Pro Guiding Service - Worlds in Collision

Even at the car, their differences clash. Out of the vehicle come Steve Barnett's Kazama Outbacks (mounted with Salomon SNS Backcountry bindings) and his Salomon Greenland boots--the skis are effortlessly one-handed, the boots feel like a book rather than a brick. This is followed by Martin Volken's rig: K2 El Camino's skis (mounted with Silvretta 404 randonnee bindings) and Raichle Concordia boots--to keep that load from tweaking my back, I bend deep in the knees before lifting.

The two examine each other's gear with interest and you hear the undercurrent in their questions. To Volken, one of a handful of fully-certified Swiss mountain guides living in the U.S. (and owner of Pro Guiding Service), Barnett's tools are a smidgeon (perhaps 6 pounds worth) too light. On this North Cascadian traverse up cirque glaciers, over the shoulders of rock minarets, down steep gully systems, and along cliff-banded hillsides, bad-news snow conditions could bring out the weaknesses (possibly even fatal ones) of tackling heavy-duty terrain on ridiculously light gear.

To Barnett--one of the prophets who introduced this nation to turning cross-country skis with his 1970s book Cross-Country Downhill Skiing and one of the early voices telling North Americans where to take their tele skis in his book Best Ski Tours in North America--Volken has fallen off the heavy end of the spectrum and is a mule to his gear. On this trip that is 20% technical hurdles and 80% calorie output, leaden gear is not only an anchor that makes it difficult to capitalize on those brief windows of favorable mountain weather but a damper deadening the freedom of movement, the kinetic joy of feeling snow melt underfoot.

Now a debate rages over what we'll tote. "Don't think we'll need the rope," says Barnett. He's handling a 5 millimeter kevlar rope that tips the scale at two pounds. "If you carry a rope you're not going to need, this is the one to have. But if we bring this, we'll need harnesses, prusiks, carabiners, pulleys... That makes this rope pretty heavy."

Volken looks skeptical. As a ski guide, he's paid to insure the safety of his clients, and to actually complete the objective he's hired for. This is a pleasure trip in a section of the Cascades he hasn't skied, but leaving a rope behind bristles against training and judgment. "You don't think the glaciers will have crevasses or that some of the notches will be corniced?"

Barnett has polled others who have done this traverse and while his sources carried a rope, they hadn't needed it. Furthermore, his experience has proven that after the dumps of a Cascadian winter, crevasses are problems you can steer around. Finally, there is a contradictory element of safety to the man's philosophy, "If we bring a rope, we'll find reason to use it; leave it behind and we'll approach hazards more sanely."

We move onto tents. Volken has a 6-1/2-pound Vau de tent he's willing to contribute as one of the two tents we will require, but Carl Skoog, the trip photographer, has a glass factory of lenses weighing down his load. As a group, we decide we'll cut pounds by toting a claustrophobic Marmot Assylum with a two-pound weight advantage over Volken's Taj Mahal and a Pyramid (a glorified tent fly) with a four-pound advantage over Volken's anchor.

On it goes. "I wish I owned some lightweight crampons," Barnett says, holding my aluminum spikes in one hand and his ancient steel Salewas in the other. "Do you think we'll really need these?"

"What about Pieps?" Carl asks. He's skied neighboring areas of the North Cascades over the past month and feels the spring snowpack is bomber. "Reckon the only real hazard is getting hit by a cornice. Then you'd be dead anyway," says Barnett. "Leave 'em behind and we can dump a few shovels too." Barnett hoists his anoretic pack. "This is feeling good," he gloats. "We'll actually be able to enjoy the skiing."

Volken is looking alarmed. Not only have some of the tools he considers vital been stripped, but he's afraid that potshots will be taken at the pound of gourmet coffee he's added to the group gear. He surreptitiously palms the java and shoves it into the depths of his pack. He may have associated himself with something stupid, but there's no way the idiots of minimalism are going to deprive him of the sacred.

Only five minutes into the actual slogging, the differences between the old-world guide and the new-world prophet are magnifying. The bridge across Granite Creek is gone. Noticing the abutments on each shore, we find the point where the beast should lie; there is only a fallen Douglas fir with a trunk some 14 inches in diameter spanning the 50-foot-wide torrent. "Did they rebuild the bridge?" Barnett is asking. "Better check it out."

"What about the tree?" Volken asks nodding at the Douglas fir.

No one pays attention. Skoog walks upstream, Barnett downstream, Volken waits by the tree. Fifteen minutes later everyone has settled on the tree as the only choice. With waist-deep water raging underneath, the Americans all straddle the log and inch their way across. The Swiss guide walks it upright, confident that a slip here is out of the question. To be brought to the knees--or to the ass--would be the first step in an implosion of self-confidence. Hump here and you're washed up.

As Volken crosses and Barnett takes pictures from the other side, other contrasts are obvious. Volken is a model of professionalism with his stylish, suspendered, yellow ski pants; ovoid Smith sunglasses; and a form-enhancing, synthetic T-shirt. Barnett lets fashion get in the way of function about as much as a drunk worries about a pedestrian barring the road to a tavern. The white hat and shirt aren't splashy but they reflect more sunlight by day and radiate less body heat by night; the dark, nylon wind pants will turn him into a shadow in Carl's pictures but they, too, are cool by day and warm by night. The photo-gray glasses and frame shape recall a 1980s look, but they eliminate the need for multiple glasses.

Even the way the two carry skis clashes. Volken has them neatly harnessed to both sides of the pack, tips strapped together overhead. It keeps the arms free but in the Northwestern green belt his antlers occasionally snag tree limbs and deadfall. Barnett straps his toothpicks together and, wrapping the wrist straps of his poles around the bundle, constructs a suitcase he carries at his side. He can snake through thickets without entanglement, but enslaves one arm to a parcel.

We climb through the old-growth forests of the North Cascades. The canopy of 200-foot tall evergreens beat back both light and undergrowth, making travel easy. Snow line arrives suddenly and in short order we've lost the trail. No matter, we soon find open slopes swept by wintertime slides providing a runway to timberline. Barnett's ski suitcase hits the ground and he's gone before I've got my boards free of the pack straps.

Volken and I follow fifty yards back. Sometimes the Swiss guide ignores the meandering tracks before us and traces a straighter line, sometimes he cuts a sweeping arc that creates a more aesthetic change of direction than Barnett's switchback. When Volken steps out of Barnett's track, the difference in prints is dramatic. Barnett's trail is a bowlegged print, tips splaying out wider than the tails, and skis occasionally lifted and redirected for large corrections. Volken's tracks are machine-like parallel furrows that are either remarkably straight lines or uniformly drawn curves.

I ask Volken about this. He says that while American tourers do apply brainpower to the safety of their route, few engineer lines that take best advantage of the terrain to maximize efficiency. And in a curious display of double standards, Americans simply don't apply to the uptrack what they apply so stringently to the downtrack: drawing an aesthetic line that is a creation of beauty and an expression of the drawer's expertise. During the three-year process of being certified as a Swiss mountain guide, considerable attention is devoted to a ski tourer's uptrack. "It's not just a matter of getting up the slope safely, it's a question of doing the job elegantly."

We discuss what a masterful track looks like and the jobs it should perform. It shouldn't meander haphazardly, the furrows should be parallel, the curves should be sensuous. Besides employing safe terrain, a good track climbs at an efficient angle, enhances a photograph taken of the scene, minimizes the number of energy-draining kickturns made, exposes followers to different viewsheds, and passes through enough microcosms to determine where the downhill skiing will be good and where it won't. Volken quotes one of his examiners who had said, "When an untouched slope lays before you, it's like God has given you the privilege of drawing a line on His canvas. Don't f__ it up."

Later as we approach the pass where we intend to lunch, I follow in Barnett's wake. His eyes are on the peaks ahead, on the peaks behind, on the horizon to the right. His eyes are everywhere--except on his feet. His tracks record that. They also record individuality. Unlike Volken who has been chiselled by the 'dos' and 'don'ts' of old-world masters, Barnett is a new-world skier whose mountains are a place to ignore dogma--a place to be free of rules dictating how fast to drive and how parallel to scribe a track.

***

Throughout the night, clouds overhead pool and dissipate. As we eat breakfast, we are in the cloudy phase of the cycle. Barnett believes the weather is collapsing; he suggests we day tour in the surrounding bowl, without the load of heavy packs.

Volken has his eyes on a saddle 2000 feet above our camp. The crux of our traverse lies in the four-hour window beyond that saddle. There we will navigate a series of steep, exposed gullies and ramps to bypass the thorn of Cosho Peak. Volken argues that before committing to the crux, we can easily retrace our route, and that after completing the crux we can easily navigate the ridge systems beyond by map and compass. "Let's go to the saddle and see what the weather is doing when we arrive."

Hauling our gear up only to ski back down with it, rankles against Barnett's desire to enjoy unencumbered skiing, but when out-voted he graciously concedes and packs up.

Two hours later we approach the col. Several more cycles of cloud and sun have blown through and now the sky overhead is blue, the peaks around us clear: optimism swells. Forty minutes later as we climb yet higher toward the shoulder where the gullies and ramps of the crux begin, a cloud cap covers our thorn and the veil is dropping: optimism wanes. To the Northwest dark clouds have swallowed the summit of Shuksan, to the east streaks of rain spill onto the dark spires of the Silver Star massif. We linger in the gray eye of it all.

And a gray eye it is. As we stand on the shoulder--the last place of easy retreat--we stand at the balancing point of two different mind sets. With a party of our experience, Mr. Fight is unconcerned about navigating through the cloud cap and enduring the rains that are likely to strike later in the afternoon. He feels confident without it, but these gray conditions are the very reason we should have brought weapons of war like ropes and harnesses.

Mr. Flight argues that such conditions are why we were exactly right in leaving those weapons behind. Without them, retreat is easier. Without them we are less likely to court an epic. And in a game where the odds have a knack of catching up to those who push their luck, retreating equates to living longer and skiing more.

The majority side with Barnett. Now it is Volken who concedes graciously. After the vote is cast, he quietly strips his skins and waits for the Americans.

Barnett leads down through the first pitch. On these immense mountain slopes, he's a vocal advocate of enjoying more of the terrain and he pilots his skinny skis through wide, sweeping arcs. Occasionally, obstacles impede his path and he switches seamlessly into a few quick parallel turns before switching back to long-radius, nordic turns. Barnett diminishes in size as Volken watches on appreciatively, "I hope I have that kind of stamina in 20 years."

For now, Volken possesses both the stamina and technique to make most skiers envious. He cranks tight, controlled turns, without a waver of unsteadiness to gauge the characteristics of the heavy glop. Soon he relaxes and simply lays the skis on edge and rides the rail. Before long the lover of speed has ripped past the man who wrings enjoyment from each turn.

Far below, the towel tossed-in on our objective, I toss-out barbed questions, hoping to incite pyrotechnics between our odd couple. Curiously, it is only now that I discover the two are similar to granite and andesite--different manifestations of the same magma. They both view telemark and randonnee backcountry skiing as two circles with a huge amount of overlap. The overlap, however, is not complete and Volken prefers exploring the steep edge of skiing where a fixed heel fixes the problems inherent to the telemark system. Barnett, while no stranger to steeps, is happiest on saner terrain (sometimes even flat terrain) where light skis, flexible boots, and a free heel (that needs no tinkering) frees the body and--as the cliche claims--the mind. The two agree that for their own ends, each has chosen the right means.

And they both rail against some of the popular lunacy of the middle ground. What steams Volken are the people who come into Pro Ski Service (his Seattle ski shop) and insist they can ski anything on telemark gear that good skiers can handle with a fixed heel. "Maybe in the right conditions, but not in all conditions or with the same level of control."

As an interesting anecdote, he mentions attending an on-snow Demo Day for retailers and being cajoled by a friend, who was for several years the national champion of telemark racing, into a dual slalom race. It was a short course, maybe 30 gates, and by the end of the course Joe Telemark was three gates behind. "Here's a national champion, a better skier than I'll ever be, losing to someone who can stomp on a ski but knows nothing about racing. That says volumes about the difference in control between these two systems."

"Slalom racing," snorts Barnett. "It's a joke. Why would you design a race that specifically highlights what the cross-country system is worst at?" He launches into a practiced diatribe about how the narrow focus of turning nordic skis has led to beefier skis, burdensome boots, and heavier bindings. Putting the system on steroids has created an inferior alpine system.

The contests Barnett endorses are ones like the newer "Classic" telemark races. These races, with their giant-slalom downhills, 30-meter jumps, and uphill skates, are all-terrain steeple chases. Between the thigh burn, hang time, and lung burn, they demand an awesome combination of skill and strength. They are a cross-country triathlon celebrating the history, mobility, and versatility of nordic skiing. And rather than being the bastard child of downhill racing, and alpine racer would get smoked here. "If we had different all-terrain races, it would be interesting to see what kind of equipment and design improvements evolved."

As we talk, Barnett and Volken both start discussing my gear. My Dynastar Big Maxes (a ski that's only a pound heavier than an Altiplume but a universe better in skiability) are mounted with Dynafit Tourlite Tech bindings (a randonnee rig that is lighter than many of the current crop of telemark bindings). Into that binding snaps the Dynafit Tourlite boots, a boot that's lighter than plastic-shelled telemarking boots.

I remove my skis and the duo give the boards an appreciative shake of the arm. "For a system that actually skis decently--that's really light," says the European dogmatist. Next year, he confesses, he is likely to adopt this binding and a similar ski. Even the North-American prophet of telemarking, is impressed. He's asking questions about sidecut, how the binding releases, and how to switch between touring and downhill modes. "What do these skis and bindings cost?"

For a moment the earth cracks and the poles of Volkenism and Barnettism cave in toward a middle ground. Then the natural order is restored. Volken eyes a horrid gully system above us and wonders aloud about its approach. Barnett points his skis down the gentle valley, skates to generate speed, and carves slow, smooth turns around the tips of saplings.