I stood at the pinnacle. Well, a pinnacle of sorts. I mean, we were pretty far above sea level and the peak directly under us was the highest point on the path we took.
This was a different sort of pinnacle; it had many dimensions, angles really, if only one physical place. Depending on the lens one decided to peer through, this time and place could be interpreted in multiple ways. But for the version of me standing there back then, there was only the anticipation of stepping into something that was just right. There was no need to think about alternatives, and backing out wasn’t even an available option. All that mattered was the right mentality and the series of movements that were going to safely get us from top to bottom.
We were aware of the dangers, sure, but, for us, it was about mitigating risk. We didn’t need to consider how we were going to mitigate each risk and reach the bottom. We’d all already done that thousands of times. We were meant to be here. I was meant to be here
A cold breeze passed through the skeletal trees as we stood there waiting. As my friends finished their preparations, I was sucked back down to reality.
It was the final day of New Years weekend on one of the many slopes in Hakuba, Nagano. It’d been explained to me that this day, this day was going to be the real treat. We were going to do something only one in our group had done before, and most boarders would shank someone in order to gain the knowledge.
Snowboarders aren’t known to be a territorial bunch, at least not the ones I know, but we can be secretive for good reason (a painful lesson learning that). Not openly calling attention to secluded spots of secret backcountry goodness is definitely in your best interest. Especially in a country where perfectly safe backcountry runs are everywhere but officially closed off, permanently. Of course, there’s never a need to be a dick about it.
The day had started early. After a light breakfast of onigiri (a rice ball with magic inside), premade sandwiches and jet fuel coffee, we’d headed to the first destination: a quiet road curving around ****k* (Lake ****) where we parked our four cars/ vans (for five solitary riders) at the base of an abandoned ski-jo (ski resort).
Sure we’d all seen the ravine snaking down the other side of the mountain every time we entered this bastion of Japanese winter sports and leisure activities. But, few people ever got beyond wondering at the origins of that ravine head.
There was certainly more than just mild anticipation coiled in my stomach this morning.
“Yo! Why the fuck we parked here? The resort is way over there…” I chimed in.
“That’s because this is where we’re going to end up,” a tall friend replied, “We start way the fuck over there.”
That was when the anticipation transformed into mild angst. The same had happened the day before when we’d dropped in at another off-piste area, but today was somewhat heavier, more intense. Maybe it was the way that solitary ravine looked in morning light as we looked at it from the bottom, alone and secluded. Yet, now it stuck out, beckoning any and all intrepid riders who dared to attempt it. In a weird way, I felt as if we were marked by our desire to access it, and that anyone who looked at us would see our intent writ all over our faces. We had become shining beacons to anyone looking for troublemakers and rope jumpers.
Surely, our thoughts weren’t projected out for all to read and no one could actually enter to the closed-off realms of our thoughts. We wouldn’t get caught.
Back on the pinnacle some 40 min later, I stared back at my tall friend and said, “Ah, so this is where we start,” chagrin obvious.
“Yes, this is where we start. But, not before we compai.”
I looked down at the 45-degree slope; it’s quiet unknown stretching ominously before me. I glanced back up to my friend who held the glass pipe in my face.
“So, are you in or out?”
An unassuming way to put an open-ended question.
“Fuck yeah, I’m in.”
“This is serious shit. No backing out. We’re kind of letting you in here…”
“No man, I’m game. I’m ready.”
Whatever reservations I had about doing serious backcountry, without “proper training”, went out the window with this invitation. The chance to cane some untouched powder in new places was far too tempting, and to be shown the way by this group of snowboarders was a special opportunity. Plus, they were/ are all stand up people.
The first night of our trip, we sat around a table drinking Asahi and chu-hai while looking at a topographical map.
“I know you can get out of there,” said one friend pointing to a place on the map.
“Yeah, but I believe the dam is right here, so we either continue hard right around the dam this way. Or, go left here and traverse a long, exposed flat bit. Small chance of getting spotted by patrol there,” said the shortest among us.
“Well, we’ll just stick together for the first run. Try to go left because the out is less work than going right,” said the tall friend.
The next day at T*******, as we went up the gondola, we discussed at length our plans to inconspicuously enter the back area without garnering too much attention. Yet, the closer we got to the top, the less attention span I had.
We’d had a smoke break in the room before heading to the mountain and another one on the gondola. I was paranoid about being the one caught by patrol, but I was fully aware that I was over thinking things. My anxiety ebbed and anticipation settled in. Slipping into the zone, the planning fell to background noise. I was over it. The only thought in my head was a scrolling marquee saying, Ride the pow. Ride the pow. Ride…
After quickly exiting the top-most chairlift, we skirted around the top for maybe a few hundred feet, pulled up around a blind spot and scrabbled to the drop in point. Once in, we traversed a long way around the side of the mountain on a thin path tracked out by other adventurers.
Halfway to our second and final drop in point, we came across a large slab of snow and ice, about a meter thick and maybe 100’ across, that had slid off the side of the mountain. Someone, a boarder had fallen off the ridge above into the space created by the missing slab of snow and ice. But, seeing that he was all right and his friends were attending to him, we quickly moved on.
With that untouched powdery goodness somewhere in front of us, we had no time for shenanigans.
We finally came around to the second drop in point and I looked down into new, pristine white powder that covered a steep landscape of perfectly spaced trees and big puffy pillows. It went on forever. This was no 3–4 minute ride. No, you could probably squeeze 8, 10, maybe 15 minutes out of this ride (alright, 15 min is a bit of an exaggeration… Maybe).
While I’d had rides physically like this one before, this particular ride has stuck with me until now, years later. My mentality, sense of self, sense of place, sense of pure tranquility, and control of my own body hadn’t been this right since my heyday in the martial arts. No doubt the drugs helped flavor my awareness of all this, but this ride was like a new sentence after the period. A period that put an end to a few bitter years of unemployment, a messy breakup, job insecurity, and an epic change of jobs. I was finally fucking free of that turbulent pervious sentence (that I, admittedly, had a hand in writing), and it was time to relish in my fresh start. You know, write a really good sentence, whatever the metaphor requires.
Now, sadly, no honest description of this ride can be given. Besides, my brain has probably embellished the flavor of this recall, hyperbolized the emotions I felt… Suffice to say, that my spirit-cock was in the throes of orgasm all day, and somewhere between the beginning and end of that first ride, I started repeating the mantra, this is my church, my board is my altar.
I took a big hit off my friend’s pipe and held it.
We each started dropping off the 15’ ledge, one by one, to the untouched playground below. As I dropped in, I expelled my fatigue, anxiety, and a lung full of smoke. This was it. We were a 35–40 min hike from the top chair-lift and once we entered this secluded ravine, we’d be on our own until we entered the old ski resort somewhere below. Then we’d huddle into one of the cars parked along the road, drive back, and do it all over again. Each time down became a frantic struggle to reduce our time off the mountain.
As I made my way down the ravine that first run, I tried to slip into the same zone from the day before, but I was too preoccupied. I made a few turns before stopping by a tree and looking straight down. I could neither see my friends, nor hear them. The ravine was huge and went far over this way and that, bigger than I’d expected.
Fucking idiot, I thought to myself, what are you doing back here?
All the sudden, our isolation from civilization and help became acid in my gut. Quickly my brain maneuvered around and turned my paralysis into a self-deprecating tirade. Are you kidding me? You don’t belong here, but there’s no fucking way to climb up. That last thought not even a serious one. I was sweating under my gear. I just need to go. I need to go down and stop thinking about it. You’re only going to have a bad ride if your let yourself have one.
I looked down slope again and heard this “Woohoo!” from behind me. One of my friends flew off a pillow to the right of me, “This is fucking insane!” he yelled as he shot passed me. I smiled and pointed my board down slope. As I started to go, I turned my headphones on. All was right with the world and I was in the right place.
I went down a few hundred feet, taking faster turns but then stopping. I was still unsure.
I could feel my id shaking its head at me, disappointed. “Fucking pathetic,” it seemed to be saying.
I just needed to go for it.
As I went for it, I flew off a pillow, lost my footing on the landing and shot off 10’-12’ ledge, head first, into deep snow. Since I was on such a steep slope, my momentum carried me forward into the sitting position, 20’ or so from a tree. My head had hardly made a mark going in the snow.
“Holy shit, M****-boy, that was an epic crash. You all right?” said the friend who’d passed me earlier. How the fuck had he gotten behind me again?
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Aw man! I was taking piss by a tree back up there and I saw you fly off that jump. Epic!” Ah, that’s how he’d gotten behind me.
Laughing, I told him I was fine and he continued on. I stood up and stared at the tree I’d come short of hitting and shook my head. Good thing I invested in that helmet.
I watched my friend make some turns until he disappeared on the other side of a jump. I turned my music off and just listened to the quiet of the ravine. I even took some pictures. As I resituated my gear, all the tension left my body and my legs no longer felt like water.
After my moment, I shot breakneck down the ravine until I saw an old, out-of-commission chairlift below me. My four intrepid friends were hanging out, scanning the untouched, gently sloping run spread out before us.
“How was that shit?” The tall friend said with a big grin on his face.
“That was some seriously dope shit,” I replied nodding my head. Now that I’d made it down, I pushed my experience at the top of the ravine far back into my mind. I just needed to get down once.
“Awesome. Well, let’s cane this green run here and get back to the cars. On our way back through, we’ll get some pictures of our lines.” It’s not like anyone was going to track them out.
Truth be told, I never quite got my legs back that day. In the 8 hours we were at the ski resort, we made it up and down a total of 9 times (didn’t stop for lunch, just ate on and off throughout the day). It was almost an hour from beginning to end, but we’d made time throughout the day by not stopping for lunch. I was almost hoping we’d vote to quit, but it was passing hope. My legs were done, but with one more smoke break on the final gondola ride, we all found the energy to burn through that final run.
Of course, the dog-tired fatigue is worth it in such mountainous locales as there are magic natural hot baths, onsen, everywhere. And, when I say magic, I mean it. We brought in some alcohol, as is sometimes the custom, and swam nude in glittering midnight pools of sulfurous water, with other naked men. Little anime fairies flew around, offering drinks and special flavors. The magic is real, friends. I’ve seen it.
Drifting in the hot waters, my mind considered the implications of the trip, while some when else, future me ascribed pretentious and privileged metaphors to old dusty memories.
I remember those fairies. Surely I didn’t imagine them, as I’m not imagining that pinnacle. I was really there. But, I can’t help but judge that memory in this way: what I discovered on the first day of the trip was fleeting and ephemeral. The epic grandeur and weighty implications of an event can’t always shape the person. It’s the current composition of a dynamic mind that dictates how experiences play out and how they’ll be interpreted in the future.