Sunday, November 30, 2014

Annual Black Friday Exodus: Borealis-LeFevre Cabin, White Mountains, Alaska

For the third year in a row, Gretchen and I have decided to get the hell out of town on the day after Thanksgiving. It's not that we're tempted by shopping. Nor do we frequent establishments that get "run down" with Black Friday discounts. We just like dumb excuses to get out of doors and ski, and camp, and escape into the wilderness. We also like to gawk and wave at the swollen Wal-Mart parking lot as we pass heading north out of Fairbanks onto the Steese Highway towards the White Mountains.

Jack doesn't care about Black Friday either.

Consumerism lurks on the horizon, we skied away from it.

I think all dogs love to pee on stuff, but my dog, Jack, really loves to pee on stuff, 
like really, really loves to pee stuff.  

My skis 

Sometimes I call this part of the trail Broadway. It's about 5.5 miles from the parking lot and after three ups and three downs the trail widens to many, many ski lengths. 
As the snow deepens the boulevard will be become packed by snow machines and mushers and skiers burying the willow shrubs, broadening between the black spruce.  

One of my favorite cabins in the Whites. It's the final official checkpoint for the 
White Mountain 100 ski/bike/run race at the end of March, which I've completed twice. 

Outdoor temps hovered around here all weekend. 

Jack likes to pretend like we own this cabin.


Scott Brucker: he likes to ski, he likes puffy jackets, he's not sponsored by Outdoor Research (OR), but he has owned this camouflage blaze orange fleece cap 
the past five years I've known him, and he's single--ladies. 


 Aren't these two adorable?


 More Mr. Brucker. He can't harness his boots, but he can slide his hands into these oven mitts. He also can't really cook anything other than Mountain House meals, but he likes football, teaching elementary students, and spending time exploring new places in Alaska. 
Did I mention he's 28 and single?

The banks of Beaver Creek just a few dozen feet down a hill from the door of our cabin. 

After skiing this weekend for the past three years, it's upsetting how 
thin and shallow the snowpack is this year.

Indoors it could get real ripe. 


Cabin life: reading, writing, lounging.