• SKIING THE ANTARCTIC PENINSULA PART 1
• GETTING INTO WINTER CLIMBING SHAPE WITH FA GUIDE CHAD PEELE
• CARSTENSZ PYRAMID THE HEROES PROJECT EXPEDITION IN THREE ACTS
• KYLE MILLER ON FIRST FILM PREMIERE AND TRANSITIONING FROM SKI BUM TO PRO ATHLETE
• BE FIRST RECIPIENT JON TURK RECAPS HIS EPIC, FIRST CIRCUMNAVIGATION OF ELLESMERE ISLAND
• TAHOE GUIDE MEETING DAY 2 THE GUIDE BUILT PROCESS

With warm weather, blue skies and deep snowpacks still lingering in the high peaks of the American West, ski traverse season is in full swing from Washington to Wyoming. First Ascent’s Zach Crist, Wyatt Caldwell and Erik Leidecker—and a complementary crew of Sun Valley chargers—took advantage of the prime weather of the high season to head out for a long tour through Idaho’s historic Pioneer Range. What they found in their own wild backyard was some late spring pow, a 75-year old ski cabin and a historical connection to the Austrian expats and Tenth Mountain Division regulars who together created one of America’s oldest ski cultures. This is their story of the Pioneers.

Words by Zach Crist, Images by Cody Doucette

When Sun Valley Resort opened in 1936, climbing up snow-covered slopes and sliding down them atop two wooden planks was a lofty pursuit, even for the most adventurous Americans. But the Nazi invasion of Europe radically accelerated the spread of mountain savvy as the worlds most experienced skiers were flushed from their village homes in the Alps. Several of them found their way to familiar territory in southern Idaho where they explored a dramatic alpine landscape, sewing the seeds of a nascent culture of American ski mountaineers. 75 years later, a small group of us thought we should pay tribute to those adventurous souls by way of a multi-day traverse through the, aptly named, Pioneer Mountains.

Hannes Schneider had established the worlds first ski school in St Anton, Austria, but in 1935 the Germans marched into town, seized his home and imprisoned him. His team of prodigal instructors quickly dispersed, escaping a similar fate by crossing borders on overnight trains with false documents in hand. Several of these men were recruited by Austrian dignitary, Count Felix Schaffgotsch, who was hired by Union Pacific Railroad to assemble a team of ski instructors for their new resort in Sun Valley. America’s first destination ski area became an immediate success after blending a cast of influential Hollywood guests with a small fraternity of elite ski mountaineers. Guests returned home on UPR’s ‘overnight express’ intoxicated with fantastic memories of climbing, skiing and partying in a mountain paradise.

Joined by my good buddies, Erik Leidecker, brothers Kitt and Cody Doucette and Yancy and Wyatt Caldwell, we drove ten minutes east of Sun Valley and started skinning our way to the Pioneer Cabin. Built in 1937 the classic old shack still provides decent shelter and phenomenal views of peaks named after the men who first explored them—several of whom later joined the 10th Mountain Division that successfully ambushed the Nazis on Riva Ridge, a bloody mountainside battle that is said to have reversed the momentum of World War II. In the following days we retraced some of the classic routes, the face of the Salzburger Spitzl and the west couloirs off Duncan Ridge before moving camp to the newly revamped Pio Hut, a Mongolian style yurt fully equipped with a kitchen, wood burning stove, eight bunks and a sauna.

We awoke in the lap of mountain luxury to temps in the mid 40′s. Our plan was to make use of a cache dropped by friends that would allow us three more days of climbing and skiing our way to the east. With some of the most Alps-like terrain in the lower 48, it’s no surprise that European ski mountaineers would have felt right at home in the Pios. Several summits reach over 11,000 feet and feature long, steep ramps offering mind-blowing descents, but a remarkable warming trend meant sharply increased hazard in terrain like this. Having anticipated the heat wave, we consumed as much food and alcohol as possible the previous night, partly to avoid an early exit with heavy packs, but mostly to celebrate these dramatic peaks and the men who forever changed the way Americans thought of winter recreation and life in the mountains.

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UIAGM guide Caroline George  has tackled many climbs of great difficulty, from five of the six famous North Faces of the Alps to earning her full guiding certification in a professional fraternity still dominated by men. But nothing completely prepared her for the demands of staying safely active during her recent pregnancy or the criticism she faced for her fitness choices with a belly growing bigger by the day. As fate would have it, she went into labor an hour after a Swiss ski tour and gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl, who had already racked up more vertical feet before birth than many skiers log in an entire season. This is Caroline’s unvarnished report on childbirth, motherhood and the challenges of returning to the mountains with a different perspective on life.

Words and Images by Caroline George

On February 11, 2012, I traveled from Chamonix to Switzerland to visit my mom and go ski touring in the blistering cold. An Arctic cold snap had hit Europe and I was running out of “reasonable” tours to do while pregnant around Chamonix. I was a few days past my due date and needed to find tours that, I could just strip the skins off my skis and glide back down to my car should I be going into labor. The tours had to be somewhat close to a hospital too. My mom—an avid climber and multiple-time ski-mountaineering competition winner—wasn’t too psyched on me skiing while pregnant. But she joined me on a few tours, soon realizing that there was no changing my mind and that I was being really careful and that well, it really was safe enough. We skied 3,300 feet that day. I stayed in Leysin that night, the little sunny Swiss ski resort I grew up in and where my parents still live. The following day was yet another bluebird sunny Siberian cold day and my mom was determined to keep me at home, sure that the only reason I hadn’t yet given birth was that I was too active. But I felt that every day could be my last day of skiing, since I could be going into labor at any time. So we went out for a shorter ski tour above the house. We got home by 4 pm. An hour later, my stomach started to ache a little, and thought that it wouldn’t hurt to get checked out. We drove down to the hospital, where Adam met us. And six hours later, Olivia was born at fifteen minutes after midnight.

As they say, nothing can prepare you for giving birth. Not even your growing belly. You’d think that with so many women having given birth over time, you’d get a sense of what it’s like! My labor was as painful as it was quick. My best description of it was this: coming out of the water after having fallen off your surfboard and resurfacing only to get drowned over and over again by huge waves that don’t let you catch your breath, wishing for someone to make it stop, wondering if it will ever stop, while the waves get bigger bigger, and closer and closer together. A French comic said: “When women say that giving birth is the most beautiful day of their life, I can’t help but wonder what the other days of their lives are like.” As excruciating as labor and giving birth is, it’s true that once the baby is crawling on your belly, staring straight into your eyes, you instantly forget the nightmare you just experienced. We—Olivia, Adam and I—were all that at once, both startled and in awe. I wondered how such a perfect being could have been inside of me, already formed, with eyes, ears, a mouth, a head, a belly, arms, legs, etc. Adam and I were both mesmerized and slightly in denial of the miracle of life. It’s all at the same time unreal, magical, beautiful, surreal, moving and right then, you know that your life will never be the same. Or do you?

These very words are what have kept me from having a child for so long. I love my life. I have worked long and hard to make my life what it is. And I wouldn’t trade it in for anything. I often felt that when people said that your life will never be the same, it was said with a negative edge. I was therefore all the more determined that while having a child would change my life, it would be for the better: I would still be me; I would still do what I love to do. I would find a way to make it all work, because I strongly believe that happy parents lead to a happy baby.

Yet, the first week, all I wanted was to be a mom to this little wonder in my life. There was so much to learn: changing diapers, bathing her, learning how to care for her, marveling over her, breastfeeding, learning to be a family of three and “sharing” the little being that had grown inside of me with Adam. But soon though, sitting for hours-long feedings at a time, listening to her cries, not knowing how to help close those beautiful beady eyes at night and sleep deprivation all got to me. One evening, as I felt overwhelmed, I grabbed the trash from Adam’s hand and said that I would be taking the trash out, and no one would get in my way of doing so. I NEEDED to get out, breathe some fresh air, and be alone, for even 5 minutes. Suddenly, taking the trash out seemed like the greatest adventure ever! Adam encouraged me to get out of the house. But I think it’s innate for moms to want to feel irreplaceable to the child. So, when ten days into it, I went skate-skiing, guilt was my silent partner as I glided down the smooth track. I rushed home after an hour, feeling like a bad mom for having enjoyed my time outside so much, for having enjoyed something other than my little one. But I also realized that I was all the more excited to be with her, and her cries no longer felt like daggers stabbing my heart. What if my all-consuming passion was actually beneficial to helping me be a good patient mother?

The following day, I tried to go ski touring up the nearby piste in Les Houches. I got there, put my ski boots on my feet, put my skins on my skis, called Adam, heard her cry, took my boots off and drove home. “She needs my milk, she needs me”, I thought. I felt that no one could do this job as well as me. It’s hard to break the bond that connects a mother to the little being that was in the womb for so long. But I am lucky that Adam is such an eager dad, as happy to be with her as to be in the mountains. He encouraged me to try getting out again the next day. I ski toured for an hour and went home. The next day, I toured a little longer. Over that weekend, while Adam was guiding, I even let my mom watch her while I went out to breathe some fresh air and reconnect to myself. Gradually, the tours got a little longer (not too long or my boobs would burst!!!), I was able to pump more milk, and I soon realized that in order to be a good mom to Olivia, I needed to feel good myself and that doing what I love most – being in the mountains – enabled me to get perspective and feel energized. The time away didn’t only benefit me: it also gave Adam the space to be a Dad to Olivia without me looking over his shoulder all the time. Maybe I’m just trying to justify what I do, but I feel now that it is essential for Olivia to know at a young age that she is loved not only by me, but that others love her (nearly) as much as I love her, and that she can be happy even when I’m not around.

Olivia is now nine weeks old. She has nearly doubled her weight and is a much loved, thriving and very smiley baby girl. My life has changed in that I am now a mom and she will forever be my daughter. I learn everyday from her. She is my priority. But I am also learning how to keep being me and do what I love to do, to find the balance that enables me to be a good, patient and loving mom to her. When I’m up there, all I want is to be with her. But if I stayed home 24/7, I wouldn’t have perspective and might end up feeling frustration, which isn’t good for anyone. So I get out on most days to ski tour, ice climb, climb, run and also guide. I don’t go out for as long as I normally do, but I am more efficient and appreciate my time away all the more. The rest of the time, I am with her. I figured out a way to work while she sleeps on me and I take her on hikes in my baby carrier. That way, it feels for both of us as though we were still out together in the mountains like she was when she was in my womb—those were some of the most beautiful moments in my life.

While I love every second of being a mom to her, I know that I need perspective. I can get it by taking a little time for myself each day, and reconnecting to who I am outside of motherhood. I am lucky to have a support system—Adam and my parents mainly—who enable me to do that too. I also live in a place, which enables me to get a quick workout without having to drive. People will always judge how you do things and have an opinion as to how it should be done, but what I have learnt so far is that there is no one way to be a good parent, there is only the way that works for you, your baby and your family—and to feel good about the process. It’s still early days and I know that my life will change as Olivia grows up and I will grow with her. Yet, I am determined to set as an example for her that parenthood doesn’t have to be a frustrating, sacrificial experience. I want her to see that life goes on, but that it is only more beautiful by having her in it.

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Few female ski guides can claim the credibility of thirteen seasons in Alaska or the stacked resume of First Ascent ski guide Lel Tone. But the 2012 Powder Awards nominee and Squaw Valley avalanche forecaster is one of the trusted few who have been picking the lines and keeping clients safe in the world’s most coveted and consequential ski zones for more than a decade. Even for eternally positive Lel, not every day in a heli is paradise. But, as she details in her guide report, when all the factors align it’s like winning the lottery of life.

Words by Lel Tone, Images courtesy of Greg Harms and Tony Harrington.

Every spring, for the last 13 years, I have been making the pilgrimage north to Alaska for the heli-ski season and can honestly say I have never quite seen a winter like this in the Chugach. In terms of numbers this season rivals all others on record with over 800 inches in Girdwood, Alaska. By mid-March Anchorage had broken the all time record for annual snowfall. With the snow bountiful we had the ability to ski powder down to sea level, which is a rarity most seasons. Bottom line: the snow-choked mountains were ripe for the taking.

For anyone that has spent time in the mountains and been at the mercy of Mother Nature…we skiers and mountaineers know it is a matter of being in the right place at the right time. We have all paid our dues, sitting thru weeks of bad weather, suffering thru day after day of wind hammered snow with the cruel torture of one bluebird day after another. Buried weak layers in the snowpack have plagued many of us for weeks on end, making it impossible to step onto slopes without triggering avalanches. Or we’ve seen the days that send us tiptoeing into the mountains nerves frazzled and on edge.  So when the stars align and the weather is perfect, the snow is stable, the lines are fat and the conditions perfect it is a precious and beautiful thing. These amazing moments in time and in our lives are meant to be treasured; for now it is time to slay, pillage and savor.

The stars aligned and the northern lights shone bright at The Tordrillo Mountain Lodge on the second week of March this season. With 15 hours of Hobbs (helicopter time) on the meter, three wildly enthusiastic and talented Czech and French snowboarders, a double-guide situation and good weather in the forecast the table was set for a feast. By week’s end we had skied 95 runs and thrown down well over 30 first descents in the Tordrillo Range. We were able to ski 21 runs in one day, so plentiful that they all blend into a blur of sunlight, granite spires, powder contrails, incredible glacial views, imperceptibly small landings and crazy happy smiles, followed by more smiles. As the week came to a close, there was a sense, a knowing look from one person to another that has spent a lifetime playing and working on the mountain of how good we got it, a sense that we had just won the lottery…. kind of like we had stolen something and didn’t get caught.

The season is now coming to a close. I have come to Haines, Alaska to visit my husband Tom Wayes and fellow First Ascent teammates, Reggie Crist, Kent McBride, Chris Coulter, Lexi Dupont and Will Wissman who have been posted up here at SEABA all season. As I sit here in Haines in beautiful 50-degree weather, the pussy willows are blooming in town, the grass is exposed and the mud is deep. The prolonged warm temps are taking its toll on our winter playground. The mountains are starting to shed their winter coats. Cornices drop, glide cracks pop, bergschrunds slump and crevasses start to show themselves. After a beautiful day and eight runs of skiing powder AND corn, the stoke is high as we sit on the deck at SEABA base and drink Coronas in our ski boots long after the sun is low in the sky. We toast to another amazing day we got to heli-ski in the mountains and to a season in Alaska to rival all others.

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As we detailed earlier this month on the Born Out There blog, First Ascent athlete, expedition kayaker and pro photographer Chris Korbulic recently returned from the heart of Africa while filming for the third season of Kaiak with fellow First Ascent traveller Ben Stookesberry. In addition to their inspiring and perspective-shifting trip to Zimbabwe, the pair also explored the rivers and culture of neighboring Zambia. As we’ve come to expect from Korbulic, his incredible images alone tell a powerful story of a faraway place. Below are his selects with the captions that best encapsulate his time on the continent.

Images and captions by Chris Korbulic

Kafue Camp. We had just run the biggest whitewater on the Kafue, so had a great day. We had been having truck problems and left it to get repaired, so it was a great surprise when it pulled in that night, ready to go for the rest of the trip!

Branches of the Kafue. With a ton of whitewater on the Kafue, this was a calm moment of relief after safely coming through a big rapid. We were only about halfway down and had a lot of big ones coming.

Merry Christmas. We didn’t really give ourselves the best Christmas present—camp next to a big, long pool where crocs could be a major problem. The next morning we would put in and paddle the pool, knowing that as we put ourselves in that place, it was our responsibility to endure the knowledge of threats we could neither see, understand, nor at that point do anything about. That afternoon, we completed the first descent of the Wonder Gorge.

Lunsemfwa River Miners. In the wilderness for different reasons, these miners near the Lunsemfwa River take advantage of recently found gold and rising gold prices. The low water level made gold mining possible but sent us looking elsewhere.

Lumangwe Falls at Night. This falls was on our minds for a while, but when we got there it just wasn’t right. About 95 percent landed on rocks, and the other part had a really tough lip before a 30-meter falls. We ghost-boated our extra kayak off it three times and the results were worse each time, with the kayak disappearing behind the falls for 20 hours on it’s final attempt.

We found GOLD downstream! Ben running the committing middle line of Upper Kabweluma Falls. We had tried to scout this falls the day before by driving as close as possible, but we got a flat tire and had to stop the truck about a mile away. I couldn’t wait to see it and ran the track to the falls and it was perfect. But the run was a little creepy with night falling in the forest. The next day Ben and Pedro ran the lower falls on only my nighttime beta from the night before.

Another clear night in the Kalungwishi watershed. So many nights spent in the bush by the big truck, it started to feel like home.

Ben Stookesberry running Kundawika Falls. Mopani bees on the other side of the river made it almost unbearable to stand and wait to take a photo, even though the view of the falls was amazing. I came over to this rock right at the lip of the falls and did a little trimming to get this open, pretty engaging angle of Ben running the falls.

Looked too good. After watching Ben have a great line, I had to run it too. Luckily Leyla was willing to brave the Mopani bees and get this photo.

Stoked team at the end of the trip, at Kalambo Falls, second highest in Africa. With only the Kalambo River below Kalambo Falls remaining, we were all pretty excited with the trip we were about to complete and even more excited about the ideas we spawned along the way. With Pete Meredith and Leyla Ahmet on left.

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Since he first tasted Alaskan heli pow in 1999, First Ascent ski guide Zach Crist has kept his priorities straight in an effort to migrate north each spring to ski stacked spines and slay big vertical lines. His career track has taken him down countless lifetime lines in Haines, Cordova and Valdez as well as deep into the mystical zone of the Tordrillos. But Alaska still exerts a powerful draw—even 14 years in—serving as a powerful reminder to all of us of how a few deep runs in paradise might change your life forever. This is Zach’s mid-season reflection on 14 seasons of immersion in AK.

Words and Images by Zach Crist

My first heli-ski trip to Alaska was in 1999. I had plans to go in ’98, but that trip was foiled by a blown knee that further convinced me that powder was a much more favorable surface to ride than the water injected snow (= ice) that had been torturing my body for years on the World Cup circuit.  I’d been hearing about the fruits of Valdez for several years having watched TGR films that featured my old teammate, Jeremy Nobis, who transformed what anyone thought possible in the big mountains.  I knew, as a skier, it was an experience I absolutely had to have.  What I didn’t know was that Alaska would change my life.

Headed for Valdez, I stopped first in Girdwood to see my sister, Danielle, who was guiding heli-skiing for Chugach Powder Guides.  I got my first quality sample of AK here before a mind-blowing week in Valdez and that was it.  I knew I had to somehow reinvent my career as a skier in a way that would allow me to ski mountains like that with a coastal snowpack that made almost anything possible on the right day.  From this point forward ski racing became a means to support a heli-ski habit—a pretty half-baked plan really, but enough incentive over the next decade to win a few X Games medals and bank a nice heli budget.

I recently returned from a week with Chugach Powder Guides where my Alaskan experience all began.  My timing was perfect with the weather and we logged over 100K vertical feet with blower pow all the way down to sea-level pickups.  After 14 years of chasing powder around the globe, I continue to find myself back in Alaska because it never disappoints.  I’ve been lucky enough to sample the goods from Haines and Cordova to the Tordrillos and Valdez, but CPG in Girdwood delivers the most comprehensive Alaskan heli-ski experience.  Only here can you expect to find big terrain, stable snowpack, highly experienced guides, a professionally run outfit with first-class food and lodging at the base of Alyeska Resort, which services some of the best terrain in America.

And to top it off, the small town of Girdwood offers a fine cross-section of Alaskan culture. It’s a melting pot of opposites—transient hippies looking for a more ‘organic’ lifestyle on the edge of the Alaskan bush country along with the most manly of men who pride themselves on the size of their American-made truck overflowing with wilderness assault toys and the diversity of wild game stocked in their freezers.  My sister used to say, “the odds are good, but the goods are odd.”  I say Alaska is unlike any place on earth and if you haven’t been, it’s time to go. It might just change your life.

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From Bhutan to Brazil, few kayakers have logged more air miles to exotic destinations than First Ascent athletes Ben Stookesberry and Chris Korbulic. Traveling between time zones may seem like a dream job, but as Korbulic discovers through his recollections on their recent Kaiak expedition to Zimbabwe, space and time are less of a constant—and more of a fluid concept—in their expedition kayaking reality.  Below is his attempt to make sense of their trip to the heart of Africa and keep pace with Western time as they return to Brazil.

Words and photos by Chris Korbulic

The yellow ball of the sun is just barely visible behind the highrises and granite peaks of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. It will soon disappear and leave the city in the darkness, which is when this culture comes alive. But my mind is elsewhere. It has not yet left Africa, from the rivers and the people to the coastline and the rhythm. I left just a few days ago, but this feeling of being someplace else will persist. Watching a sunset over Rio’s white sand beaches confirms this as my mind tracks back to stories from my last four months in central and southern Africa.

The memory opens with the most recent trip in Zimbabwe, where we arrived just after Africa’s oldest leader, old Bob Mugabe, celebrated his 88th birthday with lavish parties that commemorated not only another year alive, but also his 32nd in power. The flashback continues with someone familiar waking me as I hear an excited voice and open my eyes to a small fire flickering light on the walls and faces, yet filling all but the lowest two feet with zesty smoke.

“The river is over the bridge!” calls a familiar voice through the haze of waking in an unfamiliar place.

Tired and incredulous, I don’t believe a single word. I saw the river two hours ago and it was flowing at about 300 cfs and more than two meters under the bridge. There is a little movement and less haste. Then above us I hear a thundering on the metal roof, so loud it trembles, as if gravel is dumping from the sky.

It is still raining when Ben Stookesberry comes back into the room and confirms that the river is indeed over the bridge. When we put on the river just that morning it was half the flow of the night before, a flow we knew was still too high, but one we were comfortable with, knowing there were no major gorges downstream. We portaged most of the gradient, but knew it all the better for the second lap that proved to be almost the perfect flow. California-style granite slides closed out the run and brought us back for a third hot lap. Between Gairezi laps we made a first descent on a small, steep tributary, and did a quick run on the Pungwe River just to the south.

Climbing down the side of the 200-meter segmented falls, elation grew as we paddled right in the middle of the falls, running a slide below a 20-meter step and above a 100-meter step. “Eish!” was my instant thought. “Don’t miss the eddy.”

We continued into the Pungwe Gorge then around, through, and over siphons, paddling until just before dark and resigning ourselves to an unplanned night out on the river. It has to happen sometime, right? Why not at a banana and maize plantation with a welcoming family offering us tea and blankets? So we stayed and in the morning said goodbye to the family and Kenneth, the man of the house, as he was departing for the same destination, a bustling hydro development a few kilometers downstream.

Everywhere we travel, we find this gracious hospitality amidst few resources, hydro development, and amazing rivers. I get lost and mixed up in my memory. I had no idea where this place was or that it even existed. And there are so many of these places because they populate our world—millions of hidden spots with distinct names and friendly people and colorful stories. We travel through so many it’s nearly impossible to commit them all to memory.

Yet my mind is awash with them and often disconnects a name with a place, or a view, or a river. A rapid on the Dibang gets placed in Brazil instead of India or a sunset from Cape Town gets mentally captioned as Uganda instead of South Africa. Everything gets blurred, even my sense of place and time. But in this confusion I think there is great beauty, a perceived oneness of the world in my tangled memory.

Now the Brazilian sun is down, headlights are illuminating the beach and I’m starting to get used to the idea of a busy modern life again. Western time is speeding us up with emails and phone calls breaking me out of the subjective, elastic concept of time I’d grown used to in Africa. Newton’s time is absolute, ironclad, going ahead without relation to anything except itself, but time to the African man is malleable. He can influence its course; even create it with the action of an event. It seems like river time to me—you move along in its course, but whether or not some event happens, like running a big rapid, depends on you alone. It is a different reality from my immediate future, which will bring a return to wet California. I can only hope I’ll find enough time to get back into the much faster flow.

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Lexi duPont left home with a truck full of Costco, two jerry cans and 48 hours to cover 2,238 miles of lonely road to Haines, Alaska. Her motivation came in the form of blue skies, deep pow and a seat in the SEABA Heli—if she and photographer Will Wissman could get there before the weather window shut down. She made it in time for lift off and this is her story from behind the wheel.

Words by Lexi duPont, photos by Will Wissman

A few days ago, I told my parents that I was heading to Alaska. They were more than surprised when I told them that this time—for the first time—I would be driving 2,238 miles through the Yukon to get there.

The journey started with a stop at Costco to load up on the necessities, such as fuel and food. Our friend and fellow First Ascent athlete Chris Coulter warned us of long stretches of highway with severe winds, frost heaves and snow-packed surfaces, but no gas stations.

Once the truck was packed and ready to go we called Haines for the weather report, which read like perfection with blue skies and blower snow predicted for the next few days. We instantly made a group decision to drive to Alaska as quickly as possible, attempting to complete the drive in 48 hours or less.  This would mandate stopping only for gas and coffee and driving straight through in a “pin it to win it” charge. So we hit the gas and it was on.

Unlike hopping a plane north, driving to Alaska gives you a perspective on space and place. When I started the drive in Sun Valley, Idaho the snow banks were small, the hills were brown and the sun had been shining for weeks, a familiar scene for most people living in ski towns in the lower 48 this season. But as morning turned to afternoon on the road, we slowly started to see the scenery and geography change. Snow was accumulating, snow banks were growing and as we finally crossed into Canada winter had finally returned. Yet, our drive had barley begun and the reality hit that we were only 24 hours in with twelve still to go.

The biggest piece of advice I would give to anyone crazy enough to drive from Idaho to Alaska is to stock some extra fuel, which is exactly what Coulter suggested. He couldn’t have been more correct. Not a single gas station was open or took credit cards once the sun went down, instead utilizing a Card Lock system that prevents a road warrior from driving nonstop through the darkness. We, however, drove prepared with two five-gallon jerry cans that kept us rolling north to the goods in Haines.

Our timing was perfect. Once we completed our second border crossing into the Alaskan mountains, stoke was at an all time high. After 48 hours straight of driving, snow-caked mountains welcomed us and blue skies stretched as far as the eye could see. A sense of accomplishment washed over us all as we arrived at our destination, Haines Alaska, the most beautiful place on earth and only 2,238 miles from home.

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With the snow season still firing from Alaska to the Alps, First Ascent athlete Lynsey Dyer checks in from the road for her recap of a late winter spent chasing storms, scoring helis, getting creative and just skiing with the girls.

Words and Photos by Lynsey Dyer

It’s game time in the mountains and adventure is everywhere you look. The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of powder hunting and travel that has taken me from Jackson and interior British Columbia to Alaska and now Chamonix. But, for me, the adventure has only just begun!

Living in a ski town the mountain style ensures that most everything is an adventure, which is my favorite part. With boatloads of fresh snow at 5am, even getting to the airport offers an extra challenge. It’s no big deal to brave a mountain pass freshly cleared of avi debris as well as buffalo crossing the road to beat early tram line traffic only to run through the terminal and cross your fingers for the chance to make a flight that may or may not take off. It keeps me humbled, reminding me often that we’re not in charge and it’s Mother Nature who reigns.

Her snow machine in the sky turned on a bit late in the lower 48 this season but she hasn’t let us down. Late February brought my hometown of Jackson Hole some amazing snow accumulation that I shredded with a whole new posse of ladies I’d never charged with before. In this whirlwind, the new First Ascent Downlines Jacket arrived and we finally started getting into some bigger terrain after scary avalanche conditions finally let up. Powder Week went off with too much alcohol, some rowdy girls and not enough sleep, but some amazingly good times. Then I hit the road for Revelstoke, BC with my ski sponsor, Rossignol.

Two days of snow delays caused me to miss my flight and the rest of my team. But I finally landed in Calgary and rented a car for the final push, a 6-hour drive on Highway 1 through the most scenic and dangerous mountain drive in Canada. Due to icy roads and a massive blizzard, a semi truck plunged into one of the many avalanche tunnel walls and caused the authorities to shut down the highway. But after an hour of waiting for the wreck to be cleared, I somehow squeaked past a road closure that wouldn’t reopen for another three days.

Finally in Revi, I met up with photographer Blake Jorgensen and some of my favorite Canadian female rippers for six days of laughing and shredding in some of the deepest snow I’ve seen. From there I was lucky enough to be invited to continue the party into the Selkirk/Tangiers backcountry for a feature story for Skier magazine, skiing again with the girls and, oh yes, a helicopter. Waiting while shooting offered plenty of down time so we decided to add to the parody of “Shit Girls Say” and created a “Shit Skier Girls Say” video to the mix. It was a blast and a popular success with almost 200,000 views so far!

Braving the pass one more time, I went straight from the heli to the highway for another harrowing drive through a crazy blizzard back to the Calgary airport. This time though, my destination was an adventure up to Alaska with Epiquest to meet up with First Ascent Guide Lel Tone, a 10-year veteran at Chugach Powder Guides. Right off the bat AK delivered two of the most perfect heli-skiing days I’ve ever experienced. Perfect conditions and perfect stability blew me away after three prior trips to AK with no luck. My only regret was not having a photographer along with us to document. But those days will stay burned in my memory, hopefully forever.

Yes, the potential in Alaska is unrivaled. With the biggest mountains I’ve ever seen rolling on as far as the eye can see, the place is magical, alluring and inspiring. It is always a treat to be made to feel small and to be reminded that there are still wild, raw and untamed places yet to be explored. I didn’t want to leave. Watching the tides move icebergs on one side of the road and mountains jutting straight up on the other side, it was a sight to see and one to be forever blown away by.

Yet, the road trip did not end there as I left for Chamonix, France, arriving once again in an insane location with mountains jutting up to the sky like I’ve never before seen. The potential here is incredible and it’s time to get ‘er done, so I’ll save the report from the Alps for later and check in again from the road before this season’s adventure is done.

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First Ascent guide and newly announced South Col team member Melissa Arnot is famous in climbing circles for the intensity of her training regimen. Her hard work has led to three successful summits of Mt. Everest, the most of any Western woman. With the Everest season just around the corner and her focus trained on a fourth summit, Arnot shares valuable insight into how she builds strength for big peaks without burning out or losing focus on the objective. This is her advice on how to structure your own spring training.

Words by Melissa Arnot

When I type the word ‘training’ into the search of my email, almost 1,000 messages appear. Questions from clients and friends. Endless exchanges between my trainers and me.

Skimming through all the information, I have arrived at two realities. The first is that I am just an average athlete with average capabilities, which is important to understand so you can take what I say seriously. I am not physically elite in any way. Any of my past climbing partners can tell you that I am only average when it comes to speed and strength. My ability to catch a ball is embarrassing. But I do have reasonably good balance and great endurance; those are my strengths. The second reality is that climbing and mountaineering are a huge part of my life, so training is as much a part of my day as checking Facebook is part of yours. It is what I do, a deep part of who I am.

I know, I know, you want the goods. What exactly is it that I do for training? What would I recommend for beginning mountaineers? Well, before I tell you, remember my basic realities – if you also struggle to catch a ball, know that I am not responsible if you fall off the step mill at the gym!

With that out of the way, my advice is simple: complete fitness is important. That means good cardiovascular endurance paired with strength training and flexibility. Training by doing the activities that closely mimic what you are training for is the best way to get in shape, physically and mentally. Any cyclist who has ever taken a running day, and ended up a wreck of sore muscles the next day knows this.

So first things first: identify your goals, and try and understand from others (guides, friends, that Facebook thing) what challenges they present. If everyone says it’s being exhausted and cold at night, then you are going to need to try and get your brain and body prepared for that.

When I go on Himalayan expeditions, it’s like a giant reset button for my training. I go in as strong as I can, push myself on the trip, and slowly the altitude takes everything from me so that I return home a skinny heap of well-oxygenated tissue. Wash, rinse, repeat.

When I repeat, I start again as though I never trained at all and I can really see the difference in what I do. I have tried many, many programs and here is what I can say is true:

1. Pick an activity that you like. If you hate running and you choose to run for cardio training, you will hate training and likely not do it.

2. Select a timeframe for training that is reasonable and manageable. I typically train very hard for the 8 weeks preceding a climb. But remember, the fitness is a deep part of my life. If you plan six months of training, make sure you can handle that without burning out.

3. Variety! Have a plan to change things up frequently. On paper biking looked so good to you, but if in practice you hate it, don’t worry because next week you switch to running.

4. Lastly, be very flexible, and I don’t mean yoga. Be prepared to tweak the variables in your program to make it work for a changing schedule, motivation or environment.

I train for four to five days a week. I live in an area where I can strap on crampons in the winter and walk uphill, so that is my go-­‐to activity (since it IS the activity I am training for). Three days a week I will get up before the sun does, grab my pack (the Alchemist 30 with a 50 pound weight vest stuffed inside) and spend an hour or so going uphill. I think it is very important for me to train with the weight walking downhill also. I know a lot of people save their knees by carrying water and dumping it for the walk downhill, but I have never been on a summit where I got to dump all my gear for the walk down.

However, I travel frequently and don’t always have that big ski hill to walk up. I’m not shy about finding trails, even if it takes snowshoes and spending that hour with a pack on.

In addition to that, I will train in the gym at least four days a week. I like to push the intensity on machines where the numbers help me measure my progress. I switch between sprinting, step-mill workouts, and getting comfortable and sweaty on the spin bike. Very high intensity intervals are my preference. I mix in four days a week of weight training, with a strong focus on my shoulders, back and central core.

Following this routine, or some variation of it, year after year, I have watched my fitness and endurance increase over time. And it’s fun to push myself and see what I can do and how that changes.

So, my simple advice to someone looking to train for a mountaineering trip is this: find balance. Increase your endurance. Suffer a little and realize that the suffering will end and the reward will be big. You don’t have to be a physically elite athlete. You don’t have to train for 4 hours a day. Immerse yourself in the journey and see what you can learn about your body and mind.

Enjoy it. This is the good stuff.

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First Ascent snowboarder Wyatt Caldwell recently checked in from sunny Idaho, where his season started late but came back strong with sled-accessed splitboard missions and deep immersion into Smith’s Prospecting Idaho project. In the post below, Wyatt gives us the update on stocking the yurt, ripping Baldy’s Banked Slalom and building backcountry booters at an abandoned mine site.

Words by Wyatt Caldwell, photos by Yancy Caldwell

Winter arrived late this year in Idaho and the Northwest and this year was the latest I have ever had to wait to make some deep Idaho pow turns. But, better late than never. When the conditions finally lined up with a few much-needed big dumps, it was game on to search out the stable powder.

The backcountry riding this year more than ever has reminded us all how much we enjoy recreating in the vast Idaho mountain ranges and how lucky we are to be able to explore them on a daily basis.  The snowpack has remained stable on most aspects, even steep slopes, for the past few weeks making for great turns.

Yet, the first three feet of fresh snow made traveling into the woods with gear and splitboard strapped to the sleds a chore. With all the air and hollowness in the snow, we’ve had some good laughs watching each other sink and get stuck on the snowmobiles just trying to get to our touring spot to park the sleds.  With the mining road access, we’ve been able to shuttle into a higher drop off point, allowing three times the vertical of powder turns than what we’d otherwise have to skin up. Some days it is not evident, until climbing up to 9,000 feet from 7,000, that it snowed three inches of cornflakes and the top layer of snow is now twice as photogenic as it blows off the trees floating around in the morning sunlight sparkling.

Avalanche conditions were high at first but the new snow locked up and bonded well with the old surface hoar layer of facets and the snowpack became more sable.  Sunny blue skies have been few and far between, but we have made the best of what we’ve been given, getting out in the woods and getting good turns in good light.

My brother Yancy and I have also been helping Smith Optics get their 900-acre backcountry laboratory up and running for the season by cutting roads with the sleds and snowcat as well as making sure the new 26-foot-wide yurt is functional with lanterns, propane, BBQ, firewood, and stocked with food and bedding.

Smith athletes have been passing through and I have been guiding them out on splitboards and snowmobiles to show them the lay of the land in our backyard playground.  I have over 10 years of exploring experience in this particular zone, so I help point out where the mining shaft hazards are and where the good lines and steep landings can be found.  I also help the crew coordinate getting some killer shots launching off cliffs, pillows, or the many hand-built kickers we have dug using abandoned mine tailing piles for landings.

This past month has also been full of splitboard missions to find new long powder runs, some even under the light of a full moon as we break in the yurt.  I have been testing the new batch of MTN Approach skis for added strength in the hinges, and building and hitting a few massive booters filming for Prospecting Idaho and this year’s YES snowboards film.

February also brought a few memorable deep days riding in Sun Valley resort, 3,000 vertical foot powder runs with good friends and family as well as building and participating in the first annual Baldy Banked Slalom event.  It has been great to be out in the mountains this cold time of year, dialing in my kit of camping gear and tools for safe backcountry travel in preparation for a long journey north to Alaska to search out some new untouched lines on our planned snow camping trip on the glacier outside of Haines. With all the training missions we’ve completed this season, we’ll be ready.

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