Here is the link to his video: Little Switzerland, Turnagain Pass and Hatcher Pass, Alaska
Thursday, June 19, 2014
SKIING LITTLE SWITZERLAND, TURNAGAIN PASS AND HATCHER PASS - ALASKA (MARCH 2014)
Ron Kirby and a small crew of friends headed north to AK for a week in late March. They skied some remarkable backcountry areas in three world class mountain ranges - Turnagain Pass (Talkeetna Range), Hatcher Pass (Chugach Range) and the crème
de la crème, Little Switzerland (Alaska Range). As with any AK trip, modes of transportation ranged from fixed-wing air taxi to fat bike. 100% of the skiing was hike-to terrain. Sick trip, Ron. Great footage.
Here is the link to his video: Little Switzerland, Turnagain Pass and Hatcher Pass, Alaska
Here is the link to his video: Little Switzerland, Turnagain Pass and Hatcher Pass, Alaska
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
FLY FISHING THE HEADWATERS OF THE SOUTH BOULDER CREEK - ROLLINS PASS, CO (JUNE 2014)
It's been spring runoff around these parts for the last month and a half. It began at the start of May with chocolate milk-looking rivers that swelled to their banks, but luckily with no serious flooding this year. We had our share of flooding in Boulder County in September 2013 with 24 inches of rain falling in 12 hours and destroying the bug life across much of our river fisheries, not to mention all of the roads that access the high country. Since the runoff started, the weather has been great, so without fly fishing, I've simply been working on the garden, biding my time.
When the runoff begins to subside, the first place to access is generally the high country, usually above 11,000 feet. With all of the Colorado snow this year (nearly 200% snowpack in some places), local fly fishing guides have been spreading the word that the high alpine likes are mostly still frozen. Flow rates started to come down this week and since it's already mid-June, I figured I would take a peek at the alpine lakes above Rollins Pass (the 4 Crater lakes and Clayton Lake).
The valley approach made it look like a promising wager on the way in. The hike from the parking lot at the tunnel leading up to the trail turnoff for Crater Lake was beautiful, but it was all snowshoeing once I got into the trees. Once I reached the lakes, it was clear that I was too early this season. Frozen lakes, even the lake outlets, with easily 4-5 feet of snow on the ice. Current plans are to check back in a couple of weeks.
When the runoff begins to subside, the first place to access is generally the high country, usually above 11,000 feet. With all of the Colorado snow this year (nearly 200% snowpack in some places), local fly fishing guides have been spreading the word that the high alpine likes are mostly still frozen. Flow rates started to come down this week and since it's already mid-June, I figured I would take a peek at the alpine lakes above Rollins Pass (the 4 Crater lakes and Clayton Lake).
The valley approach made it look like a promising wager on the way in. The hike from the parking lot at the tunnel leading up to the trail turnoff for Crater Lake was beautiful, but it was all snowshoeing once I got into the trees. Once I reached the lakes, it was clear that I was too early this season. Frozen lakes, even the lake outlets, with easily 4-5 feet of snow on the ice. Current plans are to check back in a couple of weeks.
I bailed from the high alpine and headed back to the car to fish the winding meanders of the South Boulder Creek that flow passed the small town of Rollinsville. This section of river holds all four species of trout (brook, cutthroat, rainbow, brown). The water was still high, but surprisingly clear and certainly fishable. Having spent most of the day on the approach and descent for the alpine lakes, I only had a couple of hours to fish, but it proved worthwhile. I found a deep hole still west of town under the bridge that crosses to the south side of the river, where about fifteen fish, including some big trout (20+ inches), were lined up in a feeding lane on a back eddy below some falls. I had success feeding them a Golden Pat's Rubber Legs (size 12) and blue poison tungsten midge (size 16). The markings on the bows up there are impressive.
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| Adolescent rainbow |
CLOSE SHAVE WITH AN ALPINE TORNADO – RED FEATHER LAKES, CO (MAY 2014)
This is a bit of a personal safety share. My family and I made plans for the long Memorial Day weekend to head up to Bellaire Lake, a few miles south of the popular camping and fishing in and around Red Feather Lakes, Colorado. I drove up to the Red Feather Lakes area (above 9,000 ft) with the intention of reserving a campsite in advance of the busy holiday weekend, then heading home that night, only to return the following day with the rest of the Spurlin clan. Not a horrible idea... it was first-come-first-serve and we didn't want to make the trek up into the mountains for the weekend without a sure bet. Here's a photo of the pay campsite shortly after I arrived with black storm clouds a brewin' in the background.
After setting up the tent, initially marble-sized hail began pummelling the campground. After fifteen minutes, I drove the car up into the forest and parked between two large Ponderosa Pines for some shelter from the pelting hail. At that point, the hail turned golf ball-sized and continued to pelt the car for another fifteen minutes. The sound of hail hitting the car was deafening and all I could do was cover my ears. The shelter provided by the thin tree canopy was the only reason my windshield didn't crack. My mirror assembly on the driver's side had blown apart and it was clear that the Outback wound't be driving away without some nasty scars.
I called my wife, Jen, and chatted with her about what was happening to the car and that I might be a little behind schedule that evening. Looking to the south, I could see a distinct wall cloud, but didn't bother mentioning it. Within five minutes, the winds picked up violently and began shaking the car. One of the 2-foot diameter, 100-year old Ponderosa Pines that I had parked between, just a few feet to the right of my car, suddenly uprooted and I watched it tip over... luckily in the opposite direction of my car. I found myself staring out of the passenger window at the tree roots and immediately started the car, threw it in reverse, and parked in the middle of the nearby open field, clear of falling trees. Then it happened...
The tornado ripped through the campground and flattened several hundred trees, passing just behind my campsite and looping back around into the main campground. Sitting in the open field, my car was lifted off the ground several times on the driver's side (upwind side). It was all over in a matter of minutes. My tent had been ripped up from the stakes and tossed into the forest (see the background of the first image below).
Afterward, the campground host drove up and after checking to make sure I was safe, he asked if I’d seen his golf cart that was parked at the entrance to the campground. Apparently, the tornado picked it up and carried it off somewhere into the Roosevelt National Forest.
Fuck tornadoes.
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| Campsite before the tornado. |
The tornado ripped through the campground and flattened several hundred trees, passing just behind my campsite and looping back around into the main campground. Sitting in the open field, my car was lifted off the ground several times on the driver's side (upwind side). It was all over in a matter of minutes. My tent had been ripped up from the stakes and tossed into the forest (see the background of the first image below).
Afterward, the campground host drove up and after checking to make sure I was safe, he asked if I’d seen his golf cart that was parked at the entrance to the campground. Apparently, the tornado picked it up and carried it off somewhere into the Roosevelt National Forest.
Fuck tornadoes.
FLY FISHING THE UPPER KERN RIVER – SEQUOIA NATIONAL PARK, SIERRA NEVADA (MAY 2014)
I took a 4-day trip on a whim to fly fish the Upper Kern River with some buddies (Craig Divine, Kevin Keens, Bob Roscuitto). None of us had fished the river before, but our SoCal friends had done their research and prospects looked promising. Unfortunately, timing was not on our side and the spring runoff was in full swing. Despite record low snowfall this winter across the Sierra, flows were in the range of 750-800 cfs and the water was slightly stained when we arrived.
We stayed at the Durrwood Creekside Lodge B&B, a little known inn near the Johnsondale Bridge along the Upper Kern. The folks were friendly, the mood light and communal breakfast very filling. Some places seem to just fall off the map and this is one of them. I recommend a stay if you're in the neighborhood. Our evenings were pleasant fly tying sessions with cold beers, courtesy of Bob. The fly of the trip was the Kern Candy nymph, invented by local guide, Guy Jeans. Pretty much the only thing the trout could see in those murky waters.
Only a handful of miles upriver was the Golden Trout Wilderness and Kevin was amped on catching a new species of trout. That, however, was not in the cards. The approach to the wilderness boundary required a 20-mile windy road, passing by the The Needles, then a mellow 2.5 mile hike down into the canyon, dropping about 1,500 feet in elevation. Water conditions were rough to say the least and visibility often less than a foot in places, meaning you practically had to put the fly in the trout's mouth yourself if you wanted to land anything.
Spring in the Sierras can be beautiful in subtle ways. It's the maritime snowpack and moisture off the Pacific that drive the climate in this portion of the world. The heat of the summer can be stifling though and seasonal wild fires are pervasive in this neck of the woods.
Only a handful of miles upriver was the Golden Trout Wilderness and Kevin was amped on catching a new species of trout. That, however, was not in the cards. The approach to the wilderness boundary required a 20-mile windy road, passing by the The Needles, then a mellow 2.5 mile hike down into the canyon, dropping about 1,500 feet in elevation. Water conditions were rough to say the least and visibility often less than a foot in places, meaning you practically had to put the fly in the trout's mouth yourself if you wanted to land anything.
Spring in the Sierras can be beautiful in subtle ways. It's the maritime snowpack and moisture off the Pacific that drive the climate in this portion of the world. The heat of the summer can be stifling though and seasonal wild fires are pervasive in this neck of the woods.
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| Something in the wild orchid family. |
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| Pine cone of the California Big Pine, which can weigh upwards of two pounds. |
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| Fresh black bear tracks. |
RETROSPECTION ON A FRACTURED STERNUM (MARCH 2014)
It was Saturday, March 8. And, well, the day started out like any other powder day. The snowpack was deep everywhere across the state after an epic early-mid ski season with most zones reporting 150 to 200% of normal snowpack. Despite the devastation that the pending spring runoff would inevitably unleash on my fly fishing season, the snow at the resorts had been stellar all winter. It was good now and poised to be good for the remainder of the spring.
I cruised west up I-70 to join Tom Holmquist from Boulder at the base of Breck's Peak 8 for first chair. I rarely ski that mountain. It was March and by most resort skier's standards, the season was nearly over... and this was my first day at Breck for the 2013/2014 season. The mountain reported 14" of fresh overnight and anticipation grew as we charged for North Bowl below Imperial Express chair, gunning for what we hoped would be wind-loaded deeps on the wind-sheltered north side of the ridge.
Tom dropped into North Bowl first. As he vanished into powder on his first turn, it took less than a millisecond for my brain to register that conditions were way... beyond... expectation. I stared in amazement, eyes transfixed on the oscillating blur of Tom's jacket as he floated down the fall line, barely visible through the powder cloud. Oh my god. My turn. A quick traverse to skier's right to the entrance to my own untracked line and off I went. It was bottomless. The winds overnight must have persisted through the storm and North Bowl was offering us first dibs on 5-6 feet of blower. The next chair was the same. And so was the next, and the next, and the next. Where was everybody? Why were Tom and I the seeminly only two skiers yo-yoing this line? Who cares really.
Soon 12noon rolled around and with tired legs and eyes on a beer, we decided it was time to head out and leave the sloppy seconds for the throngs of spring-breakers who had finally found there way up the mountain to Imperial Express. We dropped south below Chair 6 and into the south-facing spruce glades, feeling gratified and full after devouring face shots all morning. Still pillowy and skiing well despite full sun, I didn't adjust my skiing for the new south aspect, which we were now charging at the same pace we'd been skiing all morning on a north aspect.
Funny to look back and recognize the exact moment where things went wrong. I must have hucked 4 or 5 rock bands on that last run down toward the base of Chair 6, somewhere in the trees between No Name and West Snowbird. The powder wasn't as deep, but the landings were soft enough. What hadn't dawned on me was what would have crossed any backcountry skier's mind... that is, this is a new aspect, it's later in the day, it's full sun and this slope has baked in the sun all winter, so there are bound to be femur-breaking downed trees and boulders just under the surface. Why didn't I take a moment to stop and process the variables before dropping in? I think I fell victim to the resort skier's mentality that everything inbounds in generally "safe" and if not, ski patrol will have staked out problem areas, right?
Approaching the last 100 yards of steep snow before the cat track at the base of the run, I traversed far left into a band of rocks for one last blind huck. It all happended so quickly. As I transitioned, my left ski landed on a submerged boulder and the ski released, propelling my body forward in Superman position, flying a foot or so above the surface of the snow. While still airborne, I caught a glimpse of the nose of a large boulder poking out of the snow below me and we were on a collision course. I managed to get my right glove out in front of me with my aluminum pole still in hand. As my hand made contact, my body followed, sandwiching the pole between my chest, hand and rock. It was a hard, direct hit on my sternum that brought me to an immediate stop. My pole had snapped a few inches below the rubber grip and, somehow, it didn't impale me. I immediately sat upright on my knees, knowing something bad had just happended. I took a deep breath, half expecting to hear girgling blood sounds and broken ribs rubbing together. Nothing, just pain. I pounded my chest hard to listen more for possible broken bones. I continued to sit for a few minutes, my hightened senses acute and fully aware, waiting for any possible indications of internal bleeding... nausea, loss of consciuosness... nothing. Just pain in my sternum. I stood slowly and called to Tom below me about 200 yards that I wasn't okay and to wait for me. I booted back up the hill, spent a few minutes searching the powder for my lost left ski, then my broken right pole, stepped back into my bindings, and made a slow sideways descent to meet back up with Tom.
I think I knew at that moment that my season was probably over, but denial is a funny thing. I took the next chair lift up with Tom and realizing that it was difficult to move, called it a day and made my way down the mountain to my car and eventually home. It was four days and three sleepless nights before I went to urgent care to request painkillers so that I could sleep. The CAT scan confirmed what I already knew... the upper sternum plate had been completely cracked in half laterally. Luckily, no broken ribs and more importantly, no ruptured thoracic aorta immediately behind the sternum.
Thank goodness for aluminum ski poles.
I cruised west up I-70 to join Tom Holmquist from Boulder at the base of Breck's Peak 8 for first chair. I rarely ski that mountain. It was March and by most resort skier's standards, the season was nearly over... and this was my first day at Breck for the 2013/2014 season. The mountain reported 14" of fresh overnight and anticipation grew as we charged for North Bowl below Imperial Express chair, gunning for what we hoped would be wind-loaded deeps on the wind-sheltered north side of the ridge.
Tom dropped into North Bowl first. As he vanished into powder on his first turn, it took less than a millisecond for my brain to register that conditions were way... beyond... expectation. I stared in amazement, eyes transfixed on the oscillating blur of Tom's jacket as he floated down the fall line, barely visible through the powder cloud. Oh my god. My turn. A quick traverse to skier's right to the entrance to my own untracked line and off I went. It was bottomless. The winds overnight must have persisted through the storm and North Bowl was offering us first dibs on 5-6 feet of blower. The next chair was the same. And so was the next, and the next, and the next. Where was everybody? Why were Tom and I the seeminly only two skiers yo-yoing this line? Who cares really.
Soon 12noon rolled around and with tired legs and eyes on a beer, we decided it was time to head out and leave the sloppy seconds for the throngs of spring-breakers who had finally found there way up the mountain to Imperial Express. We dropped south below Chair 6 and into the south-facing spruce glades, feeling gratified and full after devouring face shots all morning. Still pillowy and skiing well despite full sun, I didn't adjust my skiing for the new south aspect, which we were now charging at the same pace we'd been skiing all morning on a north aspect.
Funny to look back and recognize the exact moment where things went wrong. I must have hucked 4 or 5 rock bands on that last run down toward the base of Chair 6, somewhere in the trees between No Name and West Snowbird. The powder wasn't as deep, but the landings were soft enough. What hadn't dawned on me was what would have crossed any backcountry skier's mind... that is, this is a new aspect, it's later in the day, it's full sun and this slope has baked in the sun all winter, so there are bound to be femur-breaking downed trees and boulders just under the surface. Why didn't I take a moment to stop and process the variables before dropping in? I think I fell victim to the resort skier's mentality that everything inbounds in generally "safe" and if not, ski patrol will have staked out problem areas, right?
Approaching the last 100 yards of steep snow before the cat track at the base of the run, I traversed far left into a band of rocks for one last blind huck. It all happended so quickly. As I transitioned, my left ski landed on a submerged boulder and the ski released, propelling my body forward in Superman position, flying a foot or so above the surface of the snow. While still airborne, I caught a glimpse of the nose of a large boulder poking out of the snow below me and we were on a collision course. I managed to get my right glove out in front of me with my aluminum pole still in hand. As my hand made contact, my body followed, sandwiching the pole between my chest, hand and rock. It was a hard, direct hit on my sternum that brought me to an immediate stop. My pole had snapped a few inches below the rubber grip and, somehow, it didn't impale me. I immediately sat upright on my knees, knowing something bad had just happended. I took a deep breath, half expecting to hear girgling blood sounds and broken ribs rubbing together. Nothing, just pain. I pounded my chest hard to listen more for possible broken bones. I continued to sit for a few minutes, my hightened senses acute and fully aware, waiting for any possible indications of internal bleeding... nausea, loss of consciuosness... nothing. Just pain in my sternum. I stood slowly and called to Tom below me about 200 yards that I wasn't okay and to wait for me. I booted back up the hill, spent a few minutes searching the powder for my lost left ski, then my broken right pole, stepped back into my bindings, and made a slow sideways descent to meet back up with Tom.
I think I knew at that moment that my season was probably over, but denial is a funny thing. I took the next chair lift up with Tom and realizing that it was difficult to move, called it a day and made my way down the mountain to my car and eventually home. It was four days and three sleepless nights before I went to urgent care to request painkillers so that I could sleep. The CAT scan confirmed what I already knew... the upper sternum plate had been completely cracked in half laterally. Luckily, no broken ribs and more importantly, no ruptured thoracic aorta immediately behind the sternum.
Thank goodness for aluminum ski poles.
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