Cartas Españolas: An Ode to Haircuts

It's kind of a weird thing, but it's a me thing, so bear with me: I love getting haircuts in new places.

It all started with a trip to Cuba back in 2012, when a friend Rafa invited me to get a haircut with him at this barber he had met on the street. I was a little suspect at first, but figured for the sake of cultural immersion (and my shaggy appearance) a touch-up wouldn't be the worst idea. Plus, hair grows back—right?

As it turns out that cut was a real game changer for me. Rafa's 'barber' was an 80-year-old man whose 'barber shop' was the living room of his family's home. As we sat getting our hair trimmed, dinner simmered in the kitchen, and the man's wife walked in and out with laundry. I couldn't believe how intimate the whole setting was, but also how intimate the experience itself was.

To sit in a barber's chair is to put your trust into a stranger, and interact with that person for the next 30 minutes. It doesn't matter if you speak the same language, together you have to solve this problem that is your friggin' mess of an updo, and somehow you have to get it done as a pair (potentially trio depending on how interested the crowd gets). In the end, the experience brings you closer to this person, and it's this kind of weirdly authentic moment.

After my Cuban cut (which was, by the way, maybe the best haircut I've ever gotten—and for $1 no less), I made a point to get a cut wherever I could: On a return trip to Cuba, then Colombia, China, and, most recently, Spain.

The barber chair comes in many different forms, including this open air edition in Cuba circa 2013.

The barber chair comes in many different forms, including this open air edition in Cuba circa 2013.

The Spain one was a little funny, and perhaps a little longer coming. I was in Madrid this past June, grabbing tapas at a bar in La Latina on a Sunday afternoon, when a man with a handful of records sparked up conversation. He put up with my lack of Spanish and started telling me about his travels to the U.S. and then dove into the rest of his life (the Spanish are not shy about sharing their lives with strangers).

His name was Roberto, and he owned his own peluqueria, or salon, in Madrid. He always came to La Latina on Sundays to buy cheap records at the El Rastro flea market (a Madrid staple). He especially loved the selection of flamenco music, and offered me flamenco record as a gift. I was kind of blown away by this generosity, and promised to visit his hair salon someday if I got the chance. We exchanged numbers and I disappeared into the El Rastro crowd.

It wasn't that I didn't want to see him again, but it was the type of situation where the number exchange was almost a polite formality rather than genuine interest. Sure, I enjoyed meeting Roberto, but would I actually see him again? Most signs pointed to 'no.'

But then February rolls around, and fate as well as a stubborn desire to learn a language has me back in Madrid, and with vintage shag no less. Feeling itchy and greasy, I remember Robert, pull up WhatsApp and shoot him a message. 

Two hours later I'm in his barber chair, and he's telling me about his daughter while his girlfriend sweeps the floor and tries to find a news program that isn't talking about U.S. politics. It's surreal to be here, but at the same time I recognize the renewed power of the haircut. It's such a stupid little thing, but I can't get over how many random conversations, off-humor jokes, and local knowledge it has given me.

I thank Roberto, tip graciously, and snap a photo of the man in front of his life's work. It's really cool to see people in their element, and Roberto has certainly found his.

We don't make any formal plans, but he says to let him know when I'm back in town so we can grab a beer. Who knows, maybe we'll listen to flamenco.

Thanks, Roberto! Hasta la proxima!

Thanks, Roberto! Hasta la proxima!

Cartas Españolas: A message from San Valentin

This is a short and sweet post for all of the lovers out there on the day after Valentine's Day. In Spanish class in the United States, we were taught that, 'esposa' means, 'wife'. What we were not told was that in Spain it also means, 'chain.' Language: It always gets the last laugh.

PS For anyone uncomfortable looking at their significant other as a shackle, most men in Spain refer to their wives as, 'mujer,' and women call their husbands by, 'marido.'

Cartas Españolas: Commuting and the Mini-Huelgas

After a long and particularly mentally draining couple of months, I left lovely Seattle to move to Spain and pursue a dream I've had ever since I was a kid: To learn another language. Funny thing about learning a new language and culture is that I have been messing up—a lot. But I think my mistakes and misadventures, like always, have yielded the most interesting learning experiences in this overseas adventure.

How interesting you ask? Interesting enough that I've decided to dedicate my blog to it over the next however long this chapter lasts. These posts will range in length, but will include anything that I've goofed on or found so damn strange that I simply had to share it with, well, someone. As always, thanks for tuning in. This should be fun.

It's my first few days in Spain, and the thought of leaving a whole life halfway across the world is really weighing on me. To avoid feeling totally adrift, and to put my feet somewhere near the ground, I had signed up for language classes in Madrid for a few weeks.

To get to class every morning, I take 653 bus, and then the yellow line subway to the green line (they have numbers, but colors seem to stick better) before walking Gran Via to my school. It's not a particularly out-of-the-ordinary commute, maybe 50 minutes total, but it's a commute, something I haven't experienced since I was driving myself to high school soccer practice. 

I thought it would be a total turnoff, but I have to be honest, it's kind of nice having a routine. Get up, eat, catch the bus, get this damn thing moving. There's definitely a rhythm to it all. Heck, I even get some reading and language practice in on the way.

But one thing that threw a huge wrench into the entire operation is something that none of us have likely ever experienced in the States, a partial, and seemingly entirely subjective, transit strike. Described to me as a mini huelga, or mini strike, this transit scrap is relatively common in southern Europe, but something that is so hard to wrap my head around. 

As in the U.S., this action was caused by a discrepancy between disgruntled transit workers and the government or powers that be. Unlike the U.S. these workers are only semi-disgruntled, and instead of shutting down the whole dang system like they would at home, they pick certain lines and certain times to shut down, namely the hours between rush hours.

For example, buses from a suburban line might not run from 6 a.m. to 9 a.m., return to service from 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. and then run only half of its buses from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. But that's just an example, as the hours seemed to vary each day, just enough so that this Guiri (the kind nickname they have given me, the foreigner, over here) could not figure out which strike he was participating in on any given day.

Somedays my bus never showed up, other days it came 15 minutes late, others right on time. If I tried to adjust my schedule accordingly, it almost always switched back on me, leaving me stranded upstream without a WiFi signal. 

Stranger still, it seemed like I was the only one inconvenienced by the whole thing. Apparently the mini huelga, like the siesta of years past, is a part of Iberian life that I will just have to get used to. 

 

Best of 2016

How do you rank a year that was off the charts in so many ways—above, below, sideways, and back again?

Well, the verdict is still out on that one. All I can say is that 2016 brought so many different people, places, and things into my life and, perhaps more importantly, helped deepen my appreciation for the humans that stick with me through all the late text replies.

This year I was able to write a feature about mountaineer Scott Fischer and the incredible family that carries on his legacy, a task that felt both overwhelming and amazing. I can't thank the Fischer-Price family enough for letting me share their story, but to Katie Rose for trusting me and teaching me so much about the lasting impacts of a father that was larger than life.

I also traveled to China for a feature I'd been planning and re-planning for nearly three years. The intersection of sport, culture, and current event has always fascinated me, and POWDER let me pursue that fascination in the Middle Kingdom, using skiing as the vehicle. The trip was quite possibly the toughest thing I've ever done, and it really took it's toll on me mentally and physically. To see all of that manifest in a finished piece—well, that's about as close to a Christmas bonus as I'm going to get in this life.

Aside from the big pieces, I was able to work on some really fun stuff with friends, including shooting and writing about a ski competition inside Fenway Park—hallowed ground for any Boston sports fan—for POWDER. In this year in review, I also published an online feature about skiing in Kyrgyzstan with Vice and had fun making fun of the ski dad some of us East Coasters know all too well.

In terms of goal-reaching, I didn't publish any books this year, but I did lend a helping hand to a pair, penning work for POWDER's, Monumental and Fodor's Seattle Travel Guide, so I'm counting it!

I don't really think it's fair to rank one year against the rest, but I do think the New Year serves as a great way to check-in, a great way to help us realize that 'hey, yeah, I did do some pretty cool stuff this year.' Whether it's travel, relationships, or simply balancing the checkbook (something I hope to accomplish someday), we all did some pretty worthwhile shit in 2016—remember that.

Anyways, enough pandering, here's a few favorite pieces from 2016. Thanks for reading.

Katie Rose On Top Of The World

Awakening: China—COMING SOON

Ok, I suck at scanning things. Bear with me...or buy a copy!

Ok, I suck at scanning things. Bear with me...or buy a copy!

New Year, New Tunes

Well, not exactly new. Jim James has been putting music into the stratosphere for a bit here now, but his song, "Here in Spirit" has me feeling good this week, so I'm passing to you.

Today is my last full day in the U.S. Tomorrow (traffic willing) I'm jumping a plane to Spain where I'm going to be poking around for an extended period. It seems like forever ago and a little like yesterday that I packed up my life into a few bags, but here we are again.

Excited. Terrified. Overwhelmed. Psyched. The travel cocktail has been shaken, flipped, and stirred, and now we'll just have to see what happens. You don't know, 'til ya go, after all.

I'm hoping the miles will give me the fuel I need to bring this blog to life. Maybe I just need a kick in the pants.

Anyways, as always, thanks for being you. Enjoy kiddos.

Monthly Roundup: October 2016

Hiking to grab some surf out on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. October 2016.

Hiking to grab some surf out on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. October 2016.

Playing catch-up before the end of the year is one of my favorite (read: least favorite) games, but here I am again, scrambling to keep up.

For those of you who have been following along, thank you again for embarking on this non-sensical journey with me. 

October was a dreary one in Seattle, potentially the most dreary on record as rain records were shattered statewide. I was able to hop on my skis late in the month and got caught in my first blizzard of the season on the same trip! Luckily, my buddy Phil and I decided to use it as a decision-making exercise and both decided there was no shame in turning around whilst being whited out on the Muir Snowfields. 

There's a little snippet of my October 2016, stay tuned for November and a few of my favorite pieces from 2016 in the following weeks.

Powder

Musiq

Dark days are here in Seattle as we wait for the dreariest part of the year to turn into sweet, powdery goodness up high. In the meantime, I have a lot of time to catch up with old friends, like musical dynamo Phantogram.

I wasn't sold on their new single, but the rest of the album more than makes up for it. Here's cut "Cruel World" in all of its glory. Try not to add this to your next ski playlist. I double dog dare you.

In Deep: Hokkaido's Ski Identity Crisis

Ski paradise or amusement capital? Hokkaido struggles to make up its mind.  Thanks to Eric Dyer for the photo.

Ski paradise or amusement capital? Hokkaido struggles to make up its mind.  Thanks to Eric Dyer for the photo.

Another edition Cutting Room Floor from a magical 2015 Japan trip with an awesome crew. 

Ever since professional skiers and film companies descended upon Hokkaido, Japan nearly two decades ago, skiers have become accustomed to the moving images of divinely spaced trees, legendary storms, and impossibly deep snow. It has been the Shangri-La of sliding downhill, its still frames pasted longingly in dorm rooms and ski lockers wherever snow flies.

Yet, despite becoming Asia’s top ski destination, Japan’s north island has remained a calm departure from the tourist traps set in the Alps and Rockies. The 1972 Winter Olympics in Sapporo provided a brief fling with international acclaim, but Japan’s legacy has remained in Tokyo’s neon tubes and the tip of a seismograph pen. The north island has quietly stayed just out of reach, maintaining a simple lifestyle and an unsullied natural paradise of volcanoes and pristine forests spread across six national parks.

However, an influx of developers and large bank accounts are migrating to Hokkaido to change that, investing millions in hotels, mountain villages, and transportation. Ignoring cultural costs for economic potential, they have incited a societal tug-of-war—on one side, big money promising a major payout, on the other, an island clinging to a mountain identity stretching back thousands of years. And, at the center of it all, the best powder skiing in the world.

The Kirikrew takes flight in Hokkaido circa 2015.

The Kirikrew takes flight in Hokkaido circa 2015.

Hokkaido is no stranger to invaders. For centuries the native Ainu tribes—hunters and craftsmen with Siberian origins—battled and lost their lands to waves of Japanese inquisition, first to trade, then to gold, and finally to forced national unification. It remained a relatively independent entity until it was absorbed into modern-day Japan as a prefecture in 1947, earning it a certain Wild West mysticism that still pervades among mainland Japanese today.  

But the island’s newest conquest comes from foreign shores, carrying ski bags and base layers.  Our group of six steps into Sapporo’s New Chitose International Airport feeling as if we’d reached the final frontier of the ski world, a 16-hour flight away from the status quo. What we don’t account for is how thoroughly we’d been beaten to that frontier. Arriving in Niseko, Hokkaido’s premier resort town, we’re shocked to find convenience stores, pizza parlors, and heated sidewalks hours from any major city. English is everywhere, and we spot more Australian tourists and bright print outerwear than anyone resembling a Japanese skier.

Deep twilight with Eric Dyer at Kiroro Resort.

Deep twilight with Eric Dyer at Kiroro Resort.

In Niseko, the transformation is well under way. Developers have sunk hundreds of millions of dollars into the destination, including more than 10 large-scale residential projects started since 2013, according to the Wall Street Journal. Upscale apartments in the village list for well over $2 million, and we pass rows of high-rises with foreign comforts ranging from tapas bars to cigar lounges.  With no restriction on foreign ownership or on profiting from property investment, wealthy investors from Asia, Oceania, Europe, and North America have swooped in, hoping to create a luxury resort experience akin to the Alps or Whistler in the heart of an emerging Asian market.

At nearby Kiroro Resort, Sheraton and Tribute Portfolio, a Starwood Resorts subsidiary, have planted their own seeds on the island, taking over the area’s major hotels and all but assuring their future growth on Hokkaido.

Resorts have even begun hiring English-born marketing directors to accommodate the promised rush of Westerners and wealthy Chinese.

It’s disillusioning to say the least, but after spending a couple of days carving deep turns down idyllic ridgelines of Japanese maple and white birch, the draw becomes clearer. Hokkaido is geographically and orographically blessed, with strong, cold northwesterly winds sweeping down from Siberia. Resulting storms pick up moisture off of the Sea of Japan before running full force into the island’s nine mountain ranges. These barrages drop over 500 inches of light, dry powder snow a year (Niseko received 622 inches in 2013), giving it one of the highest annual totals of any ski destination in the world. With a consistent snow period from mid-December to early February, it’s as close to a sure bet as any in the ski world—a fact that many Japanese figured out far before the hotels came to town.

Night recap with some Strong Zero and Suntori.

Night recap with some Strong Zero and Suntori.

Our stationmaster Yoshi moved to Hokkaido 20 years ago from his native Osaka, a move he attributed  “to being closer to nature”.  In the two decades since, he has hand-built a series of guest cabins, carved out a bath from an old-growth log, and, as one does when buried under 40 feet of snow every winter, started skiing.

After he finishes chopping wood and shuttling guests around Niseko, he throws on his faded white, purple, and gold jacket, hops in his Toyota minivan, and heads up for some runs under the lights. Yoshi doesn’t consider himself a hardcore skier, but the sport is firmly engrained in his weekly routine.

It’s a tune we hear from many locals. Mountains are a way of life here, and while investors work overtime to sell the resort experience, a culture of homegrown skiers and snowboarders keeps ski areas humming throughout the island countryside.

Ancient Ainu myth contends that life itself began on a remote Hokkaido peak, and it’s difficult to ignore the spiritual pull toward the volcanic ranges crisscrossing the island.

Yoshi and the cabin he built by hand. Twenty years later, and he's still in love all that snow. And his shovel. Photo at right, courtesy of Eric Dyer.

Yoshi and the cabin he built by hand. Twenty years later, and he's still in love all that snow. And his shovel. Photo at right, courtesy of Eric Dyer.

“I love the mountains, it’s a very special place,” says our friend Taku, a ski patroller at Kiroro Resort near the coastal town of Otaru. “I used to surf, but after my friend died in the water, I stopped. I wanted to have that same feeling again, so I started snowboarding. I have been [in the mountains] ever since.”

Taku has seen the developmental waves ebb and flow throughout Hokkaido, including the real estate bubble of the early 2000s, the inevitable crash in 2008, and the economic shockwaves of the 2011 Fukashima earthquake disaster. He says that all of the rich that once frequented the Hokkaido hills returned back to mainland Japan, leaving only “the dedicated skiers and snowboarders”.

Those committed downhill enthusiasts, like Taku, are now the backbone supporting a new wave of foreign inquisition that threatens to replace simple mountain life under glitzy mountain villages. As a ski patroller, Taku helps enforce the resort rules and manage risky slopes to keep guests safe, while other Hokkaido locals run lifts, punch tickets, and prepare lodge food. He says despite his long hours, he often still gets to ski fresh powder after his shift ends around 2 p.m. But, with the annual number of foreign visitors to Japan doubling since 2011, the golden window of Japan’s quiet powder Mecca may be dwindling.

The boon also raises infrastructure concerns for a ski community rapidly outgrowing its roots. While resorts build mini-malls and luxury lodging to accommodate swelling numbers, rental shops are five years behind their overseas peers, lacking many of the modern powder ski technology and safety equipment offered at North American and European resorts.

Safety itself is another impending issue. As skier visits rise, skiers and boarders are pushing beyond the resort boundaries and into unmanaged avalanche terrain. While there have been minimal burials and avalanche deaths in the region thus far, only one website, Niseko Snow, is offering a detailed snow conditions report, and their reach only covers a fraction of the island. Taku is working to establish backcountry safety regulations and access gates outside of Kiroro, but he is fighting against time. From the lifts we see the skeletons of avalanche paths and wonder how long until those paths are paved in human tragedy.

But for a seasoned powder skier there is magic in this in-between period. As investors create adult playgrounds at the base of Hokkaido’s ski resorts, the island’s ski experience is still wild and beautiful, if even for a few seasons longer.

Night and day. New and old.

Night and day. New and old.

In Rusutsu, one of Niseko’s neighboring resorts, we buy our lift tickets in a shiny hotel lobby, walk past an animated talking tree, coast up an escalator, and by the neon lights of a candy store. After exiting the sliding doors we walk through a corridor of illuminated arches and snow animals, avoiding kids and sleds as synth-pop and a high-pitched woman’s voice serenade us eerily from somewhere in the trees. It is only then that we find the gondola, riding across the valley and up, away from the base circus and into Japan’s bottomless playground. 

No one knows how long the bubble expands before it bursts. The Hokkaido ski secret is out, and big money has undoubtedly positioned itself for an unstoppable offensive. Whether or not there will be room for the Yoshi’s and Taku’s in the coming years remains to be seen, but as developers work to transform Japan’s fabled north island, there is still time to get out and enjoy the ride.

Monthly Roundup: September 2016

Blurry iPhone pic from Hurricane Ridge, site of my Monumental essay. The Strait of Juan de Fuca and Canada are in the background.

Blurry iPhone pic from Hurricane Ridge, site of my Monumental essay. The Strait of Juan de Fuca and Canada are in the background.

Well lookey here, it seems that fall snuck in the back door and kicked summer to the curb. It was a fun one for sure, but I'm ready for the mercury drop and the promise of snow on the horizon.

After spending some time with family back in Maine, I dedicated much of September to chasing surf and planning for the winter around the corner.

In the mean time I was able to publish some work and made my book debut with an essay in POWDER's new coffee table book, Monumental. A book, yo! The book is part of a larger digital feature and film that will make its debut in a couple days. Though I only played a small part in the whole thing, it's great to be a part of something like this—especially when that something is celebrating 100 years of National Parks.

As always, thanks for checking in, and keepin' it tranquilo.

Powder

Music for the Monday

I went to see Bomba Estereo at the Neptune Theater a couple of weeks ago and this Colombian quartet absolutely nailed it. Super engaging, high energy, neo-Cumbia style had the entire place jumping up and down. This track is definitely one of their mellower songs, but a really solid listen for anyone that needs a little sunshine on a cloudy day.

Oh, and the video for this video was shot at a surf hostel I stayed at on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, so that's pretty cool. Some of the hostel owners and people from nearby Santa Marta are even in the video! Disfrutala, kiddos.

Snapshot Postcard: Oahu 2016

Going through old photos, I was trying to figure out a fun way to sum up some of the latest travels and stumbled across a postcard. I was struck by how simple it was, how in a collection of small pictures it could give pretty well sum up a place or experience. 

Using the trusty old cardboard rectangle as my compass, I decided it might be cool to summarize trips in a series of six photos as a sort of digital postcard. Each picture will represent a different category—art, food, portrait, pattern/texture, nature, view—to paint a full picture of the given locale or culture. In this way, I hope I can share a snapshot of each place I visit.

Also, if I don't get too lazy, I'll include a gallery below to explain why the pictures made the cut. These aren't my best photos per say, but together they tell a little bit of a story. Or, at least that's the hope. 

First up is Oahu. I visited the island this past April—my first trip to Hawaii ever—to visit my buddy Nick. He was finishing up a clinical on the west side of the island, and we all crashed at an AirBnB in Honolulu. What a strange and wild place. The tension between native islanders and American imperialism is such a strong undertone here. You really feel like an invader. One side is a beautifully colorful and unique island culture that has lived in harmony with nature for hundreds of years and on the other is an equally colorful (but quite garish) culture of vacationers, sugary umbrella drinks, and the deep military history of Pearl Harbor. It's an awkward symbiotic relationship, two sides that don't necessarily see eye to eye relying on one another to survive economically in an island paradise.

Fortunately or unfortunately, these photos don't necessary reflect the conflict. For the most part, I focused on the natural beauty of the island and a couple of things that will always remind me of my time adventuring around the lush underbelly of Hawaii.

Monthly Roundup: August 2016

Havana, Cuba 2013. I explained how to get the most bang for your CUC (or moneda nacional) in the Cuban capital with GrindTV this August.

Havana, Cuba 2013. I explained how to get the most bang for your CUC (or moneda nacional) in the Cuban capital with GrindTV this August.

Well, I've let the blogging wheels come off a bit over the past few months, but a lot of that is due to being pretty busy. Luckily for me, busy is good.

However, I wanted to get back on track and share some of the things I've been working on a month by month basis.

In addition to working with Powder on some really exciting ski stuff, I've been able to branch out a little bit, connecting with Seattle's local tech scene and even getting to cover a little bit of the Rio 2016 Summer Games in addition to some action sports coverage.

Things I was particularly excited about in August: My first Latitudes with Powder, launching a dirtbag travel guide with GrindTV, and following Olympic beach volleyball for Paste. I even got to do a little bit of modeling for a buddy's catalog shoot (more on that lat...umm...never).

Eventually I'd like to share some of my favorite pieces from 2016, but for now, let's stick with August. Happy reading all, and thanks again for checking in.

Powder

Gimme Some Sugar

Seattle Met

Shyft Profile

August Playlist Boost

Summer is flying by and the tune's are coming in faster than I can keep up with. This week entry is a cross between an old negro spiritual and a beat you'd hear in a ski or snowboard edit. I know, that's a really weird description, but sometimes there aren't words that really capture what's cooking—even if it's coming from a word's guy. Anywho, check it out, and thanks for listening, kids.

July Guy Tunes

It's always hit or miss when a couple of your favorites come together. Peanut butter and jelly? That works. Pokemon and the outdoors? Yeah, not so much.

Luckily Raekwon and Flume make a pretty good team and more than decent track. Check out You Know, and hit this Monday with everything ya got. B EZ.

Musica de Julio 2016

Inspiration is coming from so many different places these days, and per usual, music taste is following accordingly. This week I bumped into an old track by Mala Rodriguez a Spanish female rapper that rips. Just the laid-back look I was looking for this week. Hope you all feel the same. Cheers, kids.

Cutting Room Floor: Buried At Hirafu Station

In recent months I've had a backlog of writing that hasn't been able to find a home. Turns out that I have had a place for it the entire time, right under my nose. I hope to add a couple of these every few months, so stay tuned. To kick things off, here is a brief memory of some time spent in the snowy confines of Hokkaido, Japan in the winter of 2015.

Wordlessly, the train slides up to platform, its hello flashed quickly against the fogged windows of Hirafu Station. Inside, a steam tornado swirls from the tiny stovetop, as our stationmaster, Yoshi, counters the outside storm with another log on the raging wood fire.

Doors open and train passengers shuffle into the station’s waiting room, each lugging a thick layer of white on their black overcoats.

Lost amidst our bottle of sake and trip maps, it takes a few minutes to realize that the train’s departing beeps never sound. I rise from Yoshi’s hand-hewn table to find a neon army of municipal workers shuffling out onto the tracks. Snow shovels in hand, they battle the snow bank accumulating around the engine’s front wheels.

Nothing out of the ordinary, I think. We’ve been on Hokkaido, Japan’s north island, for nearly a week and haven’t seen the sun for more than a few hours. It’s the Japanese winter fabled by poets and winter journeyman worldwide, the reason our group of powder skiers set aside day jobs to trek halfway around the world in search of snow we’d only imagined from the opposite end of computer screens.

Minutes pass and the conductor steps onto the platform. Checking his watch and bowing his head against the galaxy of falling flakes, he paces the deck front to back, back to front, his footfall swept away before it can be retraced.

“How long until they move again?” I ask Yoshi. “This happens a lot, right?”

The stationmaster goes stiff, shuffling manically around the room in search of his coat. As he steps toward the door, he looks back and shakes his head solemnly.

“Never. This has never happened before.”

Over my shoulder I catch the audible gasp from our powder contingent. In a trip full of best days, tomorrow could be the best yet.

20 Years Later...A Seattle Story That Continues To Unfold

I met Katie Rose Fischer-Price for the first time at a Seattle bar with friends a little over a year ago. She was immediately engaging, and after talking for a while, she casually slipped in that she would be heading to Everest Base Camp that May. I was confused why she didn't seem more excited. After some prodding, she mentioned that her father was famed climber Scott Fischer, and how he was the reason for her mission.

A little starstruck, I started to tell Katie how I knew all about her father, I had pored over all of the books, videos, and articles surrounding the infamous '96 Everest climb that took his life and the lives of seven others—I was practically an expert. I realize now just how patient and kind she was in that moment as she told me straight-faced, "That's not the whole story."

Over the next year Katie and her vast support system opened up and gave me that story. All the while, Katie was writing her own impressive narrative in the places her dad loved when they needed it most, and sharing that with me as well.

Today marks 20 years since the tragic events on Mt. Everest that took Scott's life, along with those of Rob Hall, Andy Harris, Doug Hansen, Yasuko Namba,Tsewang Samanla, Dorje Marup, and Tsewang Paljor. For many, those events feel like yesterday, as if time has stood still for all this time. What will stick with me most is that Katie and her brother Andy have refused to be stuck in time with them, becoming their own forces in this life, and honoring their late father in the process. I have to think Scott would be pretty stoked on that.

I was privileged enough to tell Katie and the Fischer-Price's story in a feature inside Seattle Metropolitan Magazine's May Issue. I'm one of thousands of people that could have written it, but I'm just glad it's out there for people to see. In closing, hug your mom, call your old friend, tell that person how you really feel. This stuff is too precious not to.

You can check the article out in the May Issue on newsstands now or HERE online (fo' free).