For those of us who haven’t found the perfect soul mate with whom to share fine vistas while celebrating the accomplishments of Saint Valentine, I wrote a little love letter. My thought was that I’d rather focus on the things that bring me giddy joy rather than grudgingly celebrating “Singles Awareness Day.” So for those Spreading Stokesters out there, I present this Valentine.

XOXO Love, 
Lexi 

Last fall, Caroline Gleich and I met and bounced around ideas of video projects for the coming winter.  Over plates of delicious Middle Eastern food at Mazza’s in Salt Lake City, we discussed our plans, goals, and thoughts about the ski season.  While we were full of ideas, we were also short on free time and a budget.  I ate some pita bread and thought of what we could do.  Caroline wanted to make a video focusing on her training regime.  I had a lot of commitments over the winter, but I had a kernel of an idea for a video.  A few more servings of muhamara and loobia later and we’d come up with a plan.  We just needed to shoot some video before the snows hit and then meet again a few months later to get some on-snow shots.

The next week, we met again in SLC and over the course of one day we were able to shoot video of Caroline running in the foothills, working out at the gym, and hiking at Snowbird Resort.  It was a long, fun day, and I knew I captured a lot of great shots.  We said goodbye and wished each other all the best during the upcoming ski season.  I threw together a quick assembly edit to make sure I had all the shots I needed, then I moved on to other gigs and didn’t think much about our unfinished project.

Between Caroline’s world travels and my own “schedule restrictions” (aka – other obligations that required skiing), we couldn’t choose a day to meet until April.  Unfortunately, the weak snow year was also deciding to give up the ghost and leave us even earlier than usual.  As we talked about our plans, the prospect of running out of snow was very real.  Luckily, two late season storms hit and gave us the saving grace of a new layer of snow.  Then, almost immediately after it fell, this white goodness started to melt, too.

As we drove up the Little Cottonwood Canyon I noticed the buds on the maple trees opening up.  The canyon was a sea of glowing green.  Beautiful, but not what I needed to capture some “on snow” shots.  I was worried we’d waited too late in the season.  One mile down the canyon from Snowbird the snow coverage was still sketchy and I was still worried.  A couple more miles up the canyon and we parked at the base of Mt Superior.  Caroline pointed at the approach and the chute she wanted to ski.  It looked great!  The cruel sun didn’t have a clear shot, with it so nicely nestled at a bit over 8,000 ft we found our perfect location.

It was a short morning skin and boot pack followed by a short ski back down.  The video came together rather quickly at that point.  It attempts to showcase not only the work that goes into training for Caroline’s physically demanding adventures into the mountains, but her thoughts about why she is always in pursuit of Type 2+ fun.  Enjoy!

Caroline Gleich: carolinegleich.com
video by Chris Morgan: twosherpas.com
music by Steve Gibbs: stevegibbsmusic.com

This trip was a sobering one for both me and my climbing partner, Jason. Both of us have rather gung-ho attitudes about most of the things we do, and this was not the correct approach for Mount Larrabee. Described as a Class 3 Scramble, it’s supposed to be a moderate to low danger trek up a small vein of quartz in a ravine to the top. Unfortunately for us, we began our approach on a much different route. We began clambering up the South East Ridge, seeings as there was a fairly worn trail headed that way from our camp.

After about a half hour of climbing, we realized that we may have made a bad decision on our choice of route. Around an hour and a half in, we found ourselves on a very near-vertical face, with about a 200 meter traverse to our left to where we could see the correct route up the ravine and a rather sizable (200-300 foot) drop beneath us. Slowly but surely, we edged across the face and finally were able to drop into our correct route.

The iron-rich rock of Larrabee has a very pretty red color, but makes for incredibly brittle and treacherous chunks of rock that pull loose without warning; many such chunks fell towards us from above without even being touched. Throughout the entire climb, all it would have taken for one of us to fall (and probably die) would have been a foot hold popping loose. Luckily no such incident happened, and Jason and I had a very rewarding view at the top with a more surefire route to get down. The North Cascades have never looked so beautiful as they did from 7,868 feet with a pretty lucrative ascent in our back pockets; nothing makes you realize how small you are like a mountain.

My time moves pretty slow most of the time.  I’m the guy that checks you into your hotel. I say hi to you, and send you on your way.  You just came from a tough meeting.  The weather forced you off the interstate.  Your toddlers are freaking nuts.  Regardless of why I’m checking you into my hotel, you don’t want to talk to me and I’m man enough to admit that.

But, if you came up to me and asked what really got me going, I wouldn’t say I loved working in a hotel.  I would say I worked in a hotel in order to support my mountain lifestyle.  I do a little bit of everything; skiing, mountain biking, kayaking…you name it.  My coworkers think I’m weird because my jeep is always muddy and smelling like wet boots.  My boss wonders why I always have the weather report up on my computer desktop.  Guests at the hotel wonder how I know all the best local hiking spots.  Yes ma’am, I can find you a place where you won’t run into any other tourists.  Put away your iphone and write down these directions.  There is no GPS signal where you’re going.  

My point is that you have no idea what might get somebody else through the day unless you ask.  I spend my time at work looking out the window at the mountains.  I beg departing guests in ski pants to take me with them.  Most of the time they just look at me and laugh.  You’re the kid behind the hotel desk.  Indeed I am.

However, a job pays the bills, and a passion gets you through the hours.  Some people are lucky enough to have both wrapped into one, and I applaud them.  Some people live vicariously through the pros, and never get off their sofa.  And then some of us punch out on the time clock and sprint for the door; desperate to get a new coat of mud on that jeep.

To the sofa sitters; find the passion in your life.  You owe it to yourself.  To the guest scoffing in the ski pants; I will beat you down the mountain old man.  And to the outdoor community; You are an inspiration that gets me through the work week.  Thank you.

Stay Stoked

The first experience I had being new in town was three and a half years ago when I moved to New Orleans for school. After an hour in the soupy humidity, I immediately felt like an outsider. I hadn’t gained the 10 pounds New Orleanians consider your “credibility”, I couldn’t spell Tchoupitoulas street let alone tell you where it was, and I wasn’t sure about the function of a “go-cup” (turns out that one’s pretty self explanatory).Luckily, the lack of open container laws in the city enables you to walk down the street toting a cooler on wheels full of beer, essentially screaming, “I’m the kind of person you want to be friends with”. As a result, feeling new only lasted a little while. Three and a half years later (and sure enough, 10 pounds more credible) after graduating, I was absolutely heartbroken to leave the city and the people that became my home.

Being new in Park City is a little different, especially sans cooler on wheels. Not only have I not yet mastered all of the vocabulary that rolls off the tongues of veterans of the mountains, but also there is no longer anything about me that screams, “be my friend!” Despite these minor setbacks, what I’ve realized over the eleven days I’ve been in town is that there is an equalizer here much larger than a twelve-pack in an icy cooler. The mountains are something we all share. As the new girl my first true powder day looked a lot more like sitting my way down the mountain than skiing—definitely NOT spreading any sort of stoke. But when I got to the bottom (nine years later) my brother was still proud of me because I had embraced one of the challenges that the place I get to call home has to offer. I began to understand more and more that no matter if you started wearing skis the moment you could stand on your own two feet, prefer to hike, or simply get to see the views during your morning commute, the mountains belong to everyone. And as a result, everyone is able to belong in the mountains.

Soooooooo here’s some phoots from my recent trip to the mountainous Everest base camp in Nepal.

Stunning photography from a trek into the Everest base camp in Nepal.

There are days that I find myself craving the winding, rolling, hairpin traverses of the single track.  I am a runner, but I am not the type of runner who trains on a schedule or races towards goals.  Ney. I am a runner that loves the freedom I feel when I am zipping past overgrown meadows, or swinging Tarzan style on low lying branches, or launching myself to do side kicks off some rollies (must be the skier in me).  I run to be free.  I have no training schedule, no timers, no watches, and no idea of how far I am going to run that day.  Just running for hours. Well mostly running.

When I get to a trailhead, my regimen usually consists of lacing up my kicks, turning on that perfect playlist and then hitting the dirt.  Here is my dirty little secret: I find myself being pulled into the music and the trail so much I break out and start dancing.  Yeah, that’s right.  Dancing.  Even for a few seconds just to drop the beat and then I am pounding the dirt again.  It has become an addiction.  I find myself doing handstands, popping off tree stumps, using trees as imaginary dance partners; you name it.  By the time I know it, a few hours have gone by and I feel glorious! It’s as if the trail has a story to tell and I am its evolution witnessing the changing scenery and discovering what’s just around that corner.  I am celebrating the journey.  It is here that I have found my happy place.

It hasn’t always been this way.  I used to run on a training schedule, with watches to measure my pace and with a goal in mind.  Rarely, did I finish a run with the biggest shit-eating grin on my face. It felt like work.  Lately, that smile is guaranteed and instead of work it feels like play. The craving I get is not a craving for the physical act of running. It’s a craving for the experience, the feeling I get when I am in that mode, in that place, getting lost in the magic of the trail.