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jen and teri’s first heli-trip jen and teri flew into the juneau icefield and took three very long, very glorious rides down the mountain, onto a glacier, with some very good people. Here’s how it went… by teri tibbett 9 April 2000 Jen and I took our first heli-trip today. The idea came up last night out at Eagle River where me and Jay and Scott were watching the sunset over the water with a bonfire raging on the beach behind us. We stood around taking pictures and talking about the icefield. Jay was saying "you need to go into the icefield this year. You need to make it happen. You live here. This is your backyard. You need to do this if you have the means." And I totally agreed. Jay (Nelson) is here guiding with Out of Bounds Adventures. He’s a 27-year-old world class snowboarder, professional since he was 20. He’s been coming to the Juneau icefield for the last five years to ride, film, and guide. Scott (Sullivan) is a photographer here working with Justin Hostynek. Scott and I finished out the night playing guitars and singing our snowboarding songs to each other while Jay lay on the couch in and out of dreamland complaining when we stopped because the silence woke him up.
The parking lot was crowded with guys standing around with their packs, boards, and cameras, listening to their guides Bob Cokely and Jim Zellers who were coordinating and gesticulating. Their group was pretty much briefed and ready to go, mostly European filmmakers and riders. They loaded and flew off toward Mt. McGinnis. Inside the terminal we met up with Nate from Washington who was in the locals group, and Jay who was our guide. The lead guide, Bill Glude, was briefing another group. We joined them and listened to how to be around the helicopters, staying low, not chasing hats or gear that fly up in the wash, waiting to move around until the bird is gone, etc. Jay checked our gear, backpacks, shovels, probes, beacons. He set up a mock avalanche situation by burying a beacon in some driftwood debris fifty yards away. At the cue, we each followed a circular pattern, reading our receivers, and honing in on the transmitter. It took a few minutes, but we found it. It was good practice. Inside the terminal Bill and Jay coordinated with the pilot for where to go. The first groups were further north experiencing fog and clouds. Bill's group wanted stuff with jagged peaks and steep terrain, the visuals they can't get where they’re from in the Alps. Part of the icefield east of town had all they wanted and was bright and sunny. We decided to go there. Bill’s group loaded up and flew off. It was over an hour before the pilot returned for us. When he got there we loaded our boards and packs into the metal basket on the side of the helicopter and we were off too.
Onboard, lifting up, higher and higher over the airport, we flew along Lemon Creek to Lemon Glacier. The snow line was still pretty low, about 2,000 feet. We flew over trees and narrow ravines, past the head of the glacier, into the icefield where everything starts to look lunar. Stark and white glacial valleys, peaks jutting up like broken glass, like it goes on forever and ever. We flew around looking for Bill’s group and spotted them on a peak facing northeast near Norris Island. We could see their tracks winding down to a spot on the glacier. Over the radio, Bill told us the conditions were a little crusty where they were. He suggested flying to the other side of the glacier to another peak with a good-looking northeast face. Roger that. Our pilot dipped and swung like a kite over the flats to the other mountain. He looked carefully for a spot to land. The peak was not more than twenty feet wide, with a cornice looking over the north side and a steep descent to the south. The helicopter hovered over the top, then settled onto it like a candle on a cupcake. Snow dust stirring to the point of white-out.
Stepping out, Jay and Nate positioned themselves safely under the spinning rotors and opened the basket. Jen and I hustled around, staying low, and helped unload, until the helicopter took off and everything was silent. Ah, the silence standing on a peak in the middle of an icefield. We grabbed our packs and boards and trudged through waist high powder to a spot where Jay said to wait until he could dig a pit. He was out of view for 10-15 minutes, then called us on the radio to follow his tracks. We put on our boards and rode a hundred feet to where he was standing inside a pit. He said there was six inches of fresh fluffy powder on top and a layer of harder packed wet snow underneath. He told us it looked good and we should feel pretty safe today. The sky was perfectly bluebird with zero wind. It felt as good as any hot sandy beach in Mexico. Jay said he would go down first. He expressed concern about some steeper slopes to our left and the potential for slides there, and cautioned us to stay to the right of his tracks. Other than that we were free to ride wherever we wanted. Just meet at the same spot on the glacier where the helicopter can pick us up (the LZ). He strapped on his board and slithered off the slope, making sweeping turns all the way to the bottom. It took so long for him to get there. It was so far away. And he looked so tiny when he arrived. Nate held the radio. I took photos in all directions. Jay communicated again to stay to the right of his tracks, then gave us the go ahead to come down one at a time. Jen went first. Nate and I watched her turns. She swept down the mountain, all regal and glorious, to the LZ where Jay stood waiting and watching. Then it was my turn. I took a long flowing line over the rollers. It seemed to take forever. I just kept riding and riding. The snow under my feet was like velvet, endless rows of it, soft and gentle. I made some turns, but my joy was gliding over the top and feeling the terrain rise and fall under my feet. Whoa. Toward the bottom I pointed it and got low so I could make it all the way across the flats to the LZ. As I pulled up, I could see Jay and Jen were all smiles, truly happy, truly friends. We watched Nate come down, taking a more severe line. He's a good rider and has done this a lot before. You could see the joy on his face too when he cruised up.
We loaded the basket again with our stuff, then climbed in. We flew to the same spot on the peak and the pilot landed the bird effortlessly as before. Again we unloaded and gathered at the top for a briefing. Jay said it was okay to take a steeper line this time and gave us the parameters of safety. He made the first run down, marking the boundaries. Over the radio he told Nate that he could do the same, but suggested the ladies stay more to the right where it was less hazardous. This time Nate went first. We watched him fly. Jen and I stayed at the top looking at everything around us, beaming and laughing with supreme joy. The blue sky behind. The jagged peaks in front. The icefield and all it's open whiteness. God, it was beautiful. Then it was my turn. Again I flew, fast and furious, like riding a mile-long ocean wave all the way to the LZ where smiling faces were waiting. Jen followed, taking a steeper line than before and arrived at the bottom with her classic big-white-teeth smile. Jay videotaped each of us this time.
For our third run we decided to try a different spot, across the valley, onto another mountain. Jay was cautious, wanting to dig another pit, reminding us that it’s good to be really cautious the first day after a storm when the snow is still settling. The helicopter flew us over and we unloaded. The top of this mountain was jagged and rough. We stood among granite spires, so raw, so surreal. I took more photos. Nate videotaped the panorama. Our final ride down was long and winding and free down from the peaks, though this time the snow was shaded and a little crusty. Jay led us down the safest route. Steep, but we each took the lines we felt comfortable with. I traversed long and hard across the top making a beeline for a small bowl on the other side. Jay warned me not to bomb it this time. I could see why, the snow was unforgiving, harder, a fall would likely end up in a cartwheel frenzy down the slope.
The LZ was way down on the glacier sitting in the last bit of afternoon sun. We were trying to make it there before the mountain cast a shadow on it because the pilot needs the definition to navigate a safe landing, but we missed it, and the shadow fell. The snow was waist deep, too deep for trying to catch the sun, so Jay radioed the pilot and suggested if we make a pattern in the snow, a star, he might be able to see it better. The pilot agreed to try. So, each of us kneeled on our boards and "paddled" in four different directions, making a four-pointed star. When the helicopter arrived, we buried our heads away from the flying snow and held our breath as the pilot dipped and jogged, trying to find the surface. He landed it no problem and we loaded and left just as the sun was setting behind the last mountain.
We flew back over riveted glaciers, over mountains and past trees to the heliport where Zellers and Bruce’s wife Mary Frances were waiting for us. We were all so high, so happy. The other groups were just getting back too when we landed. Everybody was smiling. We gave photographer Peter Mathis my camera to take a picture of our group in front of the helicopter. By this time everyone was ready for dinner and we packed up to go. We gathered again at the Hangar downtown and carried on the good times over Alaskan Amber beer. What a day. What a place. The Juneau icefield. Tonight as I lay on my bed writing all this down I’m thinking about how being the icefield stirs up a whole collection of energies. The energy of the mountains. The energy of the people you’re with. The energy, and potential energy, of the snow. It all comes together for a moment in time. And it all seems to add up to something good.
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