Life on the 'Farm

In New Zealand, we live up atop the Pisa Mountain Range at the Waiorau Snow Farm. Now, I'm on my way back to the U.S.A. Before I lift off over the Pacific, here are a couple of the pictures from the last days here.



Kristina Strandberg striding it out with a background that makes me think of skiing on the moon.



Chris Klebl putting the kilometers in. It's cool to share the trails here with athletes who overcome unique challenges everytime they hit the cordoroy.




Chemical soon-to-be-nighttime Sky above the Southern Alps.




Ahh, nothing like an underpowered ten passenger van with bald tires on snowy, curvy dirt roads. Makes getting to town a bit of an adventure. Also makes learning how to put on chains a necessity.

I"m off. First to Southern California for a couple days in the Santa Ynez Valley sun, then back home to the Pacific Northwest...

South Island in Pictures

(Photo by Justin Wadsworth).

Every year, for the last eight years, I've made a southern trek to New Zealand's South Island to find some time on the magic white stuff. The training load during my days here always tilts a bit to the side of volume. As a coach of mine use to say, "There's a certain quality to quantity."


(Photo by Justin Wadsworth).

Since I'm down in the country of Murray Halberg, Peter Snell and Co. it might be apt to steal a line, or at least paraphrase, a thought of Arthur Lydiard's - from distance work comes speed. Speed training has been far from a focus so far this season. Still, the speed over the snow feels good.

Run to the Top... Ski to the Top...



(Photo by Torin.)

Living above the treeline atop a mountain, weather moves in easily at the Wairaou SnowFarm. And sometimes with a nasty disposition. Other days, it's just beautiful. With a combination of snowfences and sunshine, this counts as one of the latter.

N.Zed

Putting the hours in on day job. 4 min double pole intervals followed by a long distance warmdown. Clear, cold weather and hard classic tracks a perk of the job somedays here on the South Island.

Short Summer Story

planned a trip
skiers in trusty subaru
salty water
surfboard rails soon in my grip



olympic day
could it be, a memory?
what'll I say
after the summer's all gone?



pacific city
imaginary white snow
along I roll
on highway one-oh-one


king of spade
consult with my chambermaid
says go forth
knows perfecting skills take work



breathe it in
sweet smell of life in full bloom
hebo awaits
nine mile hill climb time trial loom



cascade head
dragontail and ocean views
like one says,
"seek out and follow your muse"



new zealand
closes fast in frontview mirror
salt and sand,
any better way to say goodbye?



The End.

Carnaby Street

"It ain't the melodies that are important, man, it's the words," Bob Dylan once said. Out along the roads of Central Oregon, sometimes training alone, sometimes in the company of others, it's words and not melodies that rush through my mind. These mix and match, sometimes meshing, sometimes mashing - providing an image, matching a mood, to the moment.



Like the time high above pinyon and ponderosa Eddie told me to...
Rise Up, Find my direction magnetically.
Rise Up, Throw down my ace in the hole.



Or like the time Kim softly whispered the words to Bull in the Heather into my ear.

tell me that yr burning for me
tell me that you can't afford me
time to tell your r dirty story
time f'r turning over and over
time f'r turning four leaf clover

betting on the bull in the heather



Or that time Bobby sang that song to Woody:

'Bout a funny old world that's coming along.
Seems sick, and it's tired, it's hungry and it's torn
I looks like it's a dying and it's hardly been born

Arresting artwork stolen from Shepard Fairey's personal collection.



Or like the time cruising the back roads out to Jackson's Bay on the Western Coast of New Zealand's South Island when Jack let out his secret,

"You see, the whole world is out there, like an oyster for me to open. And the pearl is there, the pearl is there!"



Or like the time Dylan kept talking on and on in riddles about a friend of his. He not busy being born, Is busy dying.

Then he left, just like that. Only his final words hung around. If you see her, say hello.

These words kept will remind me, Eddie.

Oregon Trail

Back in the day, heading off on the Oregon Trail might have been a two-thousand mile journey from the backwaters of the Missouri. Oregonian old-timers also might have taken the oxen-driven farm wagon instead of an air-conditioned, four wheel drive Toyota Tacoma but, still, I'd like to think there's semblance to the same adventure - a jumping off into great wide unknown. Washington will always be where I grew up; I can't imagine calling anywhere but Leavenworth my hometown. Later, Utah, the University, and the snowy Wasatch Mountains form an indelible part of my past. But it's the raw, burly backdrop of Bend, Oregon where I'm now home.




From the fertile Columbia River Valley, to the Cascade Mountains, the Goldendale scenescape you see here below, it's time to shake hands and say goodbye to Washington. In the distance, if you look closely, white windmills tilt to the sky. I hope Cervantes would be proud.




Grass Valley. Moro. Shaniko. All small towns I pass along the way, holding stories of commerce and community I can only guess at.



I round a corner. Just a stone's throw to the east rests the town of Terrebonne and the towering red spires - Smith Rock, the birthplace of U.S. sport climbing. Or so I'm told.

To the west, angry clouds collect above the Cascades. I try to remember the exact words the free-skier Doug Coombs said about listening to mountains. Something about tuning into and heeding what the mountains have to say today.



I arrive in Bend. My roommate Carl wrenches on his turbo-hopped rally car with the help of his dad. Mr. Dekker is not only a fossil-fuel fun seeker. He earns his wages riding mountain bikes for a living. He's not the only one in Bend that can seriously say this is their primary occupation.



The spelunker's view from inside a Central Oregon lava tube.



My playground. From left: Mt. Bachelor, Broken Top, South Sister, Middle Sister, North Sister.



The US Ski Team getting together for a national team camp on the cross country trails of Mt. Bachelor. To the best of times. And those that will be. Ciao.

Springtime Outside the Schoolyard

Just before heading off to Whistler in search of snow on the 2010 Olympic trails, I joined Mr. Peck's fifth grade class for another kind of search. We were on the lookout for wildflowers.



Chino and Kobe among the arrowleaf balsomroot.




Here my lil armada take in the view from the outrun of the K70 ski jump.



In time, identifying and drawing yellow bells and forget-me-nots were no match to the allure of boys hucking themselves off the jumps.



Here, Jaxon soars.




The girls were just a little more committed to the task at hand. Here, Kristin compiles the pertinent data from the chocolate lilies in bloom.



In all, the kids have to identify, draw, and write about at least fifty wildflowers.




From cultivating gardens and breeding quails in the fall, digging snow caves and learning about snow science in the winter, to frolicking in fields full of wildflowers in the spring, the fifth graders in Leavenworth experience a little science outside the domain of textbooks, lectures and classrooms.

Until the next time, -T