The Fireside Middlebury’s Outdoor Journal
We believe in the creed of the campfire, the religion of rock, the pilgrimage of the trail and the meditation of the mountaintop. We are the stuff of stories and want your stories come alive in firelight. If Mother Nature is your Muse, then join us.
The Middlebury Fireside Kindling Stories & Igniting Inspiration in Middlebury’s Outdoor Community
Vol. I Spring 2015
Cover photo by Mara Gans ‘15.5; Mission statement photo by Sofi Hech ‘18t; Opposing page: Jack Peisch ‘15 tearing it up in the Jackson Hole side country, by Evan Gallagher ‘15.
SUBMIT!
We’ll be looking for submissions again for the Fall of 2015! Questions? Email fireside@middlebury.edu go.middlebury.edu/fireside
Contents I. Up Liberty, Jordan Collins ‘15.5 II. Elegy for supernova, Ben Harris ‘16 III. No wonder they call it the great one. Emma Erwin ‘15.5 IV. Constants, Cooper Couch ‘14.5 V. Old Faithful Wrought in Leather, Kent Ratcliff ‘16 VI. Calculating Beauty, Mara Gans ‘15.5 VII. The divning, Ben Harris ‘16 VIII. In Search of Paradise, Meena Fernald ‘16 IX. Bear, Will Jacobs ‘16.5 X. Algonquin: Power, Peace, and Metempsychosis, Kent Ratliff ‘16
Up Liberty by Jordan Collins ‘15.5 We talked about how last night was a birth canal The two of us started our ascent without expectation Knowing only that the sun sets and sight fails Realizing soon what it means to travel as if motionless Through a vortex that likely led up To arrive out of such black silence Pierced only by our dim sphere perception That miracle headlamp glow, outside of which Any noise resounded in the imagination (What surrounded seemed empty, might not be) It was difficult, changed our bodies Tricked them into strength outside of space and time The night became an accidental escape from intellect Consciousness pushed to the surface like our sweat, Letting senses carry us forth as it would On scrambled legs We were born, this morning, naked On a mountain, its cliffs conducting A symphony of orange Our first wail was a melody From lives past, our singing caught by the winds That curve around this world in currents The precious sting of those high Breezes on our bare bodies The essence of creation in sensation
Elegy for supernova by Ben Harris ’16 But his belly grows. Beyond belts, beyond galaxies, beyond origins. Out of time and space he slips and slowly begins to spin away from me. Soon enough I will no longer know how to circumnavigate him, his waist too much for a wingspan. The measure of an embrace: twenty-four thousand miles or more, then however many revolutions this takes to turn into love. I am worried what it means for the girth of a man to reach beyond greatness, to gather up the nameless dust and debris in his gravity, and one day, collapse under the weight of it. The moment when like the looming moon he rises to the end of fullness swallows his old slender shadow, eclipsing everything I knew of him.
And bliss coursing through our newly pulsing veins 8
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No wonder they call it the great one. by Emma Erwin ‘15.5 June 19th: So tired again & my feet have disintegrated. The inside arches, heels, and toes are all rubbed completely raw. They’re pretty grumpy. Another big night, but not too terribly long. We went back through the lower icefall to the cache and brought it up past the hill of cracks to below the great icefall. Snow/ice conditions were pretty stellar so much less sketchy than yesterday. The hill of cracks lives up to its name for sure: a solid running jum to catapult your body over is required to get past a least a dozen of the crevasses. Not too bad with solid snow, but I’m guessing it gets pretty sketchy when the snow is a little softer (which usually happens around 7am)—luckily we made it through just before then. It’s awesome hiking at night thought – better snow, cooler temperatures, no need to worry about sunburns, and the sky is in a constant state of sunset/sunrise. June 24th: Feels like Denali weather now. Cloudy at 3AM when we woke up, and now it’s pretty much whiteout with a decent amount of snowfall and winds. Getting back down the ridge to pick up the cache was actually really fun. The vertical climb down and back up is my favorite. 10
Going back up along the ridge was pretty gnarly though. Plenty of fresh powder render crampons useless, high winds, and next to zero visibility.. plus you can’t hear anything. It wasn’t too bad until I got to a part where I wasn’t clipped into protection and the tracks were completely blown out and it was super steep and powdery and I couldn’t get a good grip on the edge of my crampons or ice ax at all.. So that was pretty scary. But I weaseled my way up and through that one and finally made it back to camp. June 25th: Today was quite a day. You have to be completely focused & on your a-game every single step. Cause if you take a misstep and a big fall we’re all dead. July 3rd: Summit Day We made it! The view from on top was unreal and almost everyone shed some tears coming around that last ridge. It took a hell of a long days work getting there and back from high camp. We left around 7am, stood on the summit at 7pm, and got back to camp well after 1am. The way up was rather chilly and windy- definitely had every single one of my layers on at the football field and Opposing page photos: Emma Erwin ‘15.5
keep them on for the way down, which was not too bad, just long. I was pretty exhausted the whole way – maybe altitude, dehydration, or lack of sleep.. who knows, but we didn’t take many breaks.. It was pretty awesome. Not the clearest of days, but felt pretty cool looking down on the north summit and standing on top of all of the clouds, and all of north America. Like TJ says though, its only because we have stood on the shoulders of giants that we can see further than most.
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Photo: Emma Erwin ‘15.5
Coming off the summit ridge Jackson started rapidly exhibiting serious signs of HACE, so we had to get him down fast. He pretty much looked like a drunken toddler and couldn’t function much on his own, so TJ short-leashed him and basically pulled him down to the football field behind me. Everyone was pretty dehydrated and completely exhausted. Conor started hallucinating on Denali pass, but luckily David and TJ kept it together and we all made it down safely.
July 11th: At Wonder Lake campground and it feels so good. It is super surreal being here—Finally done! And kind of an overwhelming feeling of safety. No more obstacles to overcome—no crevasses, icefalls, avalanches, glaciers, bears, or raging rivers. Just a bus to catch in the morning. The skies cleared up today a bit so we get a super sweet view of the mountain. It looks absolutely humongous from down here. Crazy to think we were standing on the tiptop just a week ago. But we worked hard for it—and the hard work paid off. And what’s even better is that we all made it safe and sound back to solid ground. Fingers and toes, too. No wonder they call it the great one.
Mixed Media by Mara Gans ‘15.5
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Constants by Cooper Couch ‘14.5 The first time I went backpacking was when I was 23 years young, and it won’t be the last. I’ve been on day hikes and camped overnight before, but I’d never carried a pack that held all I would need for a short-time away from civilization. I went with a group of close friends to Point Reyes National Seashore in California, where the crisp, dry heat from the sun helped warm the winter skin I’d built up over the last six months in Vermont. It was refreshing to feel so disconnected from the overtechnologied, overworked atmosphere we live in at Middlebury— away from all the resources we so often take for granted in our homes and workspaces. Shortly after sunset the first night we camped out after a long day of hiking. The next morning we woke up early to hike to a waterfall to watch the sunrise. The groggy morning trudge down the mountain path to the seashore wasn’t the most pleasant, but for some reason it made me feel more connected to my friends. We were all going through the same struggle: fighting sleepiness and pushing our tired bodies past our comfort zone with the goal of sharing a breath-taking scene together. And it was totally worth it, even before the sun rose: walking along the beach - all at different 14
paces - watching the waves crash against the shore from the little bit of light creeping over the cliffs. We reached the waterfall slightly before the sun. Its beautiful water plunged down the cliff from the mountains and into the vast ocean behind us, the same ocean that swallowed the sky in its hues of deep blue. It was the beginning of a perfect day. I can’t say exactly why we all kept calling it “the perfect day”. Maybe it had to do with the weather or the beauty of nature or having shared the experience with people who care about each other. Maybe it was the feeling of accomplishment for having beat that early-morning grogginess to arrive at our destination before the sun. Perhaps it was the cool refreshing water and warmth of the sun at the swimming hole we stopped at on the way back or the ice cream we had once we got back. I honestly can’t attribute that feeling of “a perfect day” to any one of those moments or even a particular combination of them. I am much more inclined to say that it was the fact that we were all present in each moment that whole day. We were present together at times - cognoscente of each other’s presence while still living in the beauty of the moment. At other times, we were Opposing page photo: Cooper Couch ‘14.5
each individually present, free of any distraction to separate us from that inner connectedness between mind, body and spirit. There have been very few “constants” in my life, or at least the typical constants many college students tend to have. Probably the thing that feels most con-
stant in my life is loss; however, I decided recently that I’m ready to create some constant good in my life, and it’s trips like these that have proven to continually empower me, boost my self-confidence, connect me with others on a deeper level and clear my mind to find that sense of inner peace.
Old Faithful Wrought in Leather by Kent Ratcliff ‘16 I bought my first pair of real hiking boots in 7th grade in preparation for a backpacking trip in the mountains of Colorado in a subgroup of my Boy Scout troop I bought them at the local outdoors store they had everything you could hope for in a good boot: real leather, thick soles, high ankles, water resistance. The water resistance has worn off, the leather is cracked and battered, I’ve just gone all the way through the rubber on my right heel, but these veterans of footwear continue to serve. Up near the ankle where my pants leg shielded the boot from sun bleaching and scratches over the past eight years, you can see the original dark mahogany tones and unpolished sheen of leather. 16
The rest of the shoe is a faded mix of browns from a sandy beach and unpainted wood of a dilapidated barn. I’ve redone the stitching twice, to keep the boot from falling apart, glued a few seams to help keep the water out, though this effort is futile with the newly discovered hole through its sole To call these boots broken in would be understatement; the soft, worn leather molds around my feet like the swaddling cloth of a newborn, secure and supple simultaneously. Out of curiosity, I once tried to count miles these boots have carried me. 65 for the trip that first summer, 72 with friends, four summers in a row, 90 miles in Canada, 10 - 30 miles once a month for 5 years, bringing my total to somewhere between 1043 and 2243 miles.
The count was done freshman year of college, a rough estimate, yet I carved the number into the side of the boot, planning to update as I continued my hiking into college. I have not. I realized it is not about the amount of miles, peaks, trips trails. I am most at peace in the outdoors, and these boots have been with me every significant trip for the past eight years So until they are replaced, I am most at peace wearing them.
The cold and wet months of Vermont, from October to May, prove too much for my old boots. I come home with soggy feet, spending ten minutes warming my frozen toes in winter. I was handed down winter boots and now house my old friends at the back of my closet for Winter. Soon, they will be replaced, but the memories carried in weather-worn cracks of leather will remain long after the boots.
I can count on them to take me to wonderful places as distant as the past. Now they near retirement.
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Calculating Beauty by Mara Gans ‘15.5 “That’s good coffee,” said Eli Mauksch Eli showed up at my house with his (’15) as we drove his Subaru out of Land- friend Austin and a trad rack in tow, I er, WY and up towards the Wind River certainly wasn’t going to turn down an offer to expand my outdoor playground Mountains. I sipped my own coffee, trying not to critique the under extraction a little. So, after some driving, hiking, to much: I’d had better. Mostly though, and a thorough discussion on who we’d I thought about the adventure ahead. I’d put on our Zombie apocalypse team and spent my entire life growing up in the whether we were cake or pie people, we shadows of the Cirque of the Towers set up camp at the base of the cirque. Eli and had and Austin long ago spent the learned remainder to sport of the eveclimb ning with in their their heads foothills, towards the but until rocks and today, I’d their noses never had buried in plans to the climbclimb any ing guide, of their scoping out big peaks. routes and Sure, I’d fantasizing View of the Cirque from our camp. From right to left, the three peaks we fantasized about being summited are Pingora, Tiger Tower and Wolf ’s Head, Mara Gans. about it… stronger but most of those dreams were pushed climbers. I spent most of my evening away into the to-do-when-I’m-olderlooking at flowers and taking pictures and-wiser drawer of my life plan. Which in silent disbelief that we were actually mostly means that I didn’t actually begoing to manage climbing anything. We lieve climbing them was possible. packed up for the next day: some extra clothes, climbing gear, food, and a couple However, when a peppy and confident of headlamps amongst the three of us. 18
I sort of thought we should each bring our own headlamp, but mostly I was still caught up with the flowers. Our first day was a breeze up the three pitch 5.8 K-cracks variation on the South Buttress of Pingora. Or at least, I thought so; I’d given up any decision-making, route finding and leading to Eli and Austin, and so I happily, thoughtlessly followed along, stoked about the clouds, rock crystals, and flowers. I also complained some about my feet. Apparently multi pitch climbing and scrambling aren’t so great in way-too-small aggressive sport climbing shoes. Lesson learned. We summited Pingora and rappelled off to its mini neighbor Tiger Tower, which I scrambled up barefoot, trying to save my feet, and imagining how not cool my parents would be with my current combination of unroped exposure and lack of appropriate footwear. I guess you have to break their rules sometime. We rapped off the other side of the tower and walked back to camp. The next morning we packed up and again took off towards the granite walls. Confident after a successful yesterday, we started pulling on rocks at a leisurely 10 or 11 am—definitely stretching the borders of “the alpine start.” We started a not-so-highly-recommended grassy ledge approach to the 5.6 classic, the East Ridge of Wolf ’s head. Besides a general Austin scrambles up the Pingora approach, Mara Gans
lack of protection and layers of ledges full of exposed, slippery, wet grass, the grassy ledge approach wasn’t that bad. Nonetheless, I was thrilled when we finally made it onto the ramp. Ahead stretched pitch after pitch of sidewalk like exposed ridge followed by columns of rock towers waiting to be woven between. I may not be one to pour over images in guidebooks, but once on the rocks I had no doubt that there was no where I’d rather be—I’ll leave looking at flowers for gardeners. In many ways climbing’s a lot like dancing. The wall is your partner, and each
feature a sequence in the flow of a dance. The best climbers aren’t the strongest individuals, but rather the ones who can match their own movements to the lead of the rock the best. Dancing with the East Ridge is unreal: Tiptoeing exposed slabs over thousand foot drops is broken up by flawless hand crack traverses—guiding you boldly over its
Sunset from the Wolf ’s Head rappel, Mara Gans
stunning ridge and intimately through its many towers. All that said, however, I’m not really that great a crack climber, so my dance definitely involved more bicep strain than grace. But, I guess that’s what there’s a ‘next time’ is for. Above us, the sun moved across the sky, and we watched a storm system build up above Wind River Peak to the south. We’d lucked out: afternoon storms build up quick in the summer, but this one missed us. 20
More dancing was matched by the continual saunter of the sun, and we eventually reached the summit. You never want to spend too much time on top, but our 7 pm summit time made hanging out particularly unappealing. Eli’s guidebook recommended a descent involving a few raps and a way-longer-than-wewanted scramble off another part of the ridge. Some mountaintop I-spy reveled a different set rap anchors just below. The guidebook didn’t note them, but confidence in the length of our double ropes directed us there anyhow. It was a good call. A couple raps later, hanging off a vertical wall at 12,000 feet I watched an absurdly phenomenal sunset. Normally watching a sunset you look up to the horizon. This time I was looking down. One rap later, it got dark. I guess that’s what normally follows phenomenal sunsets. Eli and Austin pulled out their headlamps. I didn’t have one to pull out. The next three-ish (60 m long) rappels I made were in the dark. Well, sort of. Stars lit up the sky, marking a clear division between rock and heavens. If you believe in that sort of thing, that is. Eli and Austin’s headlamps danced above and below. Murmurs of nylon jackets and whispers of ropes sliding through expensive rap devices spoke a subtle reminder that, as much as I call the mountains home, I owe it to my ‘man-
made’ props to even make it out there. Alpine romance is charming, but it’s not outright purity. After an eternity of rappels (Eli was counting, I was looking at the stars), my feet came to support their own body weight. It was late; and our sleeping bags were still a mile or more of steep boulder fields away. Now I wanted my headlamp. I switched my thoughts out of ‘beauty appreciation mode’ and into their ‘pay attention now, or you’ll break an ankle’ setting. Silently computing our footsteps, we worked our way down. I hovered between Eli and Austin’s headlamp beams, reducing my world and mind down to each step and the pool of light around it. Sometime after midnight we made it back to the valley floor, but not to our tent. After all the technical climbing, scrambling and navigating we’d done, locating our beds proved to be the surprise crux of the day. Stumbling around, everything looked the same in the dark: tents and boulders, trails and streams. For the first time all weekend I felt my good attitude start to waver. I insisted our tent was farther south. I was wrong. Eli suggested backtracking on the trail we came down. Still no tent. We stopped to elect another direction, referencing boulders, tiny streams, and faded trails. Nothing was that convincing. I zoned out and looked up at the sky. My mind’s
‘pay attention’ setting faded as I retraced the silhouette of the cirque—again, that clear division between rock and heavens. This time, however, it was different. The new angle on the peaks was like turning a page in a coloring book… you got the same theme, but different outlines. “Wait! I know how we can find our tent!” I announced. “Which peaks could we see from camp? We just have to walk until we find the same view and we’ll find our tent.” As I stated this, I felt dumb for not knowing myself what the silhouette of the cirque had looked like from camp, but I knew in the hours Eli and Austin had spent pouring over the guidebook and mountains, they would know exactly what we’d been looking at. Sure enough, they did. A couple of days later, Eli and Austin once again piled into the Subaru: this time, departing for their next adventures without me. As they drove off, I sat enjoying a not-under extracted cup of coffee, contrasting the science and calculating that goes towards brewing it, with the splendor of its heavenly taste. It’s not unlike a good day in the mountains, where you need both an appreciation of beauty and a meticulous calculation of the details to make it home. That is, if they were ever ours to call home in the first place.
The divining by Ben Harris ’16 The drive was desolation: pavement like a cracked-black tongue thrust toward the far hills, thirsting for water. Old pickup parting the still air. Sound carrying so far I swear I could hear the Iowa corn cry out for rain. And you, too, were barrenness, but I tried anyway— tried to start the seed of something— a word, even. Something about the weather: how the clouds never ceased chasing their shadows over the plains or how the tumbleweed knew the way west as well as anyone. Out the window, dust devils and the circling birds and everything, everything gone to seed— mesquite, grama, buffalo grass year after year wanting to come back as before. No wind so the whistling had to be you rising higher and higher beyond hearing. Your hand in mine dry as a wishbone: whether to keep pulling; whether to let go. Once, when we ran out of water nowhere near a gas station, we ate the flesh of watermelon just to stay alive. And had you asked, I could not have told you if the wet behind our lips had been there all along. 22
Santa Fe, Ecuador. Sometime’s the best adventures aren’t the crazy summits and extreme hikes. Sometimes they’re the days where you pack the truck, grab some fruit, and just drive to a place that fills your soul, by Anahi Naranjo ‘17
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In Search of Paradise by Meena Fernald ‘16 At the base of Mad River Glen, it is -15 degrees without wind-chill. In the warmth of the basebox lodge, patrollers insist “we’re lucky there’s no wind today.” Good god it is cold. No wind today my ass. I am suspended mid-air in a chair made for one, rocking back and forth as I slowly ascend to the summit, where fresh powder and rugged terrain awaits me with frosty, open arms. The GoPro awkwardly secured to my helmet catches the wind as it soaks in the breath-taking views that serve as compensation for the frigid conditions. Bursts of blinding sunlight behind snow-encrusted pines, white-topped ridgelines for miles in every direction, and deep powder stashes below combine to create the perfect winter wonderland vista. “My mom always told me the best things in life are worth waiting for.” Eric Friedman’s mother had it right; this is worth the wait. After weeks of freezing rains followed by warm, 40-degree January days, winter is finally here and the Single Chair lift at Mad River Glen is open at last. The piercing blue eyes of Mary Kerr, author of the historical account of Mad River Glen, A Mountain Love Affair, 24
demand honesty in my response to her question: “Well, what is adventure?” I pause. Downhill skiing seems like a rather mundane adventure for a 20 year-old like myself, whose fate as a skier was decided before I could walk, when my dad took me speeding down mountains in a backpack, much to the distress of the other parents on the slopes. However, rumors of Mad River Glen, hidden in the peaks of the Green Mountains and home to legendary glades and unbelievable snow, have traveled with me throughout my skiing career. “We’ll take you there when you’re older. When you’re ready” was my father’s constant refrain. His depiction of the iconic single chair to the summit, so cold that they once provided wool blankets to keep skiers company, contributed to the enthralling shroud of mystery that surrounded Mad River in my youthful eyes. What’s more, at the top of this solitary journey, “Paradise” lies hidden. A trail deemed “an actual black diamond in the east” by experienced skiers, and highly acclaimed by my father. “Paradise” remained illusive to our father-daughter team in the winter of 2013. In the winter of 2014, following my newly discovered instinct to push my limits, I turn to face the moun-
tain that has for so long loomed on my horizon. Past the mid-station, the sunshine becomes a little more consistent, and like a morning glory, I instinctually turn my face to bask in the warm rays. Below me, “Chute” promises to be my first real test as I embark on my adventure. “The bottom line on this place is terrain. You take away the community, and all the other stuff that everybody talks about, and the lifts and whatever. It’s just a great hill. We have 2000 vertical feet with no run out, sustained pitch. You can scare the daylights out of yourself every step of the way if you want to, but you don’t have to. The way the trails meander around, it is really good skiing for pretty much anyone that appreciates the kind of skiing that we have.” Marketing Director Eric Friedman’s honesty somewhat de-romanticizes the idyllic community I had built in my mind while simultaneously increasing my excitement for the “narrow, twisty turny trails” awaiting me.
The Mad River Single Chair, by Mara Gans.
The trails at Mad River Glen were cut to follow the fall lines of the mountains, rather than to accommodate snowmaking machines or groomers. While most eastern ski mountains began with trails like those at Mad River Glen, grooming and straightening to create wide-cut “boulevards” have since eclipsed the practice. The shared love and appreciation of the challenging terrain of Stark Mountain is the undercurrent to the Mad River community and draws skiers from all over the world. The initially controversial slogan “Mad River Glen: Ski It If You Can” was deemed “too intimidating” and 25
yet has proven to be a brilliant branding strategy that has attracted intrepid skiers for years. As a recently self-diagnosed “Adrenaline Junkie,” I have spent the past several months in pursuit of my next big thrill. I took up slalom waterskiing, reaching speeds of over 35 mph on glass-like water in the early summer mornings. I pushed and pushed, until a particularly bad wipeout left me with a broken ankle and a four-month recovery time. Now that I arrive at the next chapter of my skiing career, I continue my search for stomach-dropping adventures. “Mad *
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River: Ski It If You Can”…Challenge Accepted. A logically crafted strategy for descent replaces what once would have been mind-numbing fear and confusion at the winding, rock-strewn, mogul-ridden trail through the trees. At one point not too long ago, I would have looked down at Chute from the lift and thought No way in hell. I am not jumping off that rock. It’s too patchy, too steep, and too public. Instead, I find myself picking out potential routes, thinking strategically and excitedly about my impending descent. Several minutes later, my plans become a reality as I plant and turn 26
around moguls, rocks, towers, and ice. I reach a rock wall, only a two-foot drop, and finally my nerves start to kick in. Eyes scan the precipice, straining to find a point to launch. I breathe easy. Skier’s left, a layer of powder cushions both the rock face and the landing. Bend knees. Deep breath. Go. *The dedication to the beauty in strapping two boards to your feet and plunging down into fresh, natural powder between tall evergreens is the atmosphere in which my father learned to ski. He chose to teach my younger brother and me at mid-sized New England mountains, creating an appreciation for fun terrain and good skiing, rather than flashy lodges and luxurious accommodations. Therefore, when I first came to Mad River one year ago, despite iffy conditions, I became enthralled by its quirky charm and atmosphere that reminded me of all the small communities at the ski areas of my past. Last time, I had come to fulfill the challenge posed to me by that taunting slogan, but upon my return this winter, I find that my priorities have shifted. Challenging my body and mind to master skiing on foreign terrain remains my goal, and yet I cannot help but be fascinated by the very essence of Mad River. The people who choose to stop at the base of the Appalachian
Gap Road, rather than continue down to German Flats, hang a right and hit up Sugarbush, hold something special and intangible in common. Blood pumping a little faster now, the lift ride is not nearly as frigid as before. Channeling my inner owl, I twist my neck to take in the snowcapped mountains and valleys and lose my breath again. It’s not like the view is new, I’ve been living here for over a year, and yet I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the three mountain ranges that surround my home in Vermont. In the middle of the Green mountains, I look west to the Adirondacks of New York and East to the Whites of New Hampshire, and marvel at my luck once again. Ski tips up. Poles in right hand. Go. Disembarking from the single chair, I immediately look up to the right, where I know the trailhead to Paradise lies hidden. A wooden sign reads “Paradise Closed Today.” The temptation to ignore this warning and embark on my adventure is overwhelming. “Paradise” is a supposed rite of passage for Mad River skiers. It was originally declared too dangerous to be an official trail, but thrill-seekers and daredevils
continued to trek through the woods to leap over the waterfall and down its steep turns. Thus, in 1984, Manager Bob Cooke decided to put “Paradise” back on the map, making it the steepest official trail in New England. Such a reputation is daunting, and dissuades me from my original plan of disregarding the sign and venturing out to “Paradise” today. Next time. Next time. Don’t be an idiot, Fernald. You don’t want to lose the rest of your season. You’ll get there eventually.” I head to “Fall Line”, “Paradise’s” steep companion, instead. Cutting under the lift, I shoot across “Chute” and into a small path through the white evergreens and deep powder-stashes and emerge on “Fall Line.” Narrow, winding, and steep, my knees, quads, and ankles are pushed *
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past their breaking points, and yet I speed downward. Sweating, exhausted, I ride the fall line all the way to the base. Now is when I realize that on this sunny, -15 degree Thursday, the mountain is occupied by my own self, a friend, and the volunteer members of the Mad River Glen ski patrol. No wait time; once I’m back in line, I’m 27
suddenly alone again. Somehow, every time I ride up, I get less cold. I’m only lonely when the wind picks up. I wonder how much good those wool blankets used to do?
fall, a blessing on the trails but a curse on the lift, finds its way into my goggles, through my face-mask and freezes the back of my neck. Shoulders hunched, eyes down, I think.
The image of the single chair swaying in the wind and transporting eager skiers to the top of Stark Mountain remains a testament to the old days of skiing, but also as a reminder that those days are not over, and the Mad River community still values founder Palmedo’s vision of a place where the integrity of man and mountain can coexist. This is it. This is your deadline. Today is the day you ski “Paradise.”
If I fall and hurt myself and I’m alone… and the trail is closed…ski patrol won’t happen upon me and neither will any other skiers. I am a strong and independent individual. Get over this, Fernald.
Only one problem: I’m alone. And “Paradise” is closed. Nearly every other trail on the mountain is readily accessible, and yet the one trail I need, I can’t get to. Just hike up, ignore the sign and ski it. “Paradise is one of those trails you want good conditions on. If it’s not open, it’s for a reason” says ski patrol officer after officer. The line for the single chair is shortening, and as I obey the red “WAIT” sign covered in a light dusting of snow, I remain conflicted. Neck strained to see the incoming chair, I release my knees and enjoy the steady ride to the summit. The consistent snow28
Now not only am I by myself on the lift, but also on this adventure. I experience solitude unlike any other. At the top, I look to my right at that fateful sign “Paradise Closed Today,” my stomach drops and I turn my back. I may not have conquered “Paradise” yet, but I will return soon. Its gates have been opened and I have an adventure to finish. Next time I come with back up, because “Paradise” alone is no paradise at all. Cochamo, by Mara Gans ‘15.5
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Bear
Algonquin: Power, Peace, and Metempsychosis
by Will Jacobs ‘16.5
by Kent Ratliff ‘16
I know how to drive a hungry bear away from a camp; all you do is make a little bit of noise, and then some more noise, and eventually you build up till your screaming as loud as you can. That way you don’t end up as the bear’s dinner. But, I was already having second thoughts about this disturbing the bear. “Could it be my imagination? Why would this be happening on our first night? It hasn’t eaten me yet, so maybe I should just stay still and quiet.” I gently shook my sleeping tent mate awake. He talked in his sleep about the random things that are relevant only to one’s own dreams. Thinking his sleep talking might trigger the bear, I paused for a minute to check that I was still alive. Alive? Yup. I continued the process, now a bit more confident. “Wake up!” I said under my breath. My tent mate slowly pulled himself into reality. Then, remaining in my tent, I tried to make contact with the rest of the 30
group. I repeated the words, “I think there’s a bear out there” constantly and persistently, until nearly all twelve crew members were awake. We continued the procedure by talking quietly to one another, gradually getting louder, and louder, until ten minuets later we were shouting. Although bears are said to hate noise of any kind, this bear wouldn’t budge, and was now but a mere two feet from my tent. While it was fun driving both the bear and ourselves insane, this joy quickly turned to fear, as we realized that we were at the mercy of this animal, who seemed to have a mind of its own. Eventually, the group decided the bear obviously didn’t want to leave, and that we were likely not on his menu tonight, because otherwise he would have eaten us already. So, we fell back to sleep. Yet, with the bear closer to me than anyone else, I decided to stay up a just a few extra minutes to play it safe. Nothing was happening, and I too began falling asleep. But, just as I was closing my eyes, I heard a loud, deep “moooooooo!”
Kent Ratliff
It was a chilly, dark summer night in the Rockies and just after midnight, I awoke to a peculiar noise—stomping, followed by loud breathing, and then stomping again. A bear, definitely within 10 feet of my tent.
I step out of the van onto the hard packed snow of the Adirondak Loj parking lot. The wind sweeps flurries of white, dancing from snow banks, and bullies clouds to the horizon, drenching us in warm sunlight and crisp blue air. Parker and I prepare to lead a training trip for students pursuing a winter guideship for the Middlebury Mountain Club. Around me are participants strapping on snowshoes and hoisting their packs, excited for the chance to be in nature. Their stressful lives, now left somewhere where on College Street could no longer be called that.
I watch as a sentinel, the energetic guides-in-training eager to prove that they are prepared for full guideship. “Trip to Marcy Dam, let’s gather over here!” “Does everyone’s pack feel comfortable? Here. Here’s how it should fit.” “Oh, you have your snowshoes on backwards.” “Everybody’s got two full water bottles?” As I look around, I realize that I’ve personally trained every one of these guides-in-training. It was a strange thought, simultaneously bringing forth the emotional realization that I am past the halfway point of my college career and filling me with a sense of wonder 31
that, I was in that moment, significant. It is interesting, how our perceived relationships with the outdoors can so differ from the bonds and experiences we truly cultivate. With all packs on backs, all feet in snowshoes, and all spirits high, we embark on the trail. As a training trip, my role is part participant, part teacher, and part mentor. We had spent a little over two hours a week for the past three weeks going over skills of leadership and familiarizing everyone with equipment in a classroom setting. Now, I must provide the example of proper outdoor etiquette for these aspiring guides to witness, allow them opportunities to prove and polish their own leadership skills, and take any teachable moment to give constructive curriculum. Amidst the teachable moments, Parker and I have two concrete scenarios planned: the Lost Person Drill and a medical emergency. Parker and I had talked through the situation earlier: I was to be a patient with a broken ankle, an allergy to ibuprofen, and severe internal bleeding due to blunt abdominal trauma. All day, I hike with painted bruising around my ankle and lower abdomen, carrying a bottle of fake blood in my pocket should I want to make it interesting. Parker and I agreed that I 32
would fall injured whenever it seemed logical. We want to make the situation as believable as possible. The metal lining the bottom of our snowshoes crunches against solid snow as we make our way towards Algonquin peak. Conversations lull to an appreciative silence for the sounds of snowfall and the odd bird call. The wind flows through snow-muted needles of evergreen and the leafless branches of maple and birch. There’s something so sublime about the sound of winter in the woods. The tracks of the snowshoe hare cross the trail and dart off behind a boulder. Fresh, crisp-cold air fills my lungs, carrying with it the metallic taste of cold and physically ridding me of the past, rooting me to my surroundings. This is why I go into nature. When training guides, I get much less of this sense of rejuvenation, though it is satisfying in a different way. I risk approaching nature more as a job than a passion, but it’s a job I love, and I can’t see it getting old any time soon. We stop at our campsite on the way to Algonquin peak, a small snow-covered clearing just off the trail, to eat and drop superfluous gear. Doing so, I catch Parker’s eye and hurry away with the excuse of a full bladder.
In a snowy winter, it’s difficult to get “lost.” Anywhere you go, you leave a twofoot deep trail, easily traceable. I walk on the path, hiding my prints among many others before embarking into the thighhigh wilderness. I climb over boulders and to the top of a small cliff—finally finding my stage: a hole in the snow, just big enough to snag a snowshoe. I lower the bruise-painted ankle into the hole, surprised at just how deep it was. With my entire leg and lower torso in the hole, I finally find the bottom, a tangle of roots perfect for snaring my snowshoe and getting properly stuck. In my head, I go through my mechanism of Injury, deciding exactly how I have gotten injured. I had stepped above the hole, slipped and fell, bashing my abdomen on the sharp rock and coming down on my ankle at a sharp angle. The scene is black and white, lacking color. I smear the tube of blood on my forehead, allowing it to drip down my face. Head wounds bleed more than you’d expect, even from a small cut. A small cut! This wasn’t believable if there was blood and no cut. I grab a sharp stick and scour a line just above my bloodstained face, not deep enough to actually bleed, but deep enough to make them question. I embed the stick in the snow in front of me as evidence. With the stage set, I have only to wait.
Within five minutes, I hear my name shouted in unison from our little clearing. For this first call, I give no response. I count the silence. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1… “KENT!!” This time I give a feeble call. If they can’t hear me, they are to remain in place calling my name for a full ten minutes before moving to part two of the missing person drill. Ten seconds pass. “KENT!!!” “Here”
10 seconds “KENT!!!” “Over here!”
They hear this call and move towards me. From the crunching of their snowshoes, I can tell they move on a snowpacked trail, not straight towards me through the brush as I had hoped. “Here’s some tracks!” Too easy; Damn those tracks. At least they had performed the first part of the drill well. They struggle through the obstacle course of boulders, fallen trees, and snow-hidden holes, arriving with good communication, guiding one another over the obstacles. A first head pokes into my field of vision, and her eyes go straight towards my bloodied head. Then, a team 33
of two comes to assess, picking their way up the steep ledge to my position. “Are you alright?” “I don’t know” I manage, fear in my voice. I must be quite the sight. Having no mirror I have no concept of just how much blood was on my face. My right leg is buried up to my hip, and my left splayed across the snow, with the angle between painfully obtuse. “Is anything hurt?”
Kent Ratliff
“My ankle’s killing me.” The words wince through gritted teeth. Their primary concern is my bloodied façade, as it should be. The possibility for serious head injury is present, so movement has to be limited until they can rule out further spinal damage. Through several quick questions about mechanism and 34
pain quality, they diagnose that it is only a surface level wound. Each of the two reaches under an arm, ready to hoist me out of my self-laid trap. “AHHH!” The snowshoe pulls at my wounded ankle and my outcry causes them to pause their hoisting. I have given them a lose-lose situation. They obviously cannot leave me in the hole, but my removal would hurt my ankle further. Carefully, positions are reassumed and steadily I creep inch by inch out of the hole. By this point, I am entering acute hypothermia from lying directly in snow for nearly 20 minutes, and they quickly move me onto an insulated pad.
They take vitals, but are treating it like a basic scenario to practice splints, disregarding the possibility of more serious afflictions. My hypothermia is dealt with expertly. I lay wrapped in a -30 sleeping bag, insulated from the snow with a thick foam pad, and protected from the elements with the outer tarp casing of my insulated cocoon. They begin work on my ankle, pried out from the other end of my swaddling, and I begin to mentally and physically deteriorate. With my breathing hidden by the layers, I hyperventilate. Rapid, shallow panting tricks the brain into emergency mode. My pulse skyrockets, and some pigment drains from my face. Emerging from my preparations I gaze at some point well beyond my attendees, wincing with every jostle of my ankle. “How does this feel” they ask with nurse-like care as they tighten the bindings on the make shift splint. Silence. “Kent?”
“…n..no, that, that doesn’t… hurt”
Recognizing a worsening in condition, they place a call to 911 through Parker to request an evac crew. During shock, the body pulls blood to the core vital organs, leaving the rest of the body at risk. It’s the last ditch effort in prolonging life. They take vitals again. “Pulse is higher, breathing rapid. “ I am passed three water bottles filled with hot water to place in my groin and armpits, areas with high bloodflow, to help warm my hypothermic body. I’ve been under care for two and a half hours at this point, and they still haven’t found the main injury. I decide to help them out, give them at least some reason to suspect a stomach or abdominal wound, plus I was having fun with the fake blood. I dip my head into the sleeping bag and fill my mouth from the tube. The acrid sickly sweet blood fills my mouth, but I let it sit until I was forced to talk. “Are you feeling warmer?” I look up in glazed comprehension, teeter back and forth, and heave blood onto the pure white snow beside me, now looking like a strawberry snowcone. That did the trick. They peel back my layers and do a pain quality check on my abdomen. I can see the realization of this missed step in their eyes, in the sagging shoulders and furled brows, in an awkward half-smile. They have learned something.
“So your ankle hurts, let’s take a look.” The distraction had worked, they miss my abdominal wound, and without following the proper protocol my internal bleeding would go unnoticed.
“Something’s wrong.”
I begin to go into shock from blood loss.
I regain composure, slowly, my symp-
“Huh? What?” “Does this feel alright?” “I…”
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toms slipping away like the school stress left beyond the trailhead. After acting out such an extreme situation for nearly four hours, it takes time to regain composure. With participants debriefed, lessons learned, and myself composed, we pack away our little scenario, making our careful way back to the trail. The day was gone, and the peak would remain pristine, unconquered and infallible, until next time. The next day we break camp and retrace our way to the van. We hurry, rushing to make it back by the appointed time. We climb a hill within one mile of the trailhead and one participant stops in his tracks, gaze shooting upwards as he exclaims, “Wow… Look at those trees!” I break my pace, pausing to gaze up, aware that every stop delays us. But these trees, what majestic trees. They soar skyward, in that moment dwarfing any mechanical achievement of man. Deep red bark and bright green needles flash against the white scene of snow and sky. I have led six trips on this wild trail, but not once have I paused for these ancient sentinels. I was lost among their branches, and I may never be found. Perhaps I had never truly been outside.
Yosemite Valley floor, Sofi Hecht ‘18
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Editorial Board Mara Gans Ben Harris Sofi Hecht Anahi Naranjo Advisor: Scott Barnicle
Other Contributors Evan Gallagher Julia John
Interested in getting involved? Email fireside@middlebury.edu! 38
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