Winter Call (Summer Ski Apology)

Dad (Kris Burhardt) and Majka Day 1 outside of El Bolson ArgentinaI am not a hoarder. Or at least not of material things. But I might have to confess to being a recent hoarder of snow. And for that, I’m sorry.

Today, December 11^th, 2012, I took a hike in the White Mountains and watched yesterday’s thin layer of white turn to clear liquid in the span of an hour. My skis—touring, downhill, classic and skate—are lined up in my garage ready to go. Like most of the northern hemisphere I am ready to ski. But I might be the reason why so few of us are actually getting to shred the gnar.

Here is my confession. I went south to ski and now the north is paying. In my defense, it was for a good cause. My dad turned 70 this year and one of ways we celebrated was to go skiing in Tierra Del Fuego. My father is ski obsessed and it seemed the best way to support him on his birthday was to indulge more obsession. We planned the trip, got tickets, and it all felt normal until I started sweating in my gear room from the heat and humidity of a near 90-degree NH day when packing my winter gear. I’m not a stranger to making the opposite travel/life/outfit choice compared to others around me, but when I hauled my ski bag through the airport terminal surrounded in flip flop clad fellow travellers I felt like a superior idiot—as in like my ego wanted to feel superior but reality showed me I was an idiot.

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Armenia Bound

In conjunction with Patagonia's The Cleanest Line and Kate Rutherford

Any climbing trip starts with a conversation. Kate and mine went something like this.

Kate: “What’s your fall look like?”
Majka: “October’s wide open.”
Both of us: “Want to go somewhere good?”

The basalt columns of Armenia. Photo: Gabe RogelWe considered Norway but were scared off by the rain; Germany was a strong contender but neither of us wanted to drink that much beer; and as crack climbers (aka sport climbing on tufas feels demoralizing) we were seeking a new ascetic in both the climbing lines and the surrounding culture.

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The Original Risk Taker

It’s 11:00 in New Hampshire, which means it’s 10:00 in Minneapolis, which means my grandmother’s funeral has just begun. I’m not there. I’m here. I wrote her obituary and it ran in today’s Star and Tribune. It wasn’t the whole story. Actually, I’m wrong—it was. It gave a complete picture of my grandma. But I need my picture. 

The night my grandma had a stroke, an interview I did with Jonathan Fields was released. In it, he asked me about risk and what makes risk worth it. We talked about how far is too far and what is acceptable and unacceptable risk in climbing and in life. He asked me where I picked up this penchant for exploring the edge of risk. I gave him the wrong answer in the interview; I should have said my grandmother.

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Drafting Dad

Dad, aka Kris Burhardt, out in frontOne day, I will beat my dad at something. I’m 35. He is 70. It hasn’t happened yet. I thought I had his number when I had him out to New Hampshire to go bike riding and canoeing. Our day one bike agenda was 42 miles and 1,500’ feet of elevation gain, and I had a home court advantage. Plus, he was in bike sandals rather than shoes and had a too-long stem on a rental bike with sticky gears. He also wanted to carry a pack, in which I would, at mile eleven, place my jacket.

Let’s back up.  I don’t want to beat my father in malevolent way. It’s not even about winning. It’s more about matching him in some way. I’ve had a life of shared activity with my dad and I have yet to see him try. He is like the Polish Yoda. He just does.

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8 Lessons Learned During the Non-Climbing Days on a Climbing Trip in Europe

Photo by Peter DoucetteWhen you’ve waited 35 years to go to Italy, the wine, pasta, meat and cheese will be just as good as you imagined.

When you’ve waited 35 yeas to go to Italy, you will likely have overestimated the amount of wine, pasta, meat and cheese that is reasonable to consume.

My Garmin Nuvi has a search setting for “Winery.”

It’s best to only use the Winery search setting on your Photo by Peter Doucetterest days.

If you are a real South-Tryol Italian, you have your own meat slicer at home.

If you are not a real South Tyrol Italian, but you are visiting one, it is possible to over-speck yourself, at home.

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