-inch base. Holding it down in the face of adversity? That’s Mt. Baker for you.

The night before, we had decided to take advantage of the forecasted sunny day and tour out to the top of Mount Anne. Apparently, despite the current balmy temperatures and sunshine, the wet weekend had sealed off any good turns, and we punched our through an inch-thick rain crust on top of 8 inches of sugar. We headed up, hoping to find better snow at higher elevations.

The ascent was infuriating. All around us lay classic Cascade lines, untracked and begging for turns, but our steps kept crunching through the insidious crust. We headed for Shuksan Arm to try some turns in Hidden Bowl.

Before dropping in, Garrett and Pat decided to do some cornice-trundling, only to have the cornice blow away from the sweaty, straggly tree holding it in place. Garret ended up with a rope-burn and Pat with a racing heart after nearly being yanked into oblivion.

And then we were at the creek.

At first it was a bitch. The rocks were slick, we were in alpine boots, and the water was COLD. We struggled over snow bridges scrambled up waterfalls. But, having reached a spot where it seemed we might be able to climb out, our eyes kept being drawn back into the creek.

“It looks like we’re free,” Garrett said, and then added, half-jokingly, “or we could keep heading upstream.”

We weren’t joking. It was back into the creek.

The next hour belonged in the movie Cliffhanger—rappelling off alder branches, free-climbing snowy overhangs, making mossy 5.8 moves in ski boots and javelin-ing our skis up onto the snow bridges. We even had to stem up a waterfall. Stallone ain’t got shit.

Eventually we came to steep, narrow section where, no matter how radical we got, going farther was impossible. The riparian adventure finally at an end, we struggled up a boot pack up and out, towards the traditional exit and guaranteed freedom…

…and found ourselves separated from the cat-track by an open, 10-foot wide, 12-foot deep streambed. After hours of struggling towards the magical ease of the chair, we were faced with another hundred yards of boot-packing. Or not.

“Fuck this,” Garrett said. He tossed his skis and poles over the gap and leaped.

His foot busted through the edge as he jumped and he landed Vertical-Limit style on the other side, arms clinging to the snow and legs dangling into the hole.

But he made it.

After the standard “sick!”s and “hell yeah!”s, we all risked the leap, Tristan even getting extreme with his skis on his backpack. Starved but stoked, we crashed through the trees and tumbled out onto the cat-track above Chair Eight, covered in pine needles and sweat, just as my brother and some friends came riding by.

“That sounds horrible,” my brother said, after hearing the day’s events. “It wasn’t good inbounds, but it was better than that.” We agreed, smiled and made some jokes about some of the sketchier parts of the creek bed. We skied up to the lodge at 4 p.m., seven hours and many miles after those first horrid turns, just in time to nab free pizza from the cafeteria.

We were tired, scratched up, sweaty, and, after hours of skinning, had only made three or four hundred feet of shitty turns. It was 40 degrees out and the parking lot was a muddy mess. Loading our gear into the car, Tristan voiced what was going through all our minds.

“It may be warm and the snow may have sucked and we may have barely skied,” he said, “but that was one of the funnest days I’ve had in awhile.”

If it’s not powing…at least June-uary’s always an adventure.

Photos by Garrett Grove