- i wrote this in about 1980....
By the time April arrives in the Cascades most people have hung their skis back in the garage and are dragging out the bicycles and kayaks and backpacks, getting ready for the next season’s worth of outdoor sports. For me, that’s the time of year when the skiing is at its best. The crowds have thinned out and the days are longer. It also warms up enough to be able to shed a few of the layers of clothes needed in the colder months. All those things were part of the reason Erik and I chose to take one particular April weekend and use it for one of our backcountry trips.
At about midday, we shouldered our packs and climbed into our skis. Erik chose to slog along in a pair of downhill skis with climbing skins. I had a pair of mountaineering skis with fishscale bottoms and the old fashioned Silvretta bindings, a cable affair that would attach or detach at the heel. For climbing, I’d disconnect the heel and could climb with relative ease. For downhill, I needed only to reattach and I had almost the same control as with a rigid binding. The problem with them was the need to use a leather climbing boot as opposed to a plastic downhill ski boot. Uphill I easily outdistanced him. His more rigid boots gave him much greater control on the downhill.
We climbed for about two hours and reached a sheltered and flat spot at the end of the ridge which was the perfect spot for camp. We unloaded our gear, set up the tent and tossed out our sleeping bags. Freed from the burden of shelter, food and water, we felt light as feathers as we stepped back into our skis and headed for the edge of the ridge. It was a glorious sight. All around us were the fiercely rugged peaks of the North Cascades. The sun was intense, so much so we were able to strip to sweaters before we dived into the bowl in front of us. For the rest of the afternoon we dived into untracked bowls of shaded, powdery snow. By staying in the shadows we avoided getting into snow that had thawed and refrozen. As soon as we’d reach the bottom, we would painfully climb to the top of the ridge and look for another way down, once again claiming first tracks in the isolated basin all the while yelling and laughing. Erik was by far the better skier and filled the long, painful climbs with stories of ski patrol rescues and dynamiting cornices before the resort opened. Gradually, the sun sank lower and our energy finally gave out.
Just below the tent, we paused alongside a great, house-sized rock needing to take a rest in order to make the last few hundred feet back to camp. Erik kicked off his skis, leaped onto the boulder and climbed to the top where he peeled off his sweat soaked shirt and proceeded to absorb what heat was left in the sun. I disconnected my clingy cable bindings and planned to do the same. As I approached the rock I noticed the melt gap between the heated rock and the snow. I crouched to jump the distance so as to clear the short void as Erik had, but as I did so I broke through the crust and my right leg dropped into the gap with an audible noise. As I heard a loud tearing, popping sound I experienced rather intense pain in the vicinity of my ankle followed by pain in several other parts of my body as I crashed face first into the rock.
Erik heard me yelling and soon he was pulling me out of the snow hole. After a brief examination revealed nothing dangling or broken, we decided it was best to head immediately for the tent.
As soon as I arrived at our weekend home, I unlaced and removed my boot to see what sort of ding I had received. Although it was painful, things didn’t seem too bad and there was no real visible sign of damage. The most pressing question was one we didn’t even ask as we watched the sun go down and Erik started the stove. That question was, what kind of shape was I going to find myself in tomorrow?
(part deux…after the fall)
I got my answer the next day. In spite of having spent hours the night before with my foot shoved into the snow outside the front of the tent, my ankle was horribly swollen. I was hopeful that by icing (in this case “snowing”) my injury I would minimize the problems. Wrong. I managed to pull a sock over the melon sized appendage and when I attempted to stand I realized for the first time, I was in serious trouble. There was no way I was going to be able to ski out from our camp. I couldn’t even put weight on my foot. That was not too big an issue since I was never going to be able to get my boot on anyway, so attaching myself to the ski was out of the question.
While making breakfast of hot coffee and tea and oatmeal and a generous helping of cookies, Erik and I discussed the problem. The first option was for me to sit tight and for him to ski out and get help. We figured the most likely scenario to be a few ski patrollers from the Stevens Pass ski area dragging in a stretcher to retrieve me. The terrain between where we were and where we needed to be contained a couple of extremely steep segments that would be a problem with a stretcher, even for experienced rescuers. There was also the possibility of having to use a helicopter to reach me where we sat at the end of the ridge. Neither of these options was particularly appealing to me. I think it must have been a combination of stupidity, stubbornness and embarrassment that affected me as we tried to decide. The longer I thought about it, the less interested I was in involving anyone else in my “rescue”. I’d gotten myself into this fix because of my own stupidity, so it somehow seemed to make sense to try and extricate myself without involving anyone else. Except, of course, Erik.
As I mentioned, he was an exceptional skier, so when I first proposed getting out ourselves, he thought it was a marvelous idea. It was just wacky enough to appeal to a guy whose idea of fun consisted of tossing half sticks of dynamite into the air above a freshly snowed face so as to blow out any likely avalanches. We still had three good legs between us, so we decided to go home on three skis.
While I pulled on every leftover sock we had, Erik broke camp and packed us up. I stuffed my unused ski into the sleeve of the pack and hung my extra boot off the back. We hefted out packs and headed up the slope to the top of our ridge, just a short distance away. Fortunately, the uphill part was very short, since there wasn’t much Erik could do to help me there. I mostly hobbled and shuffled as I made my way to the top. Once there we had a gentle downhill for the better part of a mile in which we could develop a technique for three-legged skiing. It wasn’t pretty. Or even very effective since there were rocks and trees scattered along our route, but I somehow managed to hang onto Erik’s pack frame with one hand while balancing on one ski with my spare foot in the air between us. Having extremely good edging skills is a must for this sport since single ski travel requires all turns and all control to be focused on the one foot. I wasn’t particularly good at that so I spent a lot of time crashing into my buddy, knocking us both down numerous times. We finally established enough proficiency that we were able to travel for considerable distances between crashes. Luckily for us, the steeps didn’t come until we had a chance to practice.
At the first of these exposed crossings, we stopped to rest and consider our chances. It appeared likely that if (more likely when) I fell, I’d be able to stop myself if I acted quickly. The slope angled steeply, and went for a long way before ending in cliffs and trees. I would be skiing with my good leg on the ski that put me on the downhill side of Erik. If I fell, at least I wouldn’t take him with me. By what must have been sheer will, we crossed both of these exposed areas without so much as a slip. By this time we were atop the last ridge and the parking area along the highway came into view. The rest of the trip was a simple exercise in pain as I made my way down through areas that were simply too steep and broken for us to “three leg” ski.
Erik is no longer with us, having succumbed to a cancer that was discovered when he visited the doc for x-rays of a few broken ribs sustained in another ski adventure later in our lives. His memory remains alive with me for this trip and for others we took.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Living on the edge of the continent......
Saturday at about 11:30 we took off from KPAE, full fuel and all seats filled, only about sixty pounds under gross. I had three of my four kids with me on a planned lunch trip to Friday Harbor, taking advantage of Zeke being in town from Boise and both Liz and Steph free for the afternoon. The plan was to zip up and enjoy a bite and some scenery, then fly back home where we'd load up for a trip to Pine River Cabin for a weekend of beer and sun and revelry.
As I've learned, loading a Cessna 172 to gross weight allows one to simulate the performance of a 152. Takeoff was a while in coming and holding five hundred feet a minute uphill was a challenge only met by sacrificing some airspeed in favor of climb. Temps were comfortable at about seventy degrees but the humidity was high. As the ship labored up into the smooth air, I imagined trying to get off the ground with a similar load at Fish Lake. I'm thinking I don't want to try.
There was a fair amount of radio traffic while flying through Whidbey's Class C airspace, but we only saw a couple of other airplanes in spite of that. It's a comfort to have everyone in that corridor on radar, knowing you've got someone on the ground watching for you. We made good time northbound, reading between 134 and 140 groundspeed the entire time. Lunch was quiet and pleasant and followed by a stroll to the marina for some gawking at the incredible wealth floating around there. By the time we were walking back up toward the airport, a very light drizzle was underway but the sky was of no concern since it appeared the ceiling was probably about six thousand feet. This perception remained with me until the Skyhawk lifted off the runway at Friday Harbor International and I was able to get a good look around.
To the east and southeast - my intended direction - was a wall. The clouds and sheets of rain falling from them merged into an indiscernible gray with the water. No telling where things were in there. I have no idea where all this weather came from. As I lowered the nose a bit, I could see south across the Strait to the shoreline between Port Townsend and Port Angeles. There was a layer of some sort inland but I could see the shoreline. I held that thought in reserve as I rolled left and aimed toward the clouds to the east. The radio was alive with traffic as I dialed in 118.2 and listened to Whidbey Approach. It seemed as if every light plane in the San Juan Islands was airborne at the same instant, all headed the same direction as me, and all asking for flight following. I heard the Whidbey controller asking several pilots "able to maintain VFR at 2200? (or 2500 or 3000)". I also heard multiple requests for filing in-flight IFR. That was when I became a bit uncomfortable with the state of things. By this time I was over Lopez Island and the wall of cloud and rain was no more than a mile in front of me. I could see the runway at Lopez below me; I could see north to Orcas, and glancing over my shoulder I saw it was still clear at Friday Harbor so I knew my situation was fine but it was time to make a decision. I turned around without calling Whidbey.
My initial thought was to get a little altitude and head south for the open water transit to the north shore of the Olympic Peninsula, but the weather seemed to be growing less friendly there all the time. Meanwhile the radio chatter continued and one airplane was asking for a diversion from Paine to Port Townsend. Another airplane was enroute from Oak Harbor to Port Townsend and called with a request to return to Oak Harbor since there was nothing ahead but zero/zero. In spite of what I thought, things weren't looking good to the south either. At this point I found myself in an airplane with three non-pilots, all of whom were beginning to look a little uncomfortable and it seemed to me that my job was to do something that would not cause them to feel uneasy. If they weren't happy with my explanations then perhaps my decisions were not quite right. As we headed back to Friday Harbor, I told Stephanie, "looks like you're gonna be late for work". I don't think she minded. I now had in mind one additional option I wanted to explore before putting us back on the runway. Remember this; if you're really down to only one option, you're truly in trouble. I had one "additional" option besides landing at FHR.
If you look at a chart of the San Juan Islands, you'll see why it is technically not an island chain, but instead is an archipelago. Heading due east from San Juan Island and the Friday Harbor area, you can follow the crests of the underwater mountain chain that leads directly back into Skagit Bay just north of Anacortes. It occurred to me that we might be able to navigate our way east while maintaining at least minimal VFR by simply flying from one of these islands to the next. Since every one of them (almost) has at least one runway on it, the worst that could happen would be we'd set down on one of these out of the way strips and wait the weather out. I turned east again at the north end of Lopez, explained to the "crew" what I was going to do, and we started descending to a "Commander-Emery-approved" altitude of 1000 feet. The plan worked well and I was able to always see ahead to the next piece of real estate before leaving the safety of the strip below me. What surprised me, however, was how completely disoriented I became in this little jaunt, even though I was navigating with a combination of chart and eyeball and the GPS. I knew where we were by the screen on the GPS but I could not look out the window and make myself see the same thing. We finally broke into the clear just northeast of Anacortes and turned back to the south, calling Whidbey and requesting additional "eyes" as we headed once again toward home.
To the east now I could see the freeway and a wall of rain just beyond it. The weather seemed to be improving to the west, however, so it seemed like we'd pulled it off. I was still hearing a flood of radio traffic to the southwest and south of Whidbey so I remained guarded and kept one eye back to the field at Skagit / Bayview and another at the runways around Oak Harbor. If all else failed I figured we'd simulate being a Navy jet and land at NAS Whidbey. We had to skirt the shoreline along the east edge of Port Susan, between the mainland and Whidbey, because things remained solid to the east. No following the freeway this trip. I was able to get high enough now to pick up the VOR at Paine and pointed us between the clouds while heading in the direction indicated on the OBS. After a few minutes I dialed in the ATIS at Paine and was treated to "visibility three miles, broken fifteen hundred, thunderstorm, lightning". The intercom in the Skyhawk was filled with four voices simultaneously saying "Lightning!!". We laughed at the common reaction and at that exact instant hit our first bump of the day. It was a good one, the cosmos apparently trying to emphasize this new news and make up for the smooth ride to that point.
As I cleared the patch of scud running along the shoreline just north of the Ritts ILS Outermarker, I could see ahead for the first time and noted thick patches of scattered cloud between us and home base with a ceiling about a thousand feet above the water. There were ways through, however, and I could see Hat Island dead ahead and Camano to the west. I heard one airplane inbound on the ILS to the left of us, and two more somewhere in the soup west of us, all of us aiming for the same place and clearly interested in getting on the ground right away. Paine Tower cleared us for the straight in at about the same time the ILS traffic reported breaking through the clouds so I turned a bit west to stay clear of his approach. At the same time we had a Bonanza and a Cessna converging from the right. Everyone was faster than us so the crowd cleared out in time for me to fall in behind and pick up a modified clearance to fly a right base. We zigged and zagged and jigged around a whole collection of clouds, all the while watching an ominous squall line crossing the Sound and just reaching Possession Point at the south end of Whidbey. It was close. And full of lightning. I kept the throttle almost to the firewall all the way to the runway threshold. Fast and high I slipped hard and executed a not-bad landing and then raced for the taxiway.
As we attached the last tiedown chain, the storm reached us with torrential rain, booming thunder and exciting flashes. Exciting, at least from the safety of the inside of the truck.
As I've learned, loading a Cessna 172 to gross weight allows one to simulate the performance of a 152. Takeoff was a while in coming and holding five hundred feet a minute uphill was a challenge only met by sacrificing some airspeed in favor of climb. Temps were comfortable at about seventy degrees but the humidity was high. As the ship labored up into the smooth air, I imagined trying to get off the ground with a similar load at Fish Lake. I'm thinking I don't want to try.
There was a fair amount of radio traffic while flying through Whidbey's Class C airspace, but we only saw a couple of other airplanes in spite of that. It's a comfort to have everyone in that corridor on radar, knowing you've got someone on the ground watching for you. We made good time northbound, reading between 134 and 140 groundspeed the entire time. Lunch was quiet and pleasant and followed by a stroll to the marina for some gawking at the incredible wealth floating around there. By the time we were walking back up toward the airport, a very light drizzle was underway but the sky was of no concern since it appeared the ceiling was probably about six thousand feet. This perception remained with me until the Skyhawk lifted off the runway at Friday Harbor International and I was able to get a good look around.
To the east and southeast - my intended direction - was a wall. The clouds and sheets of rain falling from them merged into an indiscernible gray with the water. No telling where things were in there. I have no idea where all this weather came from. As I lowered the nose a bit, I could see south across the Strait to the shoreline between Port Townsend and Port Angeles. There was a layer of some sort inland but I could see the shoreline. I held that thought in reserve as I rolled left and aimed toward the clouds to the east. The radio was alive with traffic as I dialed in 118.2 and listened to Whidbey Approach. It seemed as if every light plane in the San Juan Islands was airborne at the same instant, all headed the same direction as me, and all asking for flight following. I heard the Whidbey controller asking several pilots "able to maintain VFR at 2200? (or 2500 or 3000)". I also heard multiple requests for filing in-flight IFR. That was when I became a bit uncomfortable with the state of things. By this time I was over Lopez Island and the wall of cloud and rain was no more than a mile in front of me. I could see the runway at Lopez below me; I could see north to Orcas, and glancing over my shoulder I saw it was still clear at Friday Harbor so I knew my situation was fine but it was time to make a decision. I turned around without calling Whidbey.
My initial thought was to get a little altitude and head south for the open water transit to the north shore of the Olympic Peninsula, but the weather seemed to be growing less friendly there all the time. Meanwhile the radio chatter continued and one airplane was asking for a diversion from Paine to Port Townsend. Another airplane was enroute from Oak Harbor to Port Townsend and called with a request to return to Oak Harbor since there was nothing ahead but zero/zero. In spite of what I thought, things weren't looking good to the south either. At this point I found myself in an airplane with three non-pilots, all of whom were beginning to look a little uncomfortable and it seemed to me that my job was to do something that would not cause them to feel uneasy. If they weren't happy with my explanations then perhaps my decisions were not quite right. As we headed back to Friday Harbor, I told Stephanie, "looks like you're gonna be late for work". I don't think she minded. I now had in mind one additional option I wanted to explore before putting us back on the runway. Remember this; if you're really down to only one option, you're truly in trouble. I had one "additional" option besides landing at FHR.
If you look at a chart of the San Juan Islands, you'll see why it is technically not an island chain, but instead is an archipelago. Heading due east from San Juan Island and the Friday Harbor area, you can follow the crests of the underwater mountain chain that leads directly back into Skagit Bay just north of Anacortes. It occurred to me that we might be able to navigate our way east while maintaining at least minimal VFR by simply flying from one of these islands to the next. Since every one of them (almost) has at least one runway on it, the worst that could happen would be we'd set down on one of these out of the way strips and wait the weather out. I turned east again at the north end of Lopez, explained to the "crew" what I was going to do, and we started descending to a "Commander-Emery-approved" altitude of 1000 feet. The plan worked well and I was able to always see ahead to the next piece of real estate before leaving the safety of the strip below me. What surprised me, however, was how completely disoriented I became in this little jaunt, even though I was navigating with a combination of chart and eyeball and the GPS. I knew where we were by the screen on the GPS but I could not look out the window and make myself see the same thing. We finally broke into the clear just northeast of Anacortes and turned back to the south, calling Whidbey and requesting additional "eyes" as we headed once again toward home.
To the east now I could see the freeway and a wall of rain just beyond it. The weather seemed to be improving to the west, however, so it seemed like we'd pulled it off. I was still hearing a flood of radio traffic to the southwest and south of Whidbey so I remained guarded and kept one eye back to the field at Skagit / Bayview and another at the runways around Oak Harbor. If all else failed I figured we'd simulate being a Navy jet and land at NAS Whidbey. We had to skirt the shoreline along the east edge of Port Susan, between the mainland and Whidbey, because things remained solid to the east. No following the freeway this trip. I was able to get high enough now to pick up the VOR at Paine and pointed us between the clouds while heading in the direction indicated on the OBS. After a few minutes I dialed in the ATIS at Paine and was treated to "visibility three miles, broken fifteen hundred, thunderstorm, lightning". The intercom in the Skyhawk was filled with four voices simultaneously saying "Lightning!!". We laughed at the common reaction and at that exact instant hit our first bump of the day. It was a good one, the cosmos apparently trying to emphasize this new news and make up for the smooth ride to that point.
As I cleared the patch of scud running along the shoreline just north of the Ritts ILS Outermarker, I could see ahead for the first time and noted thick patches of scattered cloud between us and home base with a ceiling about a thousand feet above the water. There were ways through, however, and I could see Hat Island dead ahead and Camano to the west. I heard one airplane inbound on the ILS to the left of us, and two more somewhere in the soup west of us, all of us aiming for the same place and clearly interested in getting on the ground right away. Paine Tower cleared us for the straight in at about the same time the ILS traffic reported breaking through the clouds so I turned a bit west to stay clear of his approach. At the same time we had a Bonanza and a Cessna converging from the right. Everyone was faster than us so the crowd cleared out in time for me to fall in behind and pick up a modified clearance to fly a right base. We zigged and zagged and jigged around a whole collection of clouds, all the while watching an ominous squall line crossing the Sound and just reaching Possession Point at the south end of Whidbey. It was close. And full of lightning. I kept the throttle almost to the firewall all the way to the runway threshold. Fast and high I slipped hard and executed a not-bad landing and then raced for the taxiway.
As we attached the last tiedown chain, the storm reached us with torrential rain, booming thunder and exciting flashes. Exciting, at least from the safety of the inside of the truck.
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