Alaska stirs up certain images: 3,000-foot verticals of untouched powder, helicopters following pointing fingers into the next range, the top riders progressing beyond recent comprehension. It’s a world apart from the lower 48’s tree lined resorts, and yet it’s so close, there for the taking. Soon after a brief email exchange with an uncle on his shoulder season in Anchorage, I flew just over the Chugach Mountains en route to Thompson’s Pass, home to the endless powder and party that is Tailgate Alaska.
The trip was a gamble with weather from the onset. A blizzard put me to sleep Thursday night and sunlight greeted me Friday morning. I geared up and edged towards the guide garden, the first sleds revving during my walk. “It’s a sucker hole up there,” I kept hearing. ‘Sucker Hole’ being a momentary flash of sun that lures you out of port just in time for the storm to roll back in under you. It’s basically the equivalent of urine in a Gatorade bottle to heli pilots – looks good enough to take a chance on, but in actuality it’s only piss. With the birds grounded, I went in search of a sled bump.
Sled bumps sounded simple enough, but that notion had naively come from a rookie accustomed to resort riding. A friendly did end up letting me on his sled – I couldn’t leave empty handed – but at 40 mph pointed up the Northern aspect of Gully 1, a run also known as “Vertigo,” I admit that what I felt was mostly fear. Sleds made for one person have a tendency to tip when two people ascend at a steep angle, but we fortunately avoided such an issue. We made our way onto the shelf and before kicking me off I was able to stammer a “thank you” to the brave captain that shuttled this tourist up to the best powder line of his life. “I wish I could have got you higher,” he said. “But I can’t see shit.”
The light went flat. My pack was strapped, lenses switched, taper ready to dip in, and I waited. More clouds. I turned and plead with the cirque in a way I never have before. Still grey. “Give me 18 seconds of daylight, that’s all I need,” my mantra went. “Just one more sucker hole for a kid who spent his winter on the east coast,” I begged. And it parted. Not in half, simply a hole of blue sky that moved directly over my head. One biblical beam of sunlight came down and lit up the Alaskan powder. My phone stayed in my pocket – better to keep those moments sacred. Instead I pointed it and forgot that I weighed anything for a while.
So it was only one run. The clouds moved back in and did not open up again. Many would call that a defeat. Buzzed and taking in the Shoot Dangs concert that night, it sure felt like victory. As the quartet crooned, I kept replaying the slashes over in my head. The party grew rowdier as a bonfire leaping competition started – the rest of the night has since faded from my memory. I’m sure of one thing though. Before I left I took a nip of whiskey, spit it into the fire, and rose proud to be…
A sucker.