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Hello Tim,
I have lived in
Alaska since August of 1980. My first winter as a cheechako was
spent at Top Camp on Cape Newenham AFS as a civilian Radar
technician working on the USAF Advanced Early Warning Radar
System. It was a mighty long and brutal winter, with winds well
over 100mph on a fairly regular basis. But in early Spring of
1981, I made the acquaintance of a guy nicknamed Crazy Joe, a
transplanted Texican. Joe had worked out there for a few years
and had brought two complete sets of downhill skis, boots, and
poles. Being a bit crazy myself from living with three
alcoholics in a tin box topped by a giant golfball with no
breaks for five months, I offered to buy one of the two sets
from Joe.
Our routine was
to tell George (the site manager) we were going up to check the
cables on the open air tram…then we would trek across the saddle
sitting 2000 feet above Bottom Camp, kicking footholds in the
frozen crust up the ridgeline to the top of Ol’ Jagged, a mere
4-hour journey. And when we reached the widest of three
avalanche chutes, we would sit down, pull on our (old-fashioned)
leather ski boots, kick the cornice off and flip a coin. Winner
got to go first. It was insane but the three minute screamer
was a huge adrenaline rush, much akin to leaping out of a good
airplane with no parachute.
I nearly had to
retire those skis later that Spring...one day in early May 1981,
I had emerged from the dome to find sparkling skies and
temperatures in the twenties – and best of all, the wind had
STOPPED after three weeks with no mail or fresh supplies from
Bottom Camp. I spotted a Twin Otter landing far below – and
knew it was too good to miss this opportunity.
I hauled the
skis out the back door of the radome, and followed the gradually
descending ridge toward the ocean. It was a four mile trip and
one I had enjoyed before on at least three other descents. As I
skied across the face of a rounded peak, just 50 feet from the
top of the ridge, I heard a ghastly sound…KAWHUMPF! I cranked
my head around and a two foot crack was about to make me do the
splits. God was not ready for me to check in that day. Without
reasoning it out, I got the skis off my feet, and jumped up and
over the 8-foot rock wall I had been skiing below. How did I do
it? I still don’t know. But what I witnessed next freaked me
out pretty bad. There were huge rectangles of snow eight
to ten feet thick tumbling and sliding down the mountain below
where I had been only moments before.
A year later I
was attending the University of Alaska in Anchorage (I’d left
the Cape and gave up a gravy job). My wife and I met Todd Miner
and Bill Babcock, instructors of the Arctic Winter Survival
classes taught there. Later I joined the Alaska Mountain Rescue
Group, and learned about avalanche safety from Doug Fessler. We
climbed for a few more years, advancing to crevasse rescue and
other valuable mountaineering skills. I have a much healthier
respect for the Mountains now. And I encourage the people we
meet to get trained before they head into the back country.
Scott Turney |
