Ben—Immediately after Breckenridge we had a couple of awesome little shows in Leadville and Vail—at the Provin’ Grounds Café and the Vail Mountain School, respectively.
Leadville was an awesome scene. A good old mining town with more bars than anything else. The simple things in life are often the sweetest, and the simple sweetness in Leadville seems to be found in either the bottom of a mine or the bottom of a glass. Good times, great crowd packed into a little coffee shop. Afterwards, we hit the town and found ourselves talking to this old timer who insisted that we could see Doc Holliday’s face smoking a cigarette on a broken tile in Leadville’s oldest bar. We thought he might be smoking something himself, but eventually the image resolved itself and… well, check out the picture below and decide for yourself. After assuring him that Doc Holliday was indeed alive and well among the tiles, we pulled out the inflatable bed in the parking lot behind the bar, and, tucking it behind a tractor in a dark corner that I can only imagine was the secret local’s urinal, we passed out into high-altitude dreams.

Waking up on cold asphalt—by this time the great AirBed had developed a bit of a leak—we packed up and the Colt galloped to Vail. With the help of the great Michael Ioli, telemark-maestro, our projection quality was the best it’s been since Aspen, and the film looked fabulously beautiful on their huge new screen. It’s always so great to see the film the way it is MEANT to be seen, in all it’s glistening glory. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves at a celebratory spot in the middle of Vail, where we met the first of a crazy bunch of dudes who would define our conception of the weekend and perhaps have forever wrinkled the fabric of our existence.
To put a very long story short, Nick and I awoke once again from our sleep on the deflated airbed, this time finding ourselves on the synthetic turf soccer field of the Vail Mountain School, and more than amped to go throw ourselves out a plane from 10,500 feet strapped to the groin of a total strangers.
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Sweetgrass Productions goes skydiving. Kick-starting a weekend that epitomized the laissez-faire “going with the flow,” the Colt followed a suburban loaded with four 30-somethings wild and mohawked dudes and two equally wild woman out of the mountains and into the plains outside Boulder. There were three groups of two flying up in the small Cessna, and Nick and I were the last. We got to watch the other groups go up in terror and come down in utter jubilation.
It was beginning to be the end of the day by the time our turn rolled around, and we were driving back from the landing zone with the rest of the crew, mentally preparing ourselves to hop on the plane back at the airport and to begin the stupidest thing we had ever done. In the back of our heads each of us was secretly hoping something would happen to make us not have to go up there—a freak heart attack, a rough turn of the weather, a sudden outbreak of an infectious disease, perhaps, anything—when suddenly the front window of the shortbus exploded. My immediate thought was that someone had jumped off the top of the overpass onto the windshield, and the sudden images flashing into my head of blood, limbs, and hours of police paperwork seemed actually calming considering that I wouldn’t have to get up in that plane. It quickly became apparent, however, as we swerved at 60 mph through traffic, that the hood of the van had been poorly locked and had slammed up into the window, blocking all vision. Everyone was screaming as the driver frantically tried to slow down without veering off the side of the road or into the traffic flying by in the right lane. Eventually we ground to a halt, unscathed, and everything settled in cloud of obscenities.
I don’t know whether this experience helped to calm our nerves or whether it simply exacerbated them, but from then on everything seemed to be in a daze, and suddenly Nick and I were watching through the open door of the plane as the tarmac rolled away underneath us and the plane jittered into the air. Nick’s partner, an older fellow, was filling him with all kinds of information, what-ifs and do’s and don’ts, while my guy, a man of few words, told me to “don’t worry about a goddamn thing, kid, since once you’re up there, the last thing you’ll be thinking about is all the confusing junk I could tell you.” And believe it or not, the man was right. As we rolled up near 10,500 feet and entered the clouds, I don’t think a single logical synapse was firing in my oxygen-deprived skull. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember the entire thing, and maybe that’s why I won’t try to tell you how it felt. It is a feeling beyond description that defies every preconception you have about your body and how it is supposed to function in this physical world we think we wholly inhabit. Like oh so many things that flirt with the transcendental, it must be done to be believed. Adrenaline in the blood, fear in the eyes, and an experience you will never forget. If you consider your life boring, do this today and you’ll hit the ground with a whole new perspective. We will be at it again as soon as possible.
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After that minor turning point in our oh-so-short lives, the fabled Colt charged back up to Vail with the intention of catching the Beaver Creek premiere of Absinthe Films’ Ready, and then going out to Mohawk Jolby’s manic birthday party—one of the guys we were now blood-brothers with due to our brief encounter with Aerial Fear.
I’d been looking forward to the Absinthe film for quite some time—they make my favorite snowboard films yearly, and I think last years Optimistic? is one of the best snowboard films ever made. Plus, it seemed nice to be the one receiving the show, rather than throwing it ourselves. A market ourselves all day long, can’t we be marketed to once in a while? All told though, I thought the film was a bit of a disappointment, and despite an awesome showing from the legend Jeremy Jones and the always good Wolle Nyvelt and Nicholas Muller, there wasn’t anything new there, and the style seemed scattered and incongruous. They’ll do better next year. In the meantime though, I’ve heard some things about this new movie by these dudes Sweetgrass Productions, maybe you’ve heard of themtheyvegotthisnewmoviecalledhandcutmaybeyoushouldcheckitout?!? Well, it never stops, but every now and then you can take a break and enjoy the competition, right? Our films are entirely different, but I am a firm believer that it takes all kinds and that there is a place for all. No use putting the other guy down when in the end we all just want to be outside on the snow– a concept that I think is often lost in the huge and vicious market that is the winter sports industry. This will probably deserve a blog of it’s own at some point, so I’ll cut myself off on a skiporn vs skiart debate “can’t we all be friends rant.” All I’ll say for now is, do your thing, live it and love it.
So much for the film review. Anyhow, after the Absinthe show, Colt made serious pace to Jolby’s birthday party in Vail, and good times were had by all. Anyhow, Nick and I woke up Sunday afternoon in our own Tempurpedic mattresses in a nice hotel room. Life has a way of coming together, no? After our previous nights of sleeping on the eternally uninflated AirBed, this was a welcome realization for both our spirits and our backs.
Needless to say we made it to Glenwood Springs hoping to finally recuperate from our adrenaline soaked weekend in time for our show there on Wednesday. Of course, it was not to be, and we were hardly 10 miles outside of Vail when a car full of cackling hooligans rolled alongside and dropped the windows, shouting wild mohawkish wombat cries into the highway jetstream, and gesturing for us to follow. Ah Jolby, how we had missed you. C’est la vie on la rue, and so we followed them over 30 miles, through sketchy dirt roads upon which the valiant Colt could hardly maintain a grip, until we arrived at the Center of Universe (buy the bumper sticker): KK’s Barbeque. Apparently it was the last day of the season for this living legend, this bonafide hurler of meat patties and rustler of ribs. Jolby had an entire crew gathered there, and we feasted on innumerable fabulous ribs and spiced pickles, all in the middle of the single road of some weird town in the middle of dusky nowhere. There have been few finer endings to a wild weekend. Thanks KK, and thanks fate. Although we wanted to stay, the Colt beckoned with its loving metallic call, and we rambled on to Glenwood Springs, where we fell asleep on a road high above the city lights. A beautiful weekend, yes.

I had intended to end this already long post here, but I feel one thing should be noted that should no doubt be constantly on the mind of any aspiring or practiced ski bum. When you roll into an entirely new town past nightfall in your 1987 Duct Tape Terror Wagon, how exactly do you decide where it is safe to camp outside? This question is a difficult one, and depends on a number of environmental and physical factors, for instance: what is your level of exhaustion (it is a given that there is SOME)? Are you willing to be awoken by headlights, or perhaps never awake, if in the dark you have accidently bedded down in the center of the gravel road and not on the side of it? Are you willing to sacrifice relative privacy for an unlevel or precarious slope? These questions and many others circulate constantly through Nick and my heads nearly every night as we randomly drive up some dark road, hoping that it will dwindle away to shadowy dead ends or secret nooks. This is our life. A weird life, yes, but once you are in your sleeping bag with a rotten deflating airbed below you and the stars above, you usually must concede, wherever you are, you have always found the right place.

Ben—After a brief respite, we hit the ground running, burning up and down Colorado. The Colt had already endured over 2000 vicious miles, as we played in small venues in Fort Collins and Boulder, enduring technical difficulties but having a good time nonetheless, storming through their respective campuses in the name of the Sweet stuff. After Boulder we heartily rolled up towards Breckenridge to prepare for our Wednesday show, happy as all hell to be back in the mountains. Our couch connections had by this point run dry, however, and so we found ourselves buying a shoddy inflatable mattress that had us sleeping on air for two nights (Nick will be posting on the air-filled sack of a nightmare soon, as it deserves some serious recognition and consideration).
By Tuesday, the night before the show, however, we needed a real bed, and so when Nick was randomly approached in a Breckenridge parking lot by a raving thirty-something female and her supposed cordon-bleu chef boyfriend offering FOUR couches and endless steaks, despite our deep-set fears we could hardly say no, and took their phone numbers, smelling a trap. Later that night we had exhausted all alternative sleeping alternatives, and after much debate gave the woman a call. It was clearly evident that she was a weird and wild one, but it was uncertain exactly how weird or how wild– that is, if the couple was a “tra-la-la lets have a fun time” sort of couple or a “hey-ho lets cut off these guys’ toes and grind them into a nice dessert meat-pudding” sort of couple.
All bets were off, and the fear was in us as we met up with them at the market. It soon became evident that the woman was harmless but totally incoherent, as she babbled through the aisles, happily stumbling along with “one too many cocktails in her,” as her boyfriend put it, as he miserably tried to corral her through the store and keep her from stuffing sushi into her face or sticking her head in the salad bowl. In the end though, she bought several hundred dollars worth of food and we followed them to their apartment.
Upon stepping out of the car, the man handed Nick a heavy bag and solemnly told him that there was about $5000 in his hand. The bag clanked metallic as we walked up into what I could only imagine was a skier’s torture chamber. Inside seemed sane enough, however, except for the nunchuks and other ninja paraphernalia scattered about the floor. The $5000 bag was opened, unveiling a long row of knives glistening in the fluorescent kitchen. The man talked us through each, demonstrating their sharpness and his fluid use of their unique Japanese steel.. As he began to cut vegetables, he made one or two jokes about chopping and murder and death that probably would have seemed funny if not for the circumstances. As the woman was bumping into walls in the background, I paid close attention as he prepared dinner to guarantee that he was not slipping any strange powders into our meal. Is that salt, man? His skills did seem intact however, and he did appear to be a somewhat professional chef.
It wasn’t long before their roommate entered, and quickly began to practice his screaming nunchuk and ninja kick skills in the middle of the apartment, adding even more flavor to the experience. Soon, however, tensions began to boil. We learned that the woman and the man had only met 7 days earlier, and 5 days prior had begun a restaurant business that the woman had invested $2000 in. Her constant strange and probably addictive behavior was beginning to wear on the man, though. As he cooked the steak, she continuously gave him vague and nonsensical “pointers” to which he would respond “just let me do my thing.” It only took half an hour of this before the situation imploded, and after a brief shouting match during which Nick and I uncomfortably sat on the couches as if nothing was happening, the man took packed up the knife kit and left the nights meal to burn on the oven. It was evident that he was never coming back, and the woman burst into tears.
The remainder of the night was spent consoling her that it was meant to happen, that she had done the right thing, etc. We convinced her that she needed to get some food in her stomach, and, agreeing, she picked up the steaming, delicious food barehanded out of the oven, promptly dumping it all over the floor and starting the chaos all over again. After several hours of this we convinced her she needed to go to bed. She sniffled and bumped down the hallway into the darkness, and we thought we would finally be able to pass out, but there it was:”GERALD! (roommate) GERALD! WE NEED TO SPEAK IN PRIVATE!” Through the next half hour of exchanged shouting we figured out there her bed was littered with dog feces from Gerald’s friends new dog. It was to this chorus of tears and screams that we finally drifted off to sleep on the eve of our Breckenridge premiere. We certainly worked for our couches that night, but in the morning, we could only be happy to have all of our limbs attached as we slipped out of the house.
Although we were exhausted, the premiere that night was great, with a good crowd, live music, and a nice donated keg of Dillon Dam beer. We met up with a guy throwing a fundraiser for the Colorado Avalanche Information Center, which due to budget cuts will be having a tough time this winter, which is bad news for all Colorado backcountry skiers. The benefit will be during Breckenridge’s opening weekend, November 8, at Kenosha Steakhouse– 20 bucks will get you 3 beers and raffle tickets as well as the truly priceless peace of mind. If you get a chance, check it out and help keep winter safe. If you cant or dont want to attend the benefit, consider donating directly. That’s my plug for the day, and its one I can feel good about. Anyhow, the Breck show was definitely our favorite this far, and the film plays so well in small, intimate venues. Good times all around–except for the minor exception of a drunkard breaking in half a $4000 sculpture in the lobby of the theater, then providing false information and fleeing into the mountain night. Thanks bro. However, these things, we are learning, must all be taken in stride. And so we stride on.

No pictures of the Knife House, to protect the weird, so these will have to do:

Ben—Already the couch life has taken its toll. Every morning waking up fully clothed in a different strange room. Constant exhaustion as we spent all our hours putting up posters, conducting radio and newspaper interviews, and generally spreading the Hand Cut gospel. Somewhere in there we found time to buy $100 worth of duct tape in innumerable psychedelic shades, which we used to plaster the Colt with vertical stripes in undulating patterns. White painted letters spelling “Sweetgrass Productions” were gorilla glued firmly to the passenger side, completing the masterwork makeover. The Colt took fondly to its new clothes, and zipped joyfully up and down the Roaring Fork Valley, spitting out Hand Cut posters in its wake. If ever you should glimpse her, lend a honk. It is known in many ski-tribes to be a sign of good luck. Speaking of which, here’s the story of a wonderful evening for those bearded and gnarly mountain-folk in question, as showcased on powdermag.com, courtesy of yours truly:

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A rabid tribal snow frenzy broke out in Aspen on Friday, with crazed locals foaming at the mouth upon witnessing tantalizing hints of the epic winter to come—snow starved eyes awoke to heaps of snow coating the upper reaches of the valley.

But what would have been a short-lived sense of anticipated winter shred euphoria was set in solid stoke-stone by the evening’s World Premiere of Sweetgrass Production’s freshman film, the Patagonia sponsored “HAND CUT,” which packed over 400 mountain brethren, young and old, into the world famous Wheeler Opera House. With the cumulative energy of this pack of savage pow-cannibals all demanding the first fluffy white meat of the year, expectations were high.

The show kicked off with an opening film presented by the Aspen Historical Society. It showcased the glamour and glory of Aspen Highlands in the 1970s, and the sloppy backflips and groovy “outerwear” had younger cannibals rolling on the floor laughing while their elders rolled uncomfortably in their bittersweet nostalgia.

Everyone got more than their fair share of oh-so-sweet nostalgia. When Hand Cut began, however, the audience gorged themselves upon shot after shot of last season’s unprecedented backcountry powderfeast. Loyal natives cheered on local shred greats such as Nick Devore and the Cardamones, as well as many others as they ripped through stunning Colorado, BC, and Alaskan fresh. The manic symptoms of the summer’s repressed shredmania were soothed and harnessed by the film’s soft and beautiful exploration of the thing we covet the most—our snow. The unique blending of hard-backboned western history into the mix pushed the audience into a reflection on their own great white lust, and what it is that drives that endless appetite. Truthfully capturing the native culture of the mountains is Hand Cut’s true charm.

As the mass of satiated mountain heathens stumbled out of the theater, stomachs drunk and bulging from the shred, their sharpened teeth still dripping with saliva, they were met in the lobby by the perfect dessert: $2 beers and the blistering live deep country blues of Colorado local John-Alex Mason, who scored the film’s riveting soundtrack. Chaotic pagan dancing ensued, as the crowd shook their moneymakers until long after closing time in the name of their snow-gods. The pow-wow with John-Alex then moved to different venues until complete exhaustion prompted 4 a.m howls to Aspen’s waxing winter moon.

The world premiere a success and the snowlust of Aspen natives appeased, the Sweetgrass crew now travels on throughout Colorado and into the great American/Canadian West in search of more pure and primitive backcountry believers to bring into the fold. Check out the tour-dates at www.sweetgrass-productions.com. For the music man, check out www.johnalexmason.com.

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A rousing success all around, and so with heavy heads we mounted the Colt and left Aspen with firm convictions to find ourselves there next year at the same time.

p.s. For the throngs of insatiable groupies who just can’t get enough Sweetgrass news (we know you’re out there somewhere!… please?…hello?) we did get some cool newspaper articles in Aspen. Check ‘em out here:

http://www.aspentimes.com/article/20080912/NEWS/809119925&parentprofile=search

http://www.aspendailynews.com/section/entertainment/129285

 

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none of your business

backcountry skiing, winterstick, splitboarding

Ben—Two hours after landing in Denver I found myself the proud new co-owner of a 1987 Dodge Colt. Many would call it an impulse buy, but as soon as Nick and I set our eyes upon its beige flanks, we knew it would be our steel steed that would push us on through our wild mission. There were 155,000 miles of 4wheel drive bliss upon her, serious road experience that certainly accounts for her unparalleled intuitive mastery of all driving conditions. $1275 and an uncertain handshake later I was stalling through the intersections of Denver as I learned to drive a manual vehicle. It was a trial by fire, Nick and I knew, and the smell of burning clutch mixed with the sour sweat of four-lane fear instantly set the tone for Hand Cut Tour 2008. Together the three of us set off into the dark and lonely unknown for two and a half months of film, fun, and full-on true living. We are young. We have a dangerously cool car and an even more dangerously cool film. We have at least 8000 miles and innumerable couches ahead of us. This is our saga.