There is an easier way than this. All I have to do is look over my left shoulder and I can see proof of that. Across the notch from me is a small ski area and when the wind gusts just right, I can hear the hoots and yelps of the skiers and boarders as I watch them zip down the groomed trails and thinned glades to the chair lift. I admit to feeling some envy as I watch them race and carve about for the last bits of untracked snow.

But, to my right, above my vantage point in this small snowfield, untracked powder stretches up over the rise, into the trees and to the next, larger snowfield that’s just a short hike away. I have been hiking for almost an hour now, my snowboard lashed to my backpack, snowshoes on my feet, trekking poles in my hands. No one has been up here since the last snowfall. This morning, this mountain, this snow, seem to be mine alone. Envy fades.

Soon, I’m on a small ledge just below the summit. The snowboard is now on my feet, my snowshoes and poles on my back, and it’s time to go down. A thought hits me. There are no trails, no color coded symbols indicating difficulty, no ropes, no caution signs, no one to show me the way. It is only me, the sun, the snow, the trees, the wind and gravity. In this moment, I feel more freedom than I can recall feeling since… well… ever. This is mine.

I take a couple of hops, gravity takes hold of my board and I’m carving down the ledge. The board floats in the soft snow, its edges biting just enough into the crust underneath as I weave around trees. I turn left, away from my tracks coming up, and cruise over drops and bumps that look more like dollops of powdery frosting than the gnarled icy moguls at the ski area across the way. It’s unbelievably fun and I’m laughing out loud when I suddenly drop into a 4 foot deep hole left when the snow, undermined by melt water, collapsed before the last snowfall. I’m still laughing as I climb up the other side and continue on.

To my left are steep ledges, in front of me, a grove of spruce, fir and birch trees thickens and the ground seems to drop away – steep ledges, perhaps, so no turns there. The trees at the edge of the grove allow just enough room to traverse across. Branches slap at my legs, my arms, my pack, my helmet, my face. Now I’m stuck a small cluster of saplings and have to pull myself through them. It’s not the easy, floating turns from the start, but as I look upslope, I realize the snowfield is bigger than I thought. Ideas for my second run start forming.

I find a gap in the evergreens that leads to a ledge I can shoot down, and then I’m back in a wide glade of young maples and birches. The trees and their shadows slash across the sun white snow. I pick my lines: around that tree, between those two, now duck under this one, watch out for that stump. And then my way is blocked by a downed tree across a small gully, beyond which lies the hiking trail back up. So, I sidle up to the fallen tree, wrap my arms around and roll over it. I stand up and board the last bit down to hiking trail.

And that is that. After an hour of hiking and 7 minutes of snowboarding, I’m nearly back where I started. But I have more runs to get. I eat a PB&J, swap the board for snowshoes and head back up.

About four hours and three runs later, I call it a day. Fatigue sets in and my turns are sloppy, lacking grace and accuracy. As I come around a bend in trail, I find that a section of it has melted out. I attempt to squeeze by on the right hand side of this three foot wide, two foot deep, twelve foot long hole in the trail. My attempt fails.

As I pick myself up from this tumble, it occurs me that this day could serve well as a metaphor for life: You have climb up, find your way down, enjoy some parts, get stuck in others, work it out and keep going. And, in the end, you get a dirt nap, or, in this particular case, a face plant into a very icy mud puddle.

“You know what the best thing about gear is? Using it.”
– Me, Steamboat Springs, Jan 2007

I’m not sure when, or even how, I got hooked on gear. I do know I’m not a full blown gear addict, and yes, I am aware that sounds like denial coming from a guy who owns 4 bikes, 2 snowboards, 2 sets of cross country skis, a set of snowshoes, crampons, 3 tents, 3 camp stoves, at least half a dozen backpacks of varying capacities and so on. But I do appreciate well designed products that make my life easier, safer and a bit more comfortable and from time to time, one piece or another really stands out.

One such piece came to mind last Saturday night as I was unpacking after snowboarding on the rime coated trails at Shawnee Peak. We started riding in a light rain and quickly found that the untracked snow remained so for a very good reason: it’s crust offered only two options, uncontrollable skidding or random collapses, either which of lead to inelegant tumbles. The groomers, however, were great for carving and cruisng and we lapped the mountain until our legs were spent and sitting at a bar stool sounded better than sitting on a chair lift.

But, while beerily unpacking my wet gear, it wasn’t the layers of Gore-Tex, the padded gloves, knee pads, helmet, boots or board that struck me as noteworthy. It was the large brown canvas and leather LL Bean duffel bag from which I was removing all of that well-used gear.

The duffel bag, along with a smaller version of it, was a gift from my aunt and uncle when I was a senior in high school in 1985. Upon opening the gift, my reaction was more akin to that of a five year old receiving a gift of socks or underwear instead of toys for his birthday. The only difference was that instead of looking like a disappointed child, I probably made a snide remark that only the temporarily omniscience of a 17 year old could have come up with. Even when my aunt suggested one can always use a good duffel bag or two, all I could think was, “Why would I possibly need these?” Indeed.

After four years of college, during which each September and May I crammed almost all of what I owned into those two bags, I still frowned upon them. I took them on my first cross country trip and by the end of that journey, if asked, I would have reluctantly acknowledged their utility. After, they were relegated to camping trips and weekend getaways, and otherwise remained stuffed under the bed or buried in the closet, unappreciated and nearly discarded a few times in favor of suitcases, backpacks and nylon gym bags with a multitude of zippers, pockets and straps.

Then I hit my 30s and developed an addiction to snowboarding. My 20s left me somewhat challenged in terms of short-term memory and I found I needed a gear bag. Backpacks couldn’t fit all of the layers of clothing, helmet and boots I planned on lugging to the lodge. My gym bag was slowly disintegrating from hauling muddy biking gear and it had so many compartments I kept forgetting where things were. So, out came the large duffel. Everything fit and with only one compartment, I could find things easily enough. Now, after 8 years of wet boots, gritty lodge floors and slushy parking lots, the bag is no worse for the wear.

So, 22 years later, here’s a belated thank you, Aunt Karen and Uncle Harry. Those bags are some damn fine gear indeed.