Monday, February 20, 2012
Step into Winter
So I broke my promise, but let's be honest. I'm ok with it, and so are you.
After one of my longest fun-droughts ever, getting a flat tire, and working full time at a real job, I was pretty sure the apocalypse was actually just around the corner.
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| When Burlington looks like this in February, the Himalaya probably look like this. |
And we all know it just gets worse when John Cusack walks into the room...
Fortunately, friends decided that, snow or not, they were going skiing and snowboarder or not, I was coming with them. They probably just wanted to see how good I was at skootching.
They also needed a guide. Since I was the most experienced backcountry enthusiast of the group, and I'd been to the zone a handful of times before, I took the lead. Unfortunately, I also needed a guide, but we'll get to that later.
The view speeding by through the window was disheartening as we drove through the foothills of the green mountain spine, bare except for a few patches of white in the deepest shadows. Worse yet was passing several rivers entirely locked in with ice. Apparently it's been just cold enough to keep rivers from running, but warm enough that no snow will last. Definitely an apocalypse.
Despite these conditions, morale was high, and there was just enough snow to convince us to strap the skis and snowboard to our backs and begin hiking up. That's when we discovered we were way out of shape.
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| I don't care what it looks like, it felt like climbing Everest. |
Fun-droughts will do that to you. At some point we started questioning whether the shredding would be worth the hike, and I think that's something we always do, but this time was way worse. We were hiking in t-shirts and still sweating, and the snow was crunchier than the girls in the Rubenstein School at UVM. Not a good sign...
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| Joe: Hey bros, I'm gonna grab some poutine, anyone want a snack? Taylor: Nah bro, I heard Tom Wallisch doesn't eat that stuff anymore because it's scientifically proven to make your toes get colder in ski boots. |
Then again, maybe I was the only one focused enough on the snow to worry about the hiking.
After several breaks and much complaining, we reached the top, which isn't actually the top. An extra 5 minutes of hiking along the ridge followed before we finally switched over to descend mode. That's kind of like when Optimus Prime transforms, except less noisy, quickly, and not cool at all. After nearly descending into super dense spruce hell, we cut out into some open glades and had a generally fantastic time.
Since the slope was north facing, the snow was significantly less crunchy, and in some cases even powdery.
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| No, not that kind... |
There was a heavy (if thin) base beneath the fluffy stuff that kept things covered well enough, and I didn't even fall. Well, not on my first lap. Stepping into the backcountry in uh, variable snow conditions is always a little sketchy, at least for me, since I'm not any of these people. I took a few diggers on the second lap, but nothing consequential.
After a long hike back to the top, we began hiking along the ridge towards our initial trail up, but soon realized we were very, very far away.
Taylor saved the day, spotting a nice cut line that we followed down straight to the cars. And by straight I mean traversing for a long ways and then kind of zig zagging for a while. The snow was super fast, crusty, and hard to carve into. There were also bare spots, which are not to be confused with bear spots.
So overall, conditions weren't great, but I'm just glad I made it out this winter with some good friends.
(Even if my snowboard's base hates me for it)
Shred on my friends!
After a long hike back to the top, we began hiking along the ridge towards our initial trail up, but soon realized we were very, very far away.
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| I'm not exactly sure how we did it, but things got very strange, very quickly |
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| "Guys, I spotted Bear Grylls and he's drinking his own.. Don't make eye contact!" |
(Even if my snowboard's base hates me for it)
Shred on my friends!
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Motivation
Sometimes it's hard: to do the things we said we would, the things we promised we would, the things we want to do. First there are the other things we've been meaning to do, then the distractions, the excuses, the other-other things we've been meaning to do. Finding motivation can be a difficult task, especially with social-media-sharing so popular. That's why this essay is late.
Unfortunately, motivation is an elusive creature... more of a rock, really, because once found it's usually pretty hard to keep with you or shape into something meaningful. For that reason, I'd suggest searching for a goal first; they get passed around faster than your 80-year-old grandmother in her Model T Ford. Most goals are fleeting, but with some focus, you can stop reading for a second, find a pen and paper and write one or two down. If you're still struggling at this point, your goal should be to accomplish finding a goal... yes, that's it...write it down...
Goals can be big or small (like people, giraffes, and mistakes), but it's important to make them reasonable. If you "smoke weed erryday" you're definitely not going to outswim Michael Phelps in the... ok, that's a bad example, but you get the point. Shooting for the moon with the idea that at the worst, you'll end up with the stars is an awful idea. Do you know how much space there is in SPACE?
With a reasonable goal in mind, you have to move on to the difficult part: discovering a source of motivation. Some people pray, listen to '80s movie monologues, and spend lots of money on multiple self-help books. I usually choose to work a nightshift on an assembly line for a few nights to get my motivation really pumping; it makes me appreciate how easy it is to write that 6 page lab report. Ultimately though, that doesn't always do the trick. If you're having trouble thinking forward, try thinking backward.
I find this works particularly well in the context of sports or fitness. Anyone that has competed has achieved a peak experience where everything just seemed to happen the right way for them. For most, there's also been someone better or another level of competition that could be reached. These things weren't even on your radar then, you were tunnel-visioned on the win that day, but looking back, you know there was someway you could have done better, moved on to that next level, dropped that extra hundredth of a second. That's where I find my motivation: Within lost potential. No matter how you view the future, the past is gone, irrevocably passed. Are you willing to have another memory you later realize is steeped in squandered potential?
If you can't find the motivation you need after that, you may need to rethink your objective. Motivations should drive us to our limits. It's there that we must begin our the difficult part.
Editor's Note: Although not in formal essay form, this does count towards my weekly essay promise, as it began in true essay form. The second to last paragraph is all that remains of said essay. I found the topic more interesting to approach with the perspective of humor as inspired by the Sum 41 video linked below. I really encourage clicking all the links...
Unfortunately, motivation is an elusive creature... more of a rock, really, because once found it's usually pretty hard to keep with you or shape into something meaningful. For that reason, I'd suggest searching for a goal first; they get passed around faster than your 80-year-old grandmother in her Model T Ford. Most goals are fleeting, but with some focus, you can stop reading for a second, find a pen and paper and write one or two down. If you're still struggling at this point, your goal should be to accomplish finding a goal... yes, that's it...write it down...
Goals can be big or small (like people, giraffes, and mistakes), but it's important to make them reasonable. If you "smoke weed erryday" you're definitely not going to outswim Michael Phelps in the... ok, that's a bad example, but you get the point. Shooting for the moon with the idea that at the worst, you'll end up with the stars is an awful idea. Do you know how much space there is in SPACE?
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| I dare you to try... |
I find this works particularly well in the context of sports or fitness. Anyone that has competed has achieved a peak experience where everything just seemed to happen the right way for them. For most, there's also been someone better or another level of competition that could be reached. These things weren't even on your radar then, you were tunnel-visioned on the win that day, but looking back, you know there was someway you could have done better, moved on to that next level, dropped that extra hundredth of a second. That's where I find my motivation: Within lost potential. No matter how you view the future, the past is gone, irrevocably passed. Are you willing to have another memory you later realize is steeped in squandered potential?
If you can't find the motivation you need after that, you may need to rethink your objective. Motivations should drive us to our limits. It's there that we must begin our the difficult part.
Editor's Note: Although not in formal essay form, this does count towards my weekly essay promise, as it began in true essay form. The second to last paragraph is all that remains of said essay. I found the topic more interesting to approach with the perspective of humor as inspired by the Sum 41 video linked below. I really encourage clicking all the links...
Saturday, January 28, 2012
White Noise
The topic suggestion for this week was "shredding pow," so I tried to take an interesting approach towards a sport I've grown to love. A sport with some incredible sights and often overlooked sounds. This essay is about a few of those sounds, and how they end up falling into my daily life like so many proverbial drifts of snow. I give you...
White Noise
Once you hear it, it never stops. You hear it on the radio,
in traffic, even in the rise and fall of voices at a party, and the longer you
go without hearing the real thing, the louder it gets. Sometimes, it’s all you
can make out.
The soft hiss of powder snow parting on the base of a
snowboard or ski will enchant you if you let it. It sticks with you and calls
you back to the winter woods.
That’s where the magic happens, where the symphony is
unleashed. It starts with the breath; a soft huff of air that grows evermore apparent with each step. Then the
crunch of snow beneath the snowshoes. It creaks and crunches as it compresses,
creating a steady rhythm for the ascent. The thump and rush of blood to the
head builds in tempo, reaching a rapid and deafening crescendo before winding
down for a dramatic suspension.
The drum roll of bindings being tightened hints at a new
beginning. The rhythmic pulse of breath slows and nearly silences. Replacing it
is the rush of air through your ears; a rush bringing new meaning to
wood-winds, rising and falling in a lilting melody that coincides with your
speed. The staccato snap of tree branches under heavy loads of snow provides a
drumbeat of percussion.
Some people never experience it, and experience is more apt
a term than hear, for backcountry shredding is something to be felt, seen,
smelled, and tasted. It establishes perspective, so that the finer melodies of
day to day life are appreciated in new ways. The blustery walk to work feels
warmer after dawn patrol on the wind-blasted peaks. The sandwich at lunch a
little richer after the granola bar on the trail.
It’s easy to tell who hears the music; they seem adrift in
its tonal shifts. In the hush that follows a heavy snowfall, you can sometimes
catch them humming along. The white noise grows inside of them, shaping their
facades: a slight tan starting just below the cheekbones and ending at the
neck, a slight smile as forecasters call for feet of snow, perhaps a scruffy
beard colonizing a usually clean shaven face. But the innocent tune whispering in
the back of their mind shapes much more than their physical appearance.
The true maestros and aficionados start behaving differently
the second the leaves begin to fall. They lose focus, drifting into endless
gazes towards barely visible peaks. A sudden interest in exercise or
willingness to walk the dog follows. People who couldn’t tell you when the last
time it rained if their life depended on it begin reading technical weather
reports, spouting off barometric pressure readings and following NOAA on
Twitter.
No matter who you are, though, there’s an inaudible music to
snow gently falling in the night. Those of us who ski and snowboard yearn to
magnify and lengthen our exposure to that music.
To us, there’s nothing more beautiful than the sound of
White Noise.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
A promise
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| Ausable Chasm, NY |
I didn't make a resolution this year.
I'm not going to, either.
Rather, I've been focusing on living as I should, simply because I should.
As part of that focus, I've decided to write... and that's my promise to you.
From this Sunday until the end of the semester, I'm writing a 500 word (min.) essay every week. It will be for your eyes only (you faithful readers, you)...
And here's the best part:
You get to choose the topic!
Send me an email, post a comment on my most recent post, or message me on the big FB and I'll consider your choice. Topics that receive multiple nominations from different users receive higher priority, but please, nothing obscene.
My only caveat is that topic nominations are subject to my interpretations. Therefore, any topic might yield a piece of fiction or nonfiction, satirical or serious, dark or humorous, etc. For example, I offer you my first entry titled:
The Battle of the Boxes
They roll forward in waves of
thousands, wending their way through the seemingly endless landscape of steel
and concrete. For years we’ve fought off aimless bands of rogues, but somehow
this is different. Never have I seen so many of these forces amassed in one
place, gathered together for one purpose. The purpose to overwhelm us. Their
onslaught begins just before daybreak, but our floodlights dispose of any
element of surprise they might hope to gain.
From the start, they press in close
enough that their tawny, thick hide rasps against mine, adding a subtle hiss to
the clamor of the battle surrounding me. The rapid-fire clash of metal on metal
plays a staccato beat against my skull through a haze, while the sound of my
blade stabbing into my enemies presses into my consciousness .
The
glinting blade is short, but razor sharp; a weapon designed solely for the task
of slashing through thick, dry skin, only to be sheathed seconds later. I take
no prisoners, nor any unnecessary risks; only a battered and broken exoskeleton
is left when I’m done, their treasured innards lay cold and still in the harsh
light of the battlefield. I push them away rapidly, desiring only to rid my
nostrils of their pungent, sickly odor.
The
periodic lulls in the overwhelming onslaught last just long enough for us to
clear the spent figures from around us. At times, the inexorable forces knock
me back to a seated position where I battle to regain my position. Our chief of
command circles the battlefield, urging us onward. Though we feel doomed, we
plunge onward, heeding his commands.
The Jamaican woman beside me breaks
from her destructive task to mutter at the hopelessness of our fate. Though she
never told me of her purpose on the battlefield, I can only assume she’s
proficient with voodoo… It’s the only way to account for her presence here. Her
dark skin bulges at her arms and waist, while thick beads of sweat sprout
across her brow. She’s not accustomed to battle such as this, yet with her
unintelligible grunts and curses she devastates as money or more of the
opposing forces as I.
The great resounding alarm for
retreat has pealed out twice already. We fall back into rank, have whatever
repast we will, and attempt to bolster our morale for our next offense. The
last one sounded ages ago, and my arms and heart grow heavy with hopelessness.
As I stab and slash in a skirmish, my blade shatters against the dust covered
exoskeleton, and I only receive salvation through a passing officer who throws
me her own weapon.
As I stand over the last corpse of
the latest wave, the slightest hint of a smile begins to spread across my
sweat-drenched face. Between gasps of air, I realize none have come to replace
the now collapsed wave. We are free from oppression. A bugler raises the
victory cry as my heart soars with triumph.
We are victorious.
The topic for this piece was "Work" and is based on my recent stint as a temporary employee in a warehouse unwrapping goggle cases. I kept my sanity (questionable) by writing brief notes for this essay on my ipod during breaks. Facts were skewed and/or hyperbolized, but nothing could be considered blatantly untrue.
Hope you enjoyed, now what's my next topic?
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The High Peaks and A Portrait of a Reminiscent Youth
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| Who's probing? Lyon's Falls, NY |
I drove to Burlington, VT yesterday to begin a semester of work, work, and more work. Hopefully there will be some fun in there too, but no promises.
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| I don't think I've seen so much brown in january...ever... Not even while watching Demshitz videos |
I left bare ground and flowing water in Lowville and took the scenic route through the High Peaks where I was greeted with snow and frozen lakes.
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| This is more appropriate. Not to mention gorgeous. |
I took the opportunity to check out what a few of the Empire stars consider "The Promised Land" and would have to agree. Hurricane Brook in Keen, and several further east along Rt. 73 all look incredible, and they're well within reach of a weekend trip from Burlington.
Sadly, this was one of the areas hit hard by Irene in the fall, and the damage to rivers and homes alike was an unpleasant surprise.
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| Ladies and gentlemen, it is my misfortune to present to you John's Brook |
Despite the damage, I was happy to finally get a glimpse of some of these runs that I've heard so much (or so little) about. The Keen Valley area has definitely captured my attention.
As I transition into my new living situation, I find myself mentally escaping to the adventures I've had, and the ones I wish I could do right now. On one such adventure, I was inspired by a reminiscent youth.
A Portrait of a Reminiscent Youth
The remains of my chocolate-strawberry pancakes dry and
crust to my plate in the early-summer morning. We sit bare-chested on the
porch, basking in the shriveled and spent fireworks containers that litter the
streets.
“I miss my childhood, is what it boils down to. Those were
the best days of my life,” he says.
There was the heat, the immovable blanket that kept him in
bed until noon. There were long nights spent in galaxies very far from here,
defending earth from alien invasions with friends. There were hiking trails lit
by the green-tinged hue of sunlight cascading through a canopy of ancient
douglas firs and prehistoric ferns. These are the things he tells me of summers
past in the State of Jefferson. These are the things he tells me of the best
days of his life.
His tone isn’t morose as mine would be, knowing the best
years of my life had already been lived, but there was no gleeful recollection
of some punch line to a joke either. Instead he continues reassembling his
childhood before my eyes, tapping into memories like so many kegs he had tapped
so many summers ago. Dutifully.
A thousand-yard-stare sweeps over his visage as the Illinois
River flows off of his tongue and he remembers the steep black gorge walls and
crystal cold water. The bridge was seventy feet high, but that wasn’t enough.
The rope would arc beneath before swinging up, up. Up he would fly before
whirling through the air, dancing in gravity. And then the pumice of icy water
would scrub the summer heat from his body. It couldn’t be colder at the source,
and even now in the heat of the summer sun, goosebumps spring up on his arms
from the thought.
Then there was the beer, the cold, crumpled cans of beer
that piled up in basement corners and burnt out firepits. And the camping
beneath the stars with the snow-capped peaks hanging in the distant darkness,
and hours spent gazing into a dancing bonfire. The road trips too. Waking up at
dawn and arriving at the coast, just in time to smell the salt in the air and
see the great yellow orb of sunlight dip below the horizon. And then pack back
into the car to retreat, like the tide. For him, it was never about the
destination. All that mattered was the road, the people, and heat of the
summer, driving him to explore.
Slowly, his eyes focus, rising up from the depths of the
river of time. There’s new hope dancing in his voice.
“A full tank of gas, and all the time in the world…that’s
all you need.”
Sunday, January 1, 2012
2011: Year of the Stout
Video of The Wrap Up here!
(I still expect you to read the post though)
Although it didn't yield my biggest drops to date, 2011 was indeed the year of the stout...
(I still expect you to read the post though)
Although it didn't yield my biggest drops to date, 2011 was indeed the year of the stout...
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| No, not that kind... |
While some paddlers in more mild regions or with the means to travel abroad enjoy an endless kayaking "season," I yield to the grip of the harsh northeastern rivers, at least, for a time...
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| As great as hucking is, I'm better at it when the water's flowing |
I made my paddling debut this year in the Delaware Water Gap, an area with a concentration of big, runnable drops that rivals anywhere else I've ever heard of. It was March 5th, and surprisingly warm, though the walls of Raymondskill Creek still held large icicles. And here lies highlights 1 & 2...
Highlight 1: I got a drysuit for Christmas the year before, and it was my first opportunity to use it...
for paddling.
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| Using the drysuit for... not paddling |
Highlight 2: Paddling this as my first rapid of the year...
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| Hackers Falls, Raymondskill, PA (photo from AW) |
After an evening spent harassing the Cobb family and eating their pizza, Dylan and I headed to Harveys Creek. The pouring rain through the night brought flood conditions and cold temperatures as we pulled up to the put-in to meet Elliot. Rain turned to snow as we dropped over the first rapid, and Dylan mentioned that the water was a bit high.
As we paddled down to the lower put in, Mark Zakutansky and his group confirmed that water was higher than most people had ever seen it. Check out DJ Scott's video here!
Highlight 3: Not swimming, and finishing Harvey's when only 3 of 8 did. Also the fact that my second day was spent on ridonkulously high water.
Rain turned to snow throughout the day, and nearly a foot of snow the next morning prevented further paddling excursions in the PA area, so I headed home to relax for a few days before we were struck by more rain. Enter Highlight 4...
Running The Lowville Trifecta, 3 different waterfalls on 2 branches of Mill Creek.
All 3 had been on my list for a while, and I can only confirm that the last one featured in the film had been run before. With an auspicious start to the season, I returned to Vermont for several river trips on runs both familiar and unfamiliar.
Highlights 5 and 6: My first lap down Ridley Brook with renowned guidebook author and C1-er Alden Bird, later joined by several other VT mischief makers, and a trip down Devils Washboul, discovered by Dave Packie, and a true gem of a creek!
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| Dave Packie in the crux of Devil's Washboul (photo: Russ Kelly) |
Less than a week later, I found myself paddling in NH. Pond Brook and S. Branch of the Baker filled the day, a worthy endeavor. After having my first strainer experience (mild, yet frightening) on Pond Brook, I nearly boat scouted myself into Cannibal Falls. Which is a shame, because without knowing there's a huge ledge at the bottom, the it would be one of the most fun rapids in the North East.
Of course, knowing my limits and being more confident in my abilities would dissipate the importance of that ledge quite a bit. Proof I still have a reason to kayak...
Highlight 7: The Big Branch and the spectacular Clarendon Gorge (both in VT) in April both provided incredible memories that will take a long time to fade. The Big Branch also marked the steepest river to date at over 350 fpm, with no vertical drops over 10 feet. I'm proud to say I ran everything but Cave Drop...
Highlight 8: My now annual trip to The Forks in Maine resulted in consuming fresh rabbit meat, enjoying the freebie playboat I got days before (Thanks Dave!!!), and running the Kennebec gorge at just over 15,000 cfs.
Highlight 9: Rafting the Bottom Moose, leading UVMers down Mill Creek, and the week and a half of near nonstop paddling that followed including many descents of the Indy, a few of Otter Creek, and my personal first descent of the Oswegatchie. Check out Scott Martin's Blog for some more shots...
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| Kickflipping a raft is more difficult than it looks... Photo: Angela Baldo |
That week and a half in May yielded the highest concentration of class IV+ boating I have experienced... It was AWESOME! A few days later I had my wisdom teeth surgically removed. They dry socketed, causing some intense pain. The day before I drove across the country with my dad we had them packed to heal. I then performed "minor oral surgery" in various motel rooms across the country for the next week. Enter lowlight #1...
Lowlight 1: Dry sockets suck, but Ohio, Iowa and 3/4 of South Dakota suck a lot worse. Fortunately, a 28 hour push minimized the dull and the drab.
Fortunately, Highlight 10 negated Lowlight 1.
Highlight 10: An evening hosted by Doug and Robin Ammons, an evening hosted by the Jirasko family, and the slow realization that I was living in Portland, OR for the summer.
Highlight 11: Working for Sam Drevo of eNRG Kayaking, a great instructor and better friend! The entire crew at eNRG are some of the best friends I have made, and they did a great job showing me around some of the classic rivers of the Pacific Northwest. The Lower Wind, Wenatchee, Fall-In-The-Wall, and Skykomish were all incredible rivers with amazing scenery. Learning to surf, SUP, and all the incredible people I met along the way are subhighlights as well.
Highlight 12: A no portage personal first descent of the Green Truss confirmed my belief that I'm a solid class IV boater that sometimes paddles class V, a fact I'm quite content with. For those with the skills, this river is without a doubt a must run.
Highlight 13: A trip to the Outdoor Retailer Summer Market, where I got to meet some of the top athletes in several sports and won/was given a TON of awesome gear (and stickers!!).
Unfortunately, my time answering phones and reciting the history of Willamette Falls had to come to an end. But not before a sweet bungee jumping excursion, made possible through Drevo's endless connections... definitely a mini highlight. Then followed another lowlight....
Lowlight 2: Driving across the country...again. After the necessary stop to visit the Jiraskos once again, we drove 33 hours from Montana to Ohio.
Lowlight 3: Attending community college. I backstepped from a university setting to what felt like the 13th grade. 'Nuff said.
Lowlight 4: While my pals from UVM were enjoying the Beaver River releases, especially the Moshier section, which release only 4 hours per year, I was left hobbling around the riverbank with a Staph infection. Despite multiple visits to the doctor, I still ended up hospitalized wondering if I'd get to keep my leg.
Lowlight 1: Dry sockets suck, but Ohio, Iowa and 3/4 of South Dakota suck a lot worse. Fortunately, a 28 hour push minimized the dull and the drab.
Fortunately, Highlight 10 negated Lowlight 1.
Highlight 10: An evening hosted by Doug and Robin Ammons, an evening hosted by the Jirasko family, and the slow realization that I was living in Portland, OR for the summer.
Highlight 11: Working for Sam Drevo of eNRG Kayaking, a great instructor and better friend! The entire crew at eNRG are some of the best friends I have made, and they did a great job showing me around some of the classic rivers of the Pacific Northwest. The Lower Wind, Wenatchee, Fall-In-The-Wall, and Skykomish were all incredible rivers with amazing scenery. Learning to surf, SUP, and all the incredible people I met along the way are subhighlights as well.
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| When I got back, I missed SUP so much I tried it on my sister's kayak... |
Highlight 13: A trip to the Outdoor Retailer Summer Market, where I got to meet some of the top athletes in several sports and won/was given a TON of awesome gear (and stickers!!).
Unfortunately, my time answering phones and reciting the history of Willamette Falls had to come to an end. But not before a sweet bungee jumping excursion, made possible through Drevo's endless connections... definitely a mini highlight. Then followed another lowlight....
Lowlight 2: Driving across the country...again. After the necessary stop to visit the Jiraskos once again, we drove 33 hours from Montana to Ohio.
Lowlight 3: Attending community college. I backstepped from a university setting to what felt like the 13th grade. 'Nuff said.
Lowlight 4: While my pals from UVM were enjoying the Beaver River releases, especially the Moshier section, which release only 4 hours per year, I was left hobbling around the riverbank with a Staph infection. Despite multiple visits to the doctor, I still ended up hospitalized wondering if I'd get to keep my leg.
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| Danny doing it left |
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| Did I mention I love when Taylor screws up |
After a lengthy recovery process, I joined Scott Martin for a Gauleyfest trip. We kicked it off on the Upper Yough with Drevo at 2.7 feet and met up with with Will "C-money" Crimmins of Yakima fame.
Highlight 14: Not having to sleep outside the first night. It was freezing. Also picking up my first ever brand new boat, a Liquidlogic Stomper 90. On the Upper section the next day, I didn't want to even set it on the rocks, but boofing that thing was just too much fun. The Stomper is an incredible design for sure!
Highlight 15: Working with AW and several members of the VT paddling community on my birthday weekend to perform a Flow Study on the Green River. Check out the original writeup here!
Highwater Moosefest was bittersweet, and though very fun, just misses the standard for a highlight as I lost a borrowed GoPro mounted on my bow.
Lowlight 5: Losing a GoPro, and having to fight Danny about what constitutes a "swim." Personally, I like to think of it as a skirt implosion to aquatic boat retrieval. It also dented my Stomper :(
Finally hitting the regular section of Roaring Brook does count as a highlight though...
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| This drop isn't easy to get to, but it's pretty fun.... Mike Mainer Photo |
Highlight 17: The Blizzard of OS
Highlight 18: Taking my father on his first whitewater kayaking trip on the Middle Moose, and managing not to lose any gear in the process, despite a swim in the lead in to House Rock.
My next foray on the Moose resulted in a broken paddle, but fortunately Uncle Jim was prepared with a breakdown. Fortunately, a replacement is in the works, and even better, it's an upgrade! A trip to PA to explore some steep creeks in the Rock Run area with Scott Martin followed, and then later a visit from Dylan Cobb that resulted in some fun exploring and another personal first descent near my home.
As the temperatures finally started dropping, boating became scarce. Despite this, I still made it out on Christmas day, resulting in highlight 19.
Highlight 19: Soloing the Independence on christmas. It was low flow, but still a great way to get out and celebrate.
And finally, Highlight 20: Producing and editing an online magazine, "The Dirtbag's Guide to Whitewater", and not doing a terrible job!
The wrap-up:
It was an incredible year, filled with great friends, new and old. I wrote a novel, produced a magazine, and paddled a lot. By paddling a lot, I mean more than ever before...
Stats:
River sections and trips: 92
River miles: 230+ (not counting numerous lower clack trips)
Gradient loss: 12,500 + (incomplete records)
10 of 12 months paddled
31 Personal First Descents
2 Probable First Descents
2 flood runs
and a hell of a lot of fun!
Finally, I'd like to thank everyone that made this year great!
Especially you, dear reader, your comments and continued support is downright inspiring!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
The Dirtbag's Guide To Whitewater
For the last month I've been working on an online magazine I've come to call "The Dirtbag's Guide to Whitewater." With the help of several contributors and lots of free time, I managed to pull it all together. Truth be told, it's got be more nervous than most big rapids. Future issues will depend on reader's reception, so if you like it, let me know and a new issue will follow sometime near the end of May! Comments are welcome, as are emails to the address on my blogger profile.
Big thanks to all the contributors,
we hope you enjoy!
Happy New Year!!!
Labels:
2011,
canoeing,
dirtbag's guide,
Kayaking,
New York,
Pennsylvania,
rafting,
Scott Martin,
UVM,
Vermont,
waterfall,
Whitewater
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About Me
- Eric
- I am a freelance writer and photographer, collector of experiences, adventure lover, and outdoor goer.
