Festive Myoko

Myoko has been seeing dump of snow, after dump of snow for the past week. Christmas sat smack bang in the middle of all those dumps. Santa strapped on a snowboard and delivered chocolately delights to all he saw and the rest of us went to find some deep snow.

Santa SLEIGHS Myoko from Tom Mitten on Vimeo.

A season almost started

The snow season in Myoko, Japan began in earnest today...almost.

I arrived in Myoko late Monday night and was met by a town of brown keenly anticipating the first big snow falls of the season. Following a few days of getting to know the town and the surrounding area, with everyone getting lost because everything looks different when there aren't towering snowbanks looming over the town, yesterday we headed into Nagano in search of tourist attractions. 

The imposing Zenko-ji Temple is popular with locals and tourists alike. Despite the souvenir and trinket shops encircling the temple's entrances, the grounds still have a presence about them. Japanese people of all ages dropped flaming incense sticks into an ornate stove and waved the smoke onto ailing parts of their body. The smoke is said to have healing powers. Inside the temple there are wooden statues that are worn smooth from people rubbing them for good luck...I think. At least that's why I rubbed the statue. 

Our group split after the Zenko-ji Temple. Those who had been around for a few years went ice skating while the rest went for an adventure to the famed snow monkeys. Of course everyone who spoke Japanese went ice skating, so we monkey hunters were sent out into the wild hills around Nagano armed with only our cameras and a Japanese GPS. The GPS led us to a train station still some distance from the monkeys. After restocking and re-strategising at a 7/11 and now armed with a cartoon map we battled on...to a 'road closed' sign. Battling now against the Japanese GPS, cartoon map and quickly fading light we spotted a sign adorned with a monkey. We forged ahead to the snow monkeys, until we arrived at the car park and were met by a 1.6km walk to the entrance. With fifteen minutes to spare before the gates closed we arrived at the monkeys. Success! And what a success. Monkeys chilling in hot springs. Monkeys fighting. Cute baby monkeys hanging off their mothers. It had it all! Including the beginnings of a snow storm.

This storm was only expected to deliver 4cm of snow. By the time we got home after an hour's drive there was at least 24cm on the side of the road. By the morning it had accumulated to about 74cm and was still building. Today was supposed to be the first day of lifts running so skis and boards were frantically thrown onto roof racks and bodies bundled into the vans. Half way out of the driveway we got the call - the lifts wouldn't be running because the operators weren't expecting so much snow and weren't ready. Bummer.

Tomorrow will be a different story.

Jonothan Ross' Japanorama

I've been learning Japanese over the last few weeks. This week we were introduced to Japanorama, Jonothan Ross' hilarious tribute to his favourite country.


Learn something you didn't know about ramen. 

What I learnt delivering newspapers

At the age of 25 I got my first paper round. What better way to spend the last few weeks before heading off to Japan than wandering around the local streets, providing the town with an essential service. I should have known when I called the distribution centre and they asked if it was for a kid or me that I wasn’t the right person for the job. Thirty-four degrees Celsius, eight and a half hours of walking, one litre of water and 570 papers later I understood why only children should have a paper round. There are a lot better ways to earn a hundred bucks.

However, with plenty of time to observe and think I did learn some invaluable lessons.

Wind is the paper deliverer’s worst enemy

Annoying, yes?

It’s a glorious, cloudless Sunday morning. You’ve just had a leisurely stroll down the street to collect the newspaper. Perhaps you’ve picked up a coffee and a croissant on the way. Now you’re settling down outside on the deck to enjoy your delicious treats and to catch up with what’s been happening in the world. Your newspaper gives a rustle; you sense a breeze. You place your coffee on the edge of the paper to make sure it doesn’t blow away. The next moment your coffee is spreading all over the News and the Sport has blown over the back fence. And chances are, if your croissant is light and delicate it’s blown off the table straight into the mouth of your patiently waiting dog.

This is what your paper delivery person has to deal with every time they try and put your local paper in your letterbox, albeit without the coffee, croissant and relaxing surrounds. They do battle with Mother Nature, taming cheeky papers trying to escape one page at a time. No number of expletives seems to fix the problem.

A letterbox makes a house

Now that's a letterbox.

A builder in Barwon Heads couldn’t get more work if they lived in [insert war-ravaged city that has been recently bombed, here]. There are new houses going up on every street, each appearing to be at the furthest edge of modern architecture. Oblique angles and water views abound. They are more works of art than houses. Then the proud owners go and put a hollow brick on a pole at the front of their property and call it a letterbox. Why, when you’ve just spent hundreds of thousands of dollars building your great Australian dream would you ruin the look of your house by putting a crappy little tin box that you picked up on the weekend from Bunnings in front of it all?

Actually, come to think of it I’ve never really looked at someone’s letterbox unless I’m putting something in it. So maybe only the postman will notice.

Newspaper ink is like a George Foreman Grill

Handling newspapers for eight and a half hours leads to black hands. The ink gets into your pores leaving your hands and fingers smooth and shiny. If I was picked up by the police and fingerprinted I would have been fingerprint-less like George Foreman, who allegedly burnt off his fingerprints in his eponymous grill.

Please don’t find it necessary to go and find these lessons out for yourself.

That's a big wave

Been getting back into the water recently. Plenty of cheeky little waves to get my confidence up. Then you see people doing this. I can't even comprehend how big this is.

The friendly people of Cape Liptrap

Bouncing from winter to winter over the last few years I haven't had a whole lot of time for camping. I sometimes got in a few days now and again, but nothing significant. This break in the seasons has seen a reversal of that trend - three camping trips in less than a month has seen adventures to Cumberland River, Aire River and, most recently Cape Liptrap. Setting up camp at Cape Liptrap in particular has reminded me of the wonderful people you can meet while you're camping.

Cape Liptrap

Friendly people

Being Melbourne Cup weekend, most people had the similar idea that camping would be a great thing to do for a few days. This meant that limited camping spots and the need to share fires. The fire we chose to cook on and warm by was also used by an older couple, Tony and Sue, who helped us cook damper, lent us there toasting fork so we could cook perfect marshmallows and generally entertained us with stories of "when we were your age."

Nearby Walkerville South

Even friendlier people

Camped on our other side were Todd and Porno (who actually preferred to be called by his name, Sean-o). We first met Todd after we sang/screamed along to Bon Jovi's 'Livin On A Prayer', which was wailing out the back of their lime green vintage station wagon while we were doing our dishes after dinner. He duly invited us over to listen to more Bon Jovi with him and Porno. (At that stage we didn't know he preferred the name Sean-o). Soon after we politely declined his generous offer Todd appeared at our fire, guitar in hand. We were serenaded with several renditions of 'In The Jungle', his version of 'ABC' written for his two young kids and a truly original song written during Todd's angsty teenage years about being lazy and his mum. That last song was clearly written during a rough patch in Todd and his mother's relationship. I'm omitting the lyrics for a reason.

I'm not sure if we would have stuck so fondly in Tony and Sue's and Todd and Sean-o's memories. I need to get old and wise or learn to play guitar. 

(I like what you've done with your h)Aire River

I know the pun in the title is awful, but I'm not apologising for it. Embrace it with joy!

The Cultural Learnings have fallen by the way side of late (read: last three months), but after a few camping adventures down the Great Ocean Road it's time to get back into it.

Aire River with Bre and her magnificent van, Joan. A fine place to camp indeed.

Bre and Joan.

"Watch out for the copperhead snake a bit further down the track," the Ranger told us.
Didn't tell us how much further down the track.

    

FYI: Bre has always wanted to be an explorer.
Bre can choose to deny that this statement is true. 

Windy.

Frisbee! 

Mad frisbee skills.

Yesterday's trickle, today's torrent.

Stuck in the middle of the raging torrent.

Meet Felix Bennett

It’s the rare skier whose favourite part of skiing is dealing with bumps. But for Felix Bennett, a nineteen-year-old bi-skier from Sydney, the bumps are where it’s at. You may have seen Felix, who has cerebral palsy, shredding Falls Creek last week. Cruising around in a royal blue Mountain Man bi-ski, he was hard to miss. And that’s the way he likes it. “I like all the attention I get,” he says cheekily. Everywhere he went, Felix left a trail of “Wow, look at that!” and “Aww, I want a go in one of those!” in his powder smoke.

It wasn’t just the general public giving Felix attention either; Falls Creek’s lifties kept him well looked after, helping him load and unload chairlifts all over the mountain. “The lift attendants are so friendly and helpful here,” Felix enthused on more than one lift ride. Having skied since he was three years old, Felix has experience with lifties the world over, from Grindelwald in Switzerland to Thredbo and Perisher. It’s Falls Creek’s lifties though, who he’s most impressed with. “They’re always ready for me and know what to do.”

Skiing isn’t Felix’s only sporting pursuit. When he’s not working at Packforce, a Cerebral Palsy Alliance business, Felix can be found at the swimming pool four times a week. In the S5 classification he holds state and Australian records in freestyle and backstroke. Despite Felix’s prowess in the pool, it’s skiing that tops his list of favourite sports. “I only get to go skiing once a year, for one week. I go swimming all the time. So skiing is better,” Felix asserts, to the dismay of his parents, Dimity and Nicholas. Felix also rides a specially adapted trike from Canada and plays indoor cricket. According to his dad, Felix has quite the impressive sweep shot. He’s tried his hand at golf and is keen to play more, but they’re still working out a way he can sit down and still swing a club.

After six days of skiing Felix is already looking forward to Season 2012. The low cloud sitting over the mountain and dumping snow last week kept him mainly around the Towers area. A brief visit to Ruined Castle on one of the sunny mornings only whetted Felix’s appetite for more adventure. If the sun shines next time, Felix is excited about exploring the rest of the mountain and checking out the terrain on the Summit. It seems Falls Creek has worked its magic on him. When given the option of where in the world he would like to ski next, Felix, without missing a beat, unequivocally responds with the most patriotic answer possible: “Australia.”

Photo: Dimity Bennett

Purple haze

The Summit at Falls Creek is lighting up purple. Frying ham, eggs and onion in our room, we have the best view of the lightning show going on outside our window. After being pelted in the face all day by hail shaped snow, I feel we've earned this. Surprisingly, the painful pellets caused only one of my kids to cry today. I count that as a win.

And to make life even sweeter, 75cm of snow is expected to fall over the next three days. Soon, we won't have to just admire the terrain from afar. Bring it!

Excitement allowed

Two weeks ago I got excited. It was the opening weekend of the ski season and, just outside Buchan, I passed a sign that said ‘Mt Hotham 157km’. I was driving amidst intimidating mountain ash trees, making my heart beat a little bit faster. Next to me though, was not a pair of skis, but a surfboard. Buchan was as close as I got to the mountains as I had to start heading back towards the coast and Marlo. (Which made me even more excited because I was on my way to see my ace friends Tim, Wally and Sonja.)

Since then I’ve had one cheeky afternoon slide at Mt Buller: a delicious tease for the season to come. But now I’m going to allow myself to reach maximum excitement. Everything’s white at Falls Creek and tomorrow night is the time to hit the Hume Freeway and head for the hills. Yeeeeeeeehaaaaa!!!!!!!!  

Our walk in the woods

Setting off from the Newfound Gap car park towards Icewater Spring Shelter, a measly 2.7 miles down the Appalachian Trail, Lachie and I were both worried we wouldn’t fulfill our dream. We wanted to meet someone battling their way 2181 miles along the Appalachian Trail, from Springer Mountain in Georgia to Mt. Katahdin in Maine. One of the reasons we’d come to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park was to meet Bill Bryson, author of the hilarious book, A Walk in the Woods, and his companion, Katz. Or, failing that, meet someone as funny and foolhardy as Bill was in his attempt to walk the entire length of the Appalachian Trail.

The day before, Lachie and I were eager to explore the area surrounding our campsite at Cades Cove. We were also keen to avoid battling other tourists. Most seemed determined to only leave their car to get a Kodak moment in front of National Park signs, simply to prove they were there. Before heading out on the Rich Mountain Loop Trail we took a vow not to have a Katz moment and throw the water bottle away because it was too heavy. Water bottles in hand, we ambled along the trail discussing where we would find the ingredients to make smores that night. “But did you see a supermarket in Gatlinburg? Maybe we could look in Pige- argh, a bear!”

A safe place to hide from bears.

It stood thirty feet off the side of the trail, one paw poised in mid air, staring intently at our panicked faces. Frantically, we scrambled back past each other to what appeared to be a safe distance.

“Are we supposed to keep eye contact with a black bear or try and be big and scary?”

“Black bear? It’s got a brown stripe across its back.”

“Are there even brown bears in the Smoky Mountains?”

“I dunno. You read the National Park brochure this morning.”

“Yeah, I read it out to you. What did I say?”

“Wait, wait. It’s walking away. I think we’re OK. Quick, get your camera out!”

From then on, large sticks and rocks accompanied our water bottles as we continued along the trail, glancing furtively over our shoulders every few minutes to check we weren’t being stalked. 

“Bill Bryson saw a bear, didn’t he?”

“Yep. But we handled it so much better.”

Back on the Appalachian Trail, in the first five hundred feet of our paltry hike, all we’d seen were half a dozen dawdlers, already further from their cars than they probably should have been, and a fit family of four, far too clean and cheery to have been through-hikers. Oddly, five hundred feet seemed to be most people’s limit – we had the trail to ourselves after that, until we reached the shelter.

 “It’s April now,” mused the through-hiker, standing outside Icewater Spring Shelter, his home for the night in the park. “I have to be in Chicago on September 10th. Not sure if we’ll have enough time to make it all the way to Mt. Katahdin.”

The Appalachian Trail at Newfound Gap.

Lachie and I frowned, both doing the maths in our heads, but still excited about happening upon a through-hiker. For the next five months he had no other plans but to walk another 1972 miles? The longest I’d ever hiked was three weeks. The furthest I’d ever driven was Melbourne to Byron Bay, a grand total of 1053 miles. I pulled out my phone and saved “Appalachian Trail through-hiker finishes” into September 10 in my calendar.

“We stayed in Gatlinburg last night,” our through-hiker continued, pushing his drooping wide brimmed hat out of his eyes and picking at the melted hole in his Polartec windcheater sleeve. “Can’t say we ever expected to visit a place like that on the Appalachian Trail.”

Lachie and I nodded vigorously, remembering the carnival-like town we’d driven through a few days before. The dense, green and brown patterns that formed the Smoky Mountains sat in stark contrast to the disposability of Gatlinburg. Multi-storey minigolf courses and go-kart tracks lined the main street. Glowing fast food vendor signs reached up between buildings. Ye olde candy stores and gift shops vied for our attention. It didn’t exactly feel like the gateway town to one of the most popular National Parks in the United States.

“Yeah, it wasn’t until we were driving through Gatlinburg that we realised this was the town Bill Bryson was so disappointed with,” I enthused.

“‘Disappointed’ is putting it kindly, I think,” said our through-hiker, smiling.

A blue tarpaulin covering the front of Icewater Spring Shelter rustled and a second, worn looking through-hiker staggered out, half-eaten Snickers Bar in hand. “We also found some locals in Gatlinburg last night who enjoy their whiskey,” through-hiker number one grimly informed us.

“Ermpf,” through-hiker number two offered, as he headed towards the privy.

Realising our new idols’ need for peace and quiet, Lachie and I wished them good luck and headed back towards our car at Newfound Gap, back to the world where people don’t walk 2000 miles.

It turns out black bears are the only bears that live in the Smoky Mountains. Bear and other wildlife information can be found at www.nps.gov/grsm/naturescience/animals.htm

The Great Smoky Mountains National Park straddles the Tennessee and North Carolina border. It can be reached by car via US-441 or by foot on the Appalachian Trail.

Camping at Cades Cove costs $17-$20 per night, depending on the time of year. 

There are nine other car camping grounds around the National Park. Bookings can be made at www.recreation.gov

Permits are required to stay at backcountry campsites.

Park entry is free.

Maps and other information can be found online atwww.nps.gov/grsm/planyourvisit or at the many Ranger Stations within the National Park.

Avoiding the crowds

The Spring Break crowds rolled into town last night. I can already hear the new, temporary neighbours bashing around next door, getting ready for their day of skiing. I can also hear the steady dripping of melted snow pouring off the roof outside my window. Flipping open my computer, I head for the weather report. The Weather Channel website confirms what the sounds outside my window alluded to: perfect weather for Spring Break skiing crowds.

Leisurely pulling on my woolen thermals, I consider my options for the day. Ski locally and battle the holiday crowds in Breckenridge, or jump on a bus and hope for a queue-less day at Arapahoe Basin. Without much deliberation I make my decision. I pull a bus timetable out from under a pile of discarded papers and am suddenly kicked into gear. Any more dawdling and the bus to A-Basin is leaving without me. I dash around the house, picking up the last few pieces of skiing paraphernalia I’ll need for the day. Jamming my feet into my boots and throwing my skis onto my shoulder, I don’t forget to pick up a banana for later on from the kitchen.

I am momentarily blinded as I close the front door behind me; the weather report wasn’t lying about it being sunny today. As I round the bend towards the bus stop, my heart sinks. The bus is pulling away, belching out black exhaust, obscuring the mountains behind it. Fighting the urge to turn around and head home, I walk on past the bus stop and make for the gondola connecting the town of Breckenridge to the base of the mountain. To my surprise the line at the gondola is non-existent. My spirits lift slightly.

Smiling quietly as the sun beats through the gondola window, I think back to a skiing trip with weather similar to today’s. Camped out on Victoria’s high plains in late September, the suffocating heat in our tents forced us out of our sleeping bags early. In an effort to stay cool, with the potent Australian sun attacking us from above and reflecting off the snow beneath our feet, we were forced us to eat our breakfast in our underwear while we discussed the possibilities for the day ahead. We all agreed a day trip to Mt Fainter was within our capabilities and headed back to our tents to pack our bags and put our pants on.

I wince slightly as the gondola cabin bangs loudly against the guardrail. The doors slide open to reveal hundreds of people standing in line for the chair lift. I shrug and join the back of the shortest queue.

With the sun low in sky, the white, orange and pink bark of the snow gums glowed vibrantly and the snow-covered ridgeline we had traversed earlier in the day took on a golden tinge. Because we spent so much time exploring the gullies and knolls littered along our route, we didn’t reach the summit of Mt Fainter until late in the afternoon. Unable to linger long, we pulled headlamps out of our packs for later on and started to slide back the way we had come.

“Is there snow in Australia?” a man from Boston, in Breckenridge for the week with his family, asks as we ride the T-Bar together. Despite the good snow, I am getting tired of waiting in lines. Although there are plenty of good conversations and people watching to be had, the novelty is wearing off and I make one final run back down to the gondola.

Everything looked different as the shadows around us faded to grey and eventually disappeared completely. “Does anyone remember this gully?” someone called from the gathering darkness. We all huddled together to consult the map, illuminated by six headlamps. “I think we dropped down too early. Let’s head back up onto the ridgeline.” Having regained the ridgeline, we all peered into the murk in between the trees as we skied along, trying to pick up something familiar. Just beyond the next clump of trees, the light from our headlamps shimmered off something manmade. Having recognised our tents, we all relaxed and our pace quickened, with dinner at the front of our minds.

At home, reheating half a calzone – leftovers from last night’s dinner – I consider the possibilities for tomorrow. I flip open my computer and check tomorrow’s weather forecast.

Work's out for winter

After three months of work with the Paralympic Team it's time to hang up the ski boots...and then pull them straight back down again.

Training wound up on Sunday and on Monday a U-Haul van, filled with 38 ski bags, drove away from Avon bound for Australia (via a container ship). Thankfully, my ski bag was not in it, but rather with me on its way to Breckenridge. It was with some regret that I waved goodbye to the rest of the team, standing outside the house that was going to be home for the next few months. Regret that I wouldn't get the last few rays of summer fun back in Australia; that I wouldn't see family and friends for another few months at least; that I might have forgotten the code to get into the garage of the house and would be stuck outside until someone got home. But that all quickly washed away when I turned to look at the mountain looming above me and found the piece of paper with the code on it in my pocket. 

So after three months of skiing Vail - albeit, mostly one small area - I thought I'd be ready to ski somewhere else. That's why it was odd that I found myself sliding skis into the back of the car and throwing boots over the back seat on Wednesday morning, preparing to head back to Vail. Maybe the car also thought this was slightly odd, because when I turned the ignition - nothing. Not a cough, whir or hum from the engine. Not even a light on the dash made itself known. After much frowning, trying, retrying, phone calling and bashing around the garage, a battery charger was found and my mechanic skills could be put to the test. (Yes, attaching a battery charger to a battery is counted as mechanic skills.)  An hour of impatient foot tapping and prodding of the charger later, things were back on track and I was finally on my way to Vail. 

The engine that sat between me and a day of fun.

Grilling, skiing and margaritas were the order of the day, so it was straight out to the Blue Sky Basin grilling deck. Hot dogs were already sizzling on the grill so it was just a matter of throwing one in a bun with some sauerkraut (we were with a Czech Republican) and mustard and kicking back to enjoy the view.  

It ain't called Blue Sky Basin for nothing.

With ski patrol ushering us away from the grill and with bellies full, some achingly so, it was time to hit up the Minturn Mile for a few turns. The Minturn Mile is a popular backcountry route from the top of Vail to the nearby town of Minturn, home of the Turntable Diner and Minturn Saloon. Although it was late in the day and the snow was crusting up after copping a pounding from the sun all day, we could see the appeal of the route; a consistent, uninterupted fall line, wide open turns, trees if you want them and one hell of a ski out along a several mile long luge track disguised as a valley.

The luge track to Minturn.

Waiting for us in Minturn was a Saloon full of margaritas and a weird dude in a pick up truck offering lifts back to Vail for $7. I've already described the real American experience provided by the Turntable Diner in Minturn, so it will be of little surprise that the Minturn Saloon provides another one of those experiences. Locals fill the bar, with signed photographs and letters from the likes of John Wayne, Yogi Berra, Glen Plake and Joe DiMaggio filling every square inch of wall space not taken up by giant snake skins and buffalo heads. 

Just don't look at anyone the wrong way.

The day was capped off when, with a bit of wheeling and dealing, we managed to escape the sting of the $25 parking fee at Vail.

And so with work done and still a few months left in the US of A, here's to hoping a fair majority of days end up similar to this one. But maybe without the flat battery, even though I wouldn't mind showing off my mechanic skills again. 

Skiing with locals vs Skiing with friends

It's an epic powder day in Vail. It's a Sunday. It feels like half of Denver left home at 6am to make first chair. What to do? Hook up with some locals to hunt out the best skiing lines and shortest lift lines. And what better locals to hook up with than three people who have all been skiing Vail longer than I have been on this planet. Gus, Chris and Kim - a mad tele-shredder - acted as our guides and they certainly did deliver.


The very first run had us traversing thigh deep pow, getting out of the public's view as quickly as we could, then dropping into a gully, looking for the gaps between the stately aspens. With thighs already burning and grins already a mile wide, we snuck in another lap before the lift line became our enemy. On the chair ride up I sat there in utter confusion. Names of runs and lifts were being thrown up and shot down faster than I could follow. Before I knew it we were billowing our way down another steep and deep face that I never knew existed. They clearly weren't worried about giving away their secret spots; they were skiing so fast and hard there was no chance I'd remember the particular tree you had to duck behind, or the rocks you had to drop between to find these places. The secrets didn't stop on the hill either. Chris and Kim were kind enough to share a top ranch bar that made killer nachos and margaritas.


It's a run of the mill day in Vail. It's a Friday. Friends you haven't seen in almost two years are only an hour's drive away. What to do? You get the hell in the car! So my next day off took me back over the Vail Pass to Breckenridge to drop in on Jes and JD, two friends who were in town for the week. Staying in a log cabin, keeping warm by a pot bellied stove, playing cards, cooking hearty stew and drinking tasty beers made me feel like we were in a outdoor clothing catalogue. Living up to its reputation, Breckenridge provided us with enough wind to power a small town for several weeks. Despite the sweet conditions in the bowls, the wind attempting to tear one side of our faces off on the T Bar got the better of us after three runs and we headed to lower elevations to play in the cheeky bumps. The six pack chairs also allowed for better conversation, so everyone was a winner.


Two entirely contrasting days, two entirely satisfying results.

River

I hear that variety is the spice of life, so thought I might give life's seasoning a go today. Finding a foot of accumulating snow outside my window this morning I decided to go walking instead of skiing...And I stubbed my toe, so ski boots aren't that fun at the moment. Don't tell me, I know I'm tough / a pansy. A couple of hours beside the Eagle River and I learnt some things about the place where I live. (One of the things was that I live next to the Eagle River).

A pleasant footpath found.

Limited places to rest.

My Dad got stuck in a tree.

Misleading signs - it was all sealed.

Biking is done in the summer.

A successful day. But I'm going skiing tomorrow, sore toe or not.

And it gives me a loose excuse to post this excellent song.