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Tuckerman Ravine

One cannot deny the mystique. The allure. The aura that surrounds Tuckerman Ravine. It's a right of passage. It's a pilgrimage. It's a ritual.

It's so much more than skiing. It's so much more than hiking. It's a path that spans generations, connects past to present, simplifies and unifies.

Finally I was going to step into the history. Mark my turns in the books. With T. leading, we set out to lay down the final arcs of the season.

Up the Tuckerman Trail with my knee holding out better than I expected I took the time to take in those surrounding me. This was my first "backcountry" trip, my first venture into the earn-your-turns pantheon and I was doing it in the most contradictory venue imaginable.

Far from the seclusion and oneness-with-nature that dominates the wilderness image; here you share the shrine with hundreds of other like-minded folks. Folks with skis, folks with teles, folks with snowboards, and folks with inner tubes. Shiny gear strapped to the fanciest ergonomic backpacks walk next to skinny neon skis tied with rope and duck tape to aluminum framed Scout packs. Here someone takes a rest for a sip of Gatorade and a handful of trail mix; there someone else cracks open a Bud Light and has a cigarette break.

Fathers lead children and torches of all varieties are passed.

In the bowl, the study in contrasts continued. A wild setting with icefalls and boulders interspersed among the 50 degree slopes of the headwall. Yawning gaps ready to suck unsuspecting sliders under. Chunks of ice letting loose and careening down the funnel. A spectacular scene not to be trifled with.

And yet people of all shapes marched up the boot-packs like lines of hungry ants. Skiers descended next to them and elicited cheers from the throngs of people sunning themselves on the rocks below. Inner tubers trudged upward to the chants of "Higher, higher!"

A backcountry experienced with 300 of your closest friends. A surreal ordeal that would bring us back for what is now an annual tradition.

I've been there five times now. Under sunny skies with everybody and their uncle. In freezing fog with just ourselves to rely on. On buttery corn with sunburned face. Over scratchy ice with frozen digits. Fresh white powder one year. Old brown leftovers another. I've driven up with a car packed to bursting with a half-dozen friends. I've made the trip solo and waited two hours in the parking lot for basom to show up. When he finally appeared that day, the rain that had been beating down during my phone call had somewhat abated (as had my feelings of guilt for not informing him of the weather). We geared up, headed out and, of course, the rain returned with a vengeance. Cold and wet we continued on, never second-guessing our commitment.

We scored just two runs that day. One ending in ice that had us skittering like nervous chipmunks, the other leading to bushwacking through scrub trees and around water hazards.

It rained all the way back down.

I had a four drive ahead of me.

It was totally worth it.

That's Tuckerman Ravine.




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Part 6
Part 7
Part 8


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