Type 2 Fun
Adventure is another name for voluntary suffering
My heart hammers in my chest like it’s fit to explode. Legs burning, lungs heaving, I haul my ski-laden pack forward one sliding step at a time. It’s near-whiteout, dark clouds visible through the gaps in the wind-tossed snow. This is fun, I tell myself, as a ski brake springs free of the binding and stabs me in the kidney. I am having fun right now.
And I was having fun, of a kind. Those who have been on an Outward Bound trip or hang out with outdoorsfolk like me already understand the distinction. There’s Type 1 Fun: fun that feels fun in the moment. A perfect powder ski line, a cannonball into a pool, a rewarding sunset vista at the end of a long hike. Then there’s Type 2 Fun, fun that only feels that way afterward. A gnarly river crossing, an exhausting bouldering session, or bootpacking in zero visibility up to Cowboy Ridge. (There’s a third type of fun as well - Type 3: not fun. Why is this included on a list of fun types? Cause even when it truly sucks, it’s a good story later.)
Backcountry beginner that I am, this daytrip was shaping up to be thoroughly Type 2. A cruise out to Musical Bumps organized at the last minute had turned into a mission for Cowboy Ridge - it’s not much farther out from Musical Bumps, but it’s a significantly steep uphill and a lot of work to get to. And I had a new person along who I hoped to impress, with my game-for-anything attitude if not with my skill. Working at a backcountry outfitter is a good way to find touring buddies, but the drawback is that our clientele tends to be especially competent and hard-charging. I’m always upfront about my lack of experience, but ego can get to me all the same. I’ve grown significantly less fit over this winter, pretty excusable given the minor health issues and hectic pace I’ve maintained. But still, I’m not used to struggling through a physical challenge, not really, and so I bite off more than I can chew. At my summer baseline, the mild ascent up Oboe Shoulder would be no problem at all, but add in the inefficiency of a new skill and my overall decline in fitness, and it leaves me gasping.
That said, I was feeling pretty good after our lunch break. True, the visibility was pretty bad in places, and a lingering chest cold had me out of breath on the skin track, but the ridgeline was right there! None of the three of us had skinned up the left-side track to Cowboy before, and our last line down had put us rather far away from the usual approach on the right. But there looked to be a decent low-angle path up through the trees, well out of the avalanche chute and around the shoulder to the crest of the ridge. Low-traction wind crust had been an issue all day, but I was confident in my skinning ability. I’d spent a fair amount of time on cross-country skis as a kid, and that skill had proved transferable on backcountry skis. What’s the worst that could happen? I freely admitted I had no idea what I was doing, but my companions were game to try it and therefore, so was I.
Our mistake was not immediately apparent. Our first angle followed an old spine of avalanche debris, hard as concrete and easy to grip. Two steep kickturns up, another traverse - I was panting with the altitude and lagging behind a switchback or two, but it was manageable so far. My rental pin bindings didn’t want to stay in walk mode and kept releasing the toe when I attempted steep-angle turns, but I kept at it despite the frustration. Good practice getting in and out of the pins, and I would make sure not to rent these skis again. Another couple turns and a push straight up to gain the ridge, and we’d be there. I flipped up the second heel riser and breathed hard for a moment, summoning my resolve.
That’s when the trouble started. The trees that had sheltered our ascent so far parted to reveal a cliff - instead of the mellow shoulder climb we had anticipated, we were now forced upward, directly up the most difficult angle. To make matters worse, we were now on the windward side of the face, and the wind-blasted snow was crumbling beneath our skis. Even my experienced companions were falling on the turns, foundering where the scant coverage gave way to slick blue ice. “I think we should just boot-pack it!” A few turns ahead, our fearless leader was split in a reverse snowplow, yelling over the rising wind. The fine icy flakes whipped into a drifting fog - a short distance away, my friends were faint smudges in a white-on-white world. I struggled up to join them, leaning hard into my edges and still flailing for grip. Crusted goggles, numb hands, I stripped my skins off and wrangled the skis into position on my rented pack. I really need to buy my own fucking gear already, I thought for the tenth time that day. The too-large pack made it impossible to hang my skis in a good position, and in the scramble of my morning pick-up, I'd forgotten the voile strap necessary hold the tips steady. They dangled and bumped, throwing me to one side or the other with each deep, unsteady post-hole step. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Jesus, fuck, dammit…” a running mumble of profanity escaped my lips with each breath before I caught myself. This is fun. I am having fun right now. Swearing is not an efficient way to dispose of carbon dioxide; big exhale, big inhale. I focused on my lungs, feeling them stretch and deepen as I brought my diaphragm under concious control. Strong lungs, strong legs. Almost there. I crawled my way out of a hip-deep hole, throwing my poles perpendicular to my body to distribute the weight. A minor slough rolled down from where I'd fallen - maybe I should have checked the avalanche conditions more carefully? But we were commited now. I snagged my friend's sunglasses from where he'd dropped them during his own all-fours excursion, then stomped the final few steps to join him on the ridge. Our other friend was clipped in already, striding ahead on the well-packed snow.
After a brief consult, we decided to avoid the unstable slope we'd so unwisely ascended. From above, we could just make out a track of avalanche debris below, so it was probably safe, but why take chances? Dark clouds were gathered in the northwest valley, promising a heavy snow within the hour. It was time to go. “Straight down, then track right around that island of trees. Singing Pass Trail out?” We agreed - there was no way we'd make it back up Oboe Shoulder and over to Harmony before the chairs closed, and nobody wanted to skin out in bad weather. Tracking the line of the ridge, we found a fresh, glistening slope of virgin pow, and stripped off our skins for the last run down.
It was glorious. I took the first leap, following the lee of the shallow bowl to a field of deep, dreamy powder. Behind me, I heard my friends whoop and holler as they chose their own lines, slicing past me with long, luxurious turns. I took advantage of every turn, tracking a sine wave at double frequency. Go, go, go! I was flying, propelled down the slope by the pure joy of it all. The angle mellowed and suddenly, I was fighting again. Chkk-kk-kk-kk! Ice and avalanche debris! One edge caught a piece of crud and I almost went down backwards on one ski, but caught the turn and pulled myself around with sheer muscular effort. “Ahh, woo-hoo!” It was still a pleasure. I could barely see for laughing, so amused by the clumsiness of my near-pratfall. My obliques ached; I'd pay for that one later, I was sure.
I caught the guys and together we ran the luge that is Singing Pass Trail. It actually wasn't terrible that day. Only a few sections were coated in sheer ice, and thankfully they weren't the narrowest sections. We double-poled our way through the flats and hit the last downhill onto the resort, ducking and weaving through the green-run crowd. I split to return my rental gear, and made a plan to meet them later for a debrief and a beer.
“So, how was your day?” asked a co-worker, as I hung up my skins to dry.
Beaming, I answered.
“Fucking awesome!”
Well, that's all for this week, folks! I know, I know, it's late again. It's still hectic around here - I'm posting this from my lunch break at work, the first moment I've had to myself since I got back from skiing Wednesday. Expect to hear from me at some point next week - I'm still aiming for Thursday, but it's time to be realistic about my self-set deadline.
Take care, and talk soon,
-Magpie