by Tina Basich
4. Hamstring stretch—Lie on your back and place a rope around the ball of one foot. Holding both ends of the rope, lift that leg as high as possible until you feel the stretch. Keep the rope taut and keep your heel aimed toward the ceiling. Keep your shoulders on the floor. Hold the stretch for 30 seconds and then switch legs and repeat. Do twice on each side.
5. Leg stretch—Sit on the floor with both legs stretched out to the sides. With your back straight, not curved, lean toward the floor, extending your arms out in front of you. Keep your neck and head in line with your straight back and hold the stretch for 30 seconds. Do this same motion leaning to each side, stretching your arms over your side and reaching for your foot. Hold 10 seconds and repeat each position twice.
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Copyright © John L. Kelly
Snowboarding in Alaska.
Copyright © Justin Hostynek/Absinthe Films
CHAPTER 14
ALASKA
Many people wonder why we do it, why we risk so much for what they think is only fame or money. Or risk so much for the ultimate powder run in the backcountry when avalanches could kill you. But all sports have their uncertainties. Snowboarding, like surfing, depends so much on conditions and the weather. Maybe that makes it so much more rewarding in the end—when you finally catch that perfect wave or find that untracked powder run. If it was as easy as going to the local wave pool or indoor ski resort I don’t think I would be there every day. Actually, I don’t think I would be there at all. It’s more than just going through the motions of the sport. Capturing all of those elements it takes to fly down the hill on a snowboard makes you feel so alive. Part of it is the search for that perfect moment when it all comes together. Only the ones who have truly experienced great Alaskan snow-boarding will tell you why they do it. It can change your life with a new perspective and simply just be the best time of your life.
In terms of pressure, there aren’t thousands of people standing there watching you—it’s usually only a filmmaker and a still photographer plus two other snowboarders who fit in the heli. But there’s the pressure to perform, Kodak Courage some call it, not only for myself but for my sponsors, because getting your shots in the next season’s snowboard video or in the magazines is as important as winning the X Games. Riding in Alaska is not cheap either. A typical day is around $750 for the helicopter time and hiring the guides. But this is my job and how I make my living. I think the real pressure is that you’re up against the natural hazards of Mother Nature. Which in an instant can take out your entire group and even the helicopter. Avalanches are real and what everyone fears most. Sometimes it’s hard to find the line of how far I should let it go. Risk management to the last degree. But professional athletes’ careers are short-lived, and I have to make my mark while I have the chance. There’s also the feeling that I can’t wimp out. I’m usually the only girl on a heli trip and I want to do every run the guys are doing to show that I can do it, too. This is a different kind of riding—out-of-bounds—and it’s important to show that girls don’t just rock it in the halfpipe or big air, but that we really do ride like the wind. With experience I learned to choose my days to push it or sometimes just walk away from the run. If I have a bad feeling about it, I’m not doing it. However, it can take a long time to learn to listen to your instincts. Sometimes it’s hard to judge that feeling right, and avalanches are unpredictable. My guide once told me, “The more I learn about avalanches, the more I realize I have yet to learn.”
If the conditions are right, Alaska is one of those places where you can be the very first to ride down an unknown mountain peak. And if you are the first person to make it down, you get the privilege of naming the mountain, like the ones that were named before such as Hangover Helper and Powder Cakes. I felt ready to face my biggest challenge in Alaska: completing my own first descent. I’m grateful that this moment came after my injury because I was a different, smarter person. My group was up there to shoot with Justin Hostynek for the next snowboarding video and we had photographers with us as well. That day, we were to going to a mountain that was pristine and untouched. We were scoping our lines from the helicopter when Justin’s voice came over my headphones in the helicopter, “Tina, do you want this one?” Looking out at this run, it felt right, and I knew that going first while filming with guys, particularly on a first descent, was a great opportunity. I said, “Sure, Justin, I’ll do it.”
One thing that’s clear in Alaska is that even if you do a first descent, the mountain is never your mountain. If you start thinking that way, Mother Nature has a way of smacking you across the face and humbling you to the size of a snowflake. Mother Nature always reminds you who’s in charge. And it can be so completely overwhelming. Alaska is bigger than pictures can show—and there are huge risks. The mountain is always moving, cracks forming in the snow, avalanche sounds like low thunder in the distance, and the weather is constantly changing.
When I was getting ready at the top of the mountain, there were so many things going through my head—would my equipment hold up, awareness of avalanches, and concentrating on not making a single mistake. I couldn’t. There was no room for a mistake on this one. Plus, I was going first and couldn’t blow it and mess up the line for the next guy. I was freezing but took off my gloves to make last-minute adjustments to my bindings to make sure they were tight. I wiped off my goggles and tightened them around my head to make sure I could see clearly, even though from where I was standing, I couldn’t see the bottom of the run. It was a bluebird day—what I could see was an entire mountain range that no one had ever stood on before. The wind was cold and sharp, but that wasn’t the only thing that caught my breath. I was being told by my guide on the radio strapped to my chest and tucked into my jacket that if the snow started to break off and the slough started to follow me, to keep riding to the right, which would lead me to an exit chute through the exposed rocks, and oh, by the way, don’t forget to ollie and jump over the crevasse at the very bottom.
Everything that I’d ever learned in snowboarding I had to use right then and be prepared for any kind of snow condition. It was unpredictable. But I was as prepared as I could be and had everything packed just right in my backpack—my shovel, probe, emergency blanket, extra fleece top, PowerBar, sunscreen, and water. I had to remember all of my previous experience in the backcountry and know how the snow shifts and moves and when to be light on my feet or cross-cut a bowl. I had to visualize my line and remember what I saw from the helicopter when it took me up the mountain and hovered for a few seconds fifteen minutes ago so I could scout my run. Sometimes you can see where you’re going, but more often than not the run is blind. I knew I might only be able to see a few turns in front of me and therefore would have to rely on my memory of the run or depend on the guide or photographer across the way to tell me on my radio where I should keep turning.
When I dropped in finally, I didn’t want to be totally gripped with fear because I knew from experience that I wouldn’t snowboard my best. It’s a hard balance to feel the adrenaline rush while being gripped and just wanting to get down the mountain. I knew the camera was on and I was being filmed as I made my first turns of the run. Knowing the faster I went, the better it would look on film, I picked up my speed and really went for it. The feeling of the untracked powder under my board as I was flying down the run was amazing. The glittering snowflakes flew in plumes off the side of my board as I made my turns. I could see every detail of the snow because it was a crystal clear bluebird day. Once in a while I would look out on the horizon and glimpse through my goggles the amazing view I saw from the top and would think about these ancient glaciers I was riding, then remember to be light, very light, and keep breathing. I knew the minute I let my guard down or thought everything was going OK, something enormous could happen. I was so small riding down this huge mountain and had to keep turning, remembering to look back every couple of seconds to see if any snow was moving with me.
Almost at the bottom, I felt
this incredible rush of having done a first descent. This was definitely one of the best powder runs of my entire life. When I got to the bottom, I sighed with relief that I’d made it down, and what an accomplishment! I named the mountain “T-top.” I looked back up at my turns and the run I just came down and could barely believe it. A smile crossed my face. I felt emotional, but the extraordinary feeling of relief that I had done it safely overpowered my emotions. I couldn’t tell if I was going to cry or laugh, and I just kept smiling.
We rode longer in the day because of the midnight sun, but seven unbelievable powder runs in a full day, from 8 A.M. to 8 P.M., plus the movement from flying in the helicopter, is enough to make you dizzy. I was totally exhausted and my mind was completely tapped. But there was nothing better than that feeling.
That time things were good and some people may think I was lucky. Since then, there have been near tragedies. One season was particularly bad. There had been a few people who had died up there and the snow conditions spooked everyone. I was there with our guides from Out of Bounds Adventures and filming with Justin, and we’d picked this line, scoped it out from the heli, along with the other riders in my group, Axel Pauporte and Mark Frank. We had decided the order of the run would be Justin first so he could go set up for the shoot, then Mark, Axel, and me. The helicopter dropped us off and we crouched down with our gear and waited for it to lift off. Right after the heli started to rise, our radios exploded with the voice of the helicopter pilot, “It’s gone, it’s gone! The whole thing is gone!” About seven feet away from where we were standing there was a fracture line going across the entire mountain where we had just scoped our lines. We couldn’t see any farther than this fracture line. Axel took one step forward to try to see what had happened and backed up quickly. He said the whole thing had slid—the entire mountain-side had avalanched.
The pressure from the heli blades just landing had released this fracture, called a climax fracture, which means it cracked off all the snow all the way down to the dirt, rock, and ice, sending the entire side of the mountain sliding all the way across the entire bowl. The avalanche had gone 3,500 feet down to the glacier below.
We stayed put and didn’t move; there was no other way down the mountain. There was no snow left to even ride. We had to wait for the helicopter to come back and pick us up. We were all very quiet and just waited. When the heli arrived, we loaded in and when it swung around the front of the mountain, we could see where our lines had been and there was nothing left. I gasped. It was a weird freaky feeling because if any of us had dropped into that bowl, it would have released and we would not have survived.
That was the first time that I could really feel in my gut the risk involved with riding in Alaska. We knew the risks, but seeing it right there just minutes before we were to ride down brought it all back into the forefront of my mind. It made me ask myself how much I was willing to risk. Am I willing to die for it? What the hell am I doing up here anyway? I kept going back and forth and thought about it constantly.
From then on, riding in Alaska was different for me. Every morning before I would leave my hotel room to head to the heli-pad, I would make sure it was organized and neat, just in case I didn’t come back. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want it to be too much work for the maid if it was messy. The fear of dying made it so hard to grab my snowboard and backpack and walk out the door for another day of heli snowboarding. It was hard to snap back into the right mind-set and feel confident enough in my riding that I could even do this. Sometimes I would still be talking myself into it at the top of the first run. I knew I had to be brave. Each night I would call home because my mom and dad were always waiting for my call.
Last spring in Alaska, I couldn’t have predicted what would happen. I thought at this point I was at the “less-risk” phase of my life, but of course, every time I think that, there’s another challenge. I’d just come back from recovering from an eye-socket fracture. I had been filming for a feature film called Keep Your Eyes Open ironically. I was doing a big-air jump—everyone wanted to film the 720. The snow was too soft and slow on the takeoff and when I landed, I crashed hard and bounced onto my face. I wasn’t able to drive for two weeks because I was seeing double. But when Justin called to film in Alaska, I pulled it together. My mother gave me essential oils that I applied daily and the swelling in my face had gone down and the black and blue was almost gone. Still, things were a little blurry, especially when I would get tired.
Threading my way through the crevasse field in Juneau, Alaska.
Copyright © Justin Hostynek/Absinthe Films
I flew into Alaska straight from launching our first Boarding for Breast Cancer event in Japan, complete with a bruised eye. It was a twelve-hour flight and I got off the plane in Haines, Alaska, at 11 A.M., and found myself in the Out of Bounds Adventures helicopter going up the mountain at two that afternoon. My film crew was Justin, along with Axel and Yannick, who were top big-mountain riders from France. Riding that day was probably not the smartest thing to do, but I wanted some of those runs so badly and I had called in several times from Japan about the weather in Haines and heard it was clearing up and they were flying. So there I was. At the top of the run, tired and a little blurry, but Justin was going to film me going down this finger chute that was narrow but a great run that I knew I could do. It was super steep and the snow conditions changed my third turn into the run and it just bucked me unexpectedly and I started to tumble. I flipped head over heels once, then twice, trying to stop my momentum the whole time. The run was too steep and now I was cartwheeling head over heels down the entire mountain. I remember at this point covering my head with my hands when I fell. I couldn’t see anything. It was the worst fall I’ve ever taken. At the bottom, I finally came to a stop. I thought, Holy shit, I’m so glad that’s over with. I looked back up at the run and realized that I had just missed hitting rocks by a couple of feet and was lucky that I didn’t tumble over any cliffs. I was jet-lagged but was now wide awake. I’d never taken a fall like that before and it hit me that I could have just died. It spooked me and I knew I couldn’t ride in this frame of mind, so I flew home the next day.
My instincts have also kicked in at just the right moment and saved my life. Again, I was filming with Justin and came down the first run of the day, and on my third turn, I could feel the snow shift and saw this huge crack shoot out in either direction right under my board. I knew it was an avalanche. I had to get out of there and quickly rode to the right of the slope, which was where we had scoped our safe zone and the only exit if trouble started. From my safe zone, I watched as the slab of snow funneled down the chute I had been riding. If I hadn’t exited when I did, I would have had no other choice but to try and outrun the slide. It was a blind run and I couldn’t see that it had triggered into an entire avalanche. In my panic to contact my guide, I somehow turned off my radio and thought my batteries had died. The only person in voice range from where I was stuck was Yannick, who was at the bottom of the run and off to the right. Unfortunately, he speaks French and only a little English. He yelled up at me, “Come down, come down, Tina!” and motioned with his hands where I should ride, so I’d take some turns and stop and try to follow his hands. As soon as I could see the safe line down the rest of the mountain, I rode as fast as I could out of there. We continued on with our day of filming, and I tried not to let it affect my mind-set, but it was there.
I didn’t see the footage that Justin had shot of the avalanche until three months later. In the film you can see this whole mountain moving with snow, pluming over cliffs as it travels down the chute. And there I am, this little speck in the frame waiting over to the right above some rocks, watching it all happen. It was scary to watch and it brought chills and made me nervous all over again. I had no idea it was that big of a slide. Alaska can make you feel so small and then in the next instant, after an incredible run, you can feel bigger than life.
Managing that calculated risk takes a weird balance.
We’ve always had excellent guides up there and have been willing to risk a little bit. I say now, it’s worth part of the risk. I was definitely in situations where if it had avalanched out I would have been stuck with no safe zone to go to, no exit chute, rocks exposed. When I think of some of the risky runs I’ve had in Alaska, I sometimes wonder, “What was I thinking?” But when you ride your best, leaving Alaska gives you that sense of having survived accompanied by a sense of accomplishment. It’s such a weird zone to be in when you have to be at your peak performance level. You need to be as confident as possible but humble, because of where you are and what you’re about to do. I’m not an adrenaline junkie and not in it for the rush. I’m not the crazy adrenaline type of athlete. I do it more for the soulful feeling of going down the mountain and having done something thought impossible. That’s what gets me to keep going back.
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a day of helicopter snowboarding
Just being around a helicopter is dangerous. Any heli-ski service will make you go through an orientation to learn the rules and proper etiquette of being around a helicopter. This is so important because one person can make a mistake and it can be a disaster for the whole group. A flyaway hat can get caught in the rotor blades and cause a helicopter to crash. A helicopter is a delicate piece of machinery.
The sound of a heli starting up gives me a rush of excitement because it means I’m going for some powder runs. Even the smell of the fuel can get my adrenaline flowing. I love sitting in the front of the helicopter with the guide and the pilot. I usually luck out with that seating position because I’m usually the lightest weight in the group and need to be toward the front of the ship. In Alaska, you just point to a mountain and the pilot will take you there. The pilot will hover in front of the run so each rider can scope out a line and get a good look at it before we head to the top to get dropped off. We even take Polaroid pictures to help remember the runs when we get to the top. Often the runs are completely blind, meaning all you can see from the top is the mountain just rolling away into nothing. You can’t see your whole run to the bottom. Those are the scariest runs and you really have to trust your judgment and remember your point of reference, like a rock or cornice. Sometimes you can have the filmer (who is usually set upacross the valley) guide you into the correct chute by radio. The backcountry is so unpredictable, so we always have a guide with us to help us decide the safest lines and what to expect from the snow conditions. Because of avalanche dangers we always pick the islands of safety before we drop in to a run. These are areas that are safe from avalanches, like a group of trees or below a rocky area of the mountain. If you start an avalanche on the run, you ride to the nearest island of safety to get out of the way. Heli-snowboarding is not cheap—a typical heli day is around $750. But if you can save up and get your friends together to do it, it can be the most memorable riding of your life.