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There is a place in the Chugach mountains, a place where few visit and none stay. A place where the average annual snowfall is over 1500cm, and you have 23000 km of mountains and glaciers all to yourself. A place where 150 km/h winds are common and storms can last for days, or weeks. Just a short bush plane ride out of the Matanuska Valley and your in snowkite heaven. Our plan was simple, our goals were achievable, and our hopes were grandiose. The plan: Explore the Inner Chugach with snowkites. The goals: Kite, as much as possible, as far as possible, and every time the wind blows. The hopes: Kite everyday and explore the Tazlina, Nelchina, Upper Columbia glaciers. We had enough food and fuel for 10+ days of luxury glacier living, light enough rigs to travel, and some kites. What more could you ask for?
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Snow-kiting the ice-fields is a sport full of objective hazard. Crevasse falls would almost certainly be fatal. All of my glacier travel experience tells me to wear a goddamn rope. When used as a safety line to catch a team member in the event of a crevasse fall, I love the rope. But try skiing with one on, then connect to your partners who are connected to a kite. Love will definitely not be the first four letter word that comes out of my mouth. But, the beauty of kiting the ice-fields is that, for most of the time, a rope is not needed. Because ice-fields lack a large gradient, they are relatively flat. Their stillness and utter vastness of uninterrupted ice minimizes any frictional stresses that create highly crevassed terrain. They are by no means safe, just safer for us to roam free.
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I looked up to see Nate a quarter mile from me. The breeze shifted from west to north and then halted. My kite crumpled and fell to the ground. I began packing it when a gust whipped past me and jolted the kite. Grabbing the lines I pulled the kite lengthwise to the wind and stuffed it away. Snow spiraled into a whiteout. I looked up to orient myself. Hail stung my face. A gust pushed my sleds past me. Among the white background Nate suddenly appear like a ghost. We traveled closely to each other. Wet snow plastered the windward side of me like a freight train barreling through a storm. Turning the last corner into camp, I saw Eli walking up the gully with his sleds. “Almost got pulled over the edge.” He pointed to the sheer drop seventy feet above. “So I had to let my sleds go. Only lost the kite.” We dug for hours, warming our bodies and creating a cavern big enough for everyone. At eleven pm we stripped wet layers and slipped into sleeping bags. I lay awake listening to the rain and wondering how morning would come.
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On May 5 2005, Paul Swanstrom of Haines (Alaska Mt Flying and Travel) flew our group of five from Yakutat to a landing zone on the upper Seward Glacier. We were dropped at about 7000 feet, near the Canadian border under the southeast arm of Mt Vancouver, with the aim of skiing Mt Cook. Although the pilot reported that the previous week had been unseasonably warm and huge runnels prevented us from landing closer to Mt Cook, a short tour on the first day unveiled soft conditions on the northern aspects. Better yet the view from camp showed a near perfect and likely continuous run down Mt Cook!
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