[caption]Left - Mt. Warshington from the East at WildKitty | Right - Mt. Warshington from the West near Bretton Bode Woods[/caption]

Back in the day, I woke up late, threw a few beers in the pack, and rolled up to the Ravine on my own. These days a brother wakes up at 4 am, throws a few tons of required mostly useless gear in the bag, and drives for 3 plus hours for one of my few rides with the old DEMOLITION crew.

[caption]Left - J-Mac prepping at the base | Right - Providers of quality footwear for rent, Wildcat[/caption]

Here's the deal, there are a few requisites to the Tuckermans experience. Last season, VTCarrieBeck killed the first requisite by forgetting her hiking poles. I wrote it up like such,

Carrie quickly guaranteed a fine day by declaring that she had forgotten her hiking poles. It is a time honored tradition of Tuckerman's that you will always forget something essential. Should you break this rule, you will be guaranteed to slip on dog poo on the way up or worse.
OG post

Carrie had it easy last year since we rolled up in late April, when your shot at good weather on Mt Warshington is significantly elevated over early March. I spent the week leading up to Sunday scouring the internets for some resemblance of a clue on the weather. Predicting the weather on the big hill is like predicting the next rider not named Shaun to get cased by big B.

Upon arrival, I opened the trunk to realize that I had left one hiking pole and the Dogfish Head Black and Blue victory beer back in Bristol. While leaving a beer behind is rather tragic, it by no means guarantees fine weather up on the steep slope. Luckily the ravine rookie J-Mac came through with the big win (or fail depending upon your perspective, I am a glass 1/8 full kind of guy). He got to experience the unenviable feeling that comes when your snowboard boots are resting three hours away. Luckily the fine folks at Wildkitty were able to rent J-Mac a tasty pair of Rossi Lounge Lizards from the late 90's. I got burned by the forgotten boots at Beaver Creek years ago and have never forgotten them since. J-Mac now has his burn and we had a day ahead of us.

[caption]Left - Elmer Fudd | Right - Price and J-Mac adjusting layers and such[/caption]

Apparently Price went to a saloon party the night before. Back in my faster years, we had a theory that the only way to guarantee a powder day was to wake with the world's worst hangover, "drinking it white". This time of year, we shift from "drinking it white" to "drinking it blue-ishbird" and Price was doing his part (let the record show that I was at Dan's and the Bobcat helping the cause). I never really discerned exactly why Price was rocking the Elmer Fudd look, but it may have had something to do with a fauxHawk gone wrong. I think I picked up through the muppet mumbling that he was part of an Indian chatting session outside some random bar, possibly in New Hampshire or Maine. That seems likely.

[caption]Left - first view of the bowl | Right - in the bowl[/caption]

I have been living out the life of a NeverHasBeen. That term, coined during the height of the DEMOLITION days, refers to someone over the hill that was never talented enough to be considered a HasBeen. I never was a pro rider but I pretended for a long while, riding everywhere from the Alps up north to the Alps down south. These days I am pretending to be a photographer, paralleling the path of any self respecting artfag pro rider, albeit minus the semblance of talent. This new documenting rank affords me the opportunity to take copious numbers of rest breaks and blame it on "capturing the moment."

Against all odds, the NeverHasBeen photog, 90's boots guy, and Elmer Fudd made killer time up the beaten path and were in the bowl before the legions of Lax playing, race weenies rolled in void of upper body clothing.

[caption]Left - The Big Grin | Right - the low budget sequence, a few frames missing.[/caption]

I can guarantee that everyone of us remembers the first time we rolled up on some serious terrain. You just don't forget that feeling of your throat constricting, your heart pumping blood at a rapid rate, and your brain focused on the challenge. I got mine up in bowl my 3rd year of riding. My buddy convinced me to camp over a night and greeted my first hike up with a bottle of Grampa's medicine, better known to the low brow liquor buying crowd as Dr. Millicutty's.

I have a theory, you can divide the folks of this fine world into two crowds based on how they react to their first serious alpine experience, you either come away craving more or looking to avoid another run-in at any costs.

This was J-Mac's first experience and truth be told we didn't really get into the thick shit. No, we only made it about half way up the face and dropped in where things were still distant from gnarly. That said, it was steeper than your average ski tow and we were deep enough to get the gist of the game. J-Mac had originally opted out of the final hike, but made the decision to scamper up for one quick run. He came out looking as stoked as a man could be, stating triumphantly, "my cheeks are hurting from this grin". Well he said something like that and I am fairly sure where he resides in the scheme of this fair world.

[caption]Left - quite possibly my favorite picture of the punters, ever | Right - Price's reaction to the punters[/caption]

Another requisite of the Tuckermans experience is that you will most likely see some fools with absolutely no business being on the big slope. Typically this requisite does not come easy in early March. It took us until our way out of the circus to satisfy the requirement. My theory is that our timing benefited greatly by spring break and I believe the evidence of the above photo speaks for itself. You would think that a bunch of chiselers without shirts in 40 mph wind would be difficult to beat but we would see it.

After we rode out of the Bowl, we opted to rock the deck at HoJo's for a bit. While lounging about, some chooch with South Park pajama bottoms was bumping around. I was under the assumption that he was staying up in a lean-to and then he pops over to the Sherbie and heads down. Price Fudd exclaimed, "That guy is riding in his bed pants" (or something along those lines). It should be noted that my self appointed position in the North Conway scheme is to point out dumb statements as I see them. Obviously I couldn't let "bed pants" slide. I haven't laughed so hard since the infamous "You like dem DVDs" exchange of old school days.

7YW Represent (minus victory beer). Make your own damn stencil.