Powder magazine calls the scene, as sick as it gets and for a good reason. The Chugach Mountains are steep and deep with a maritime snow pack (The Prince William Sound is only a few miles away as the crow flies).

Jason Mack - ripping it up on the Berlin Wall

There are so many peaks within a relatively small area, The Books, The Library, The Detention Center and the Principal office. Whoever named this clusters of jagged mountains, must of had a serious school complex. The choices are seemingly endless with close easy access for snowcats, planes and helicopters. Generally, this means that on most aspects of 40 degrees or greater the snowpack is self- cleaning. New snow fall either sticks (due to the high moisture content) or sloughs off and falls away. Dont get me wrong, this by no means that it is safe. The same world wide rules of Avalanche safety, control and unpredictability still apply up here.

Come the end of March, the Chugach draws all the crazies for the World Extreme Ski Championships, the King of the Mountain (World all Mt Snowboarding Championship) and the Arctic Man (team snowmobile/ski race). Many stay on after the events to play and work. Film crews hover around to catch their moves.

When the sun shines clear in the blue sky, the light is softer, and lasts longer than any other place I have been to. Skiing, as defined by most worldwide destinations is a 8-4 or 9-5 scene, not so unlike the regular work week. Up here, The mountains are lit from 6 am to 10 PM daily, so the flying and riding options are much more flexible. Best bet for the killer light is late, real late. Everyday the sun sets almost 61/2 minutes later and the late afterglow lingers on and on. Time is different up here.

Tom Day - waiting for the weather

Those who retire early awake more rested, but they spend a good part of the day hearing what they missed. Our morning routine is simple. When the skies are blue, we awake sometime before noon with a start as the first chopper takes to the sky. On gray days, the wake up call never comes. This place is known to close out for weeks.

Come with time on your hands, be ready, be patient. How right Tom was. Over the next few days, the temperature rises and the gray sets in. We settle into a routine of easygoing laziness. Fat Boy couch days are the order of the times. This is such a contrast to the charging, take-advantage- of-the-blue-sky-day concept. These down days are marked by ridiculously late wakeups, casual chat sessions, a nibble or two, perhaps a nap, and the customary beer. All the different people around the scene seem to flow in and out of our spacious motorhome. At one point I count over the roar of tunes and excited conversations. There are 12 people chewing the fat, playing the scene. There is a knock a the door and another surprised face. Room for one more? This place is a who's who; everyone seems to be up here, having a good time.

By the fourth down day, I need to do something - anything. Tom Day pokes his head in the door with a nice old bed-head hairdo and a cup o Joe, Good morning. I look at my watch, it is two PM. Whats going on? I shrug, I dont know, we were thinking of heading into town. Tom smiles, What are you going to do? Magoo answers, Maybe check-out the harbor; fat-boy it I guess, how about you? Dont know, I guess I'll join ya. A half hour later Tom is at the controls selecting another CD. The familiar sounds of the Grateful Dead fills the space, Truckin', I got my chips cashed in...