Getting Bakered
If the 9,127 foot Mt. Shuksan doesn't do it for you, with its crags, crap-your-pants chutes and clear blue glacial ice, turn around and peek at the endless North Cascadian lines stripped down to their skivvies for 360 degrees around you.
Maybe Baker's about legendary Northwest fixtures of past and present like Jamie Lynn, Mike Ranquet and Craig Kelly, who cemented their reputations there. When Lynn, decked out in a tie-dyed jacket, rounded his first bank out of the fabled start shack at the 2007 Legendary Banked Slalom, every female snowboarder on the mountain crowded the fences to ogle his every turn.
Terje. Temple. Barrett. Tom Burt. DCP. Iguchi. Victoria. Trice. There's a reason these pharaohs of the slough flock to little ol' Mt. Baker every February. But aside from lore stretching from Colorado to New York, all I'd personally seen of the LBS was footy from Platinum, the DVD documentary based on the race.
The spectacle at the top of the natural halfpipe was not out of any movie, though. Before ascending Chair 5 in the rain and low-lying clouds, I had no idea what I was in for beyond the rumors (there's a tunnel!) I heard from my Mt. Baker B&B mates, Hagen and Harry Kearney, 15 and 13, of the Aspen Valley Ski Club (who, coincidentally, held on to the top spots in the Juniors category all weekend). I was informed that deep sludge was taking people out on the low-line of the home pitch and that I should expect mayhem on turn five.
The way my cracked-out nerves were feeling Friday morning, you would have thought I was expecting blind, 100-foot mandatory airs and fire-breathing jaguars and gypsies to chase me down the 3000-foot course. People that don't do contests (but live for this contest) had come from all corners to break the sound barrier over the weekend, and the tension in the start shack line-up was unshakable.
As soon as the 9:30 a.m. course inspection came to an end, however, I was convinced that this was the greatest course ever built for playing snowboards (okay, mountains are pretty rad, too), and yes, the Baker race crew did build a freakin' tunnel to funnel everybody through.
When I finally did get a real, live run in, the snow conditions had changed considerably from the cold, foggy morning. The sun had somehow broken through the cloud forest, warmed and softened the snow and, like going to the prom naked, I found out I had on the wrong wax. Blue was not the color of the day, and I took the slow ride because of it. Whoops.
The night before my last chance qualifier, Radio Boardshop co-owner and Pro Man division 21st-placer Travis McLain gave me some good words over a North Fork pizza. "You gotta go full-bore," he said with a wild look in his eyes. Open the throttle wide and gun it. "This isn't the place to half-bore it."
I believed him, and my fortune cookie from the pizza place seemed to say it all. Your natural talents will be recognized and you will be suitably rewarded.
On Saturday, I was ready—locked and loaded. Travis sprinkled pixie dust and yellow wax on my Barrett Pro, Barrett and I high-fived each other good luck and I passed through the shop-class-vinyl curtain into the start shack to await my cue from Amy Howat, contest co-organizer and Baker marketing co-director.
And I went over-bore. It must have been the glass of 'roids I drank for breakfast, but I slid out on my ass around the first goddamn bank. There went that pressure. Bummer city.
I hung on to all those G's throughout the rest of the course, was thankful I had spent the majority of the last month hiking hills, still almost passed out at the bottom and blew it anyway.
No finals for this girl this year. But that just means I have something to come back for next year. That, and by the time my jitters were gone (thanks to those aforementioned Pabst draughts), I didn't even get to hike anything above Hemispheres. A big congrats and high-fives all around to Maelle Ricker, Victoria Jealouse and Gretchen Bleiler, who took the top spots for the ladies, and Lucas DeBari, Seth Wescott and Nate Holland, who rounded out the men's honors.
There's definitely unfinished business in the Cascades. Assuming the rain holds out, I'll be skating Vancouver's Hastings Bowl or one of Jim Barnum's fine Canadian 'crete designs before the day is out. Until next year (assuming the lovely Howat sisters let me come back), I'll be taking solace, once back in my snow-less Northeastern metropolis, knowing that wild salmon and fondue taste better at altitude, Seth Wescott machs corners like a '67 Camaro, Pat A. doesn't drop a beat all weekend and I survived the Banked Slalom and all I got was a badass hoodie and memories to tide me over for another year.
