Each season shared a familiar pattern

– The predictable excitement when snow started falling in October
– Playing hookey from work to drive the 4 hours from the SF Bay to Tahoe to start the season fresh
– Growing fatigue with the 4:30am alarm clock to get to the snow in time to set the skin-track
– Growing depression as the season wraps up and resorts start shutting down
– The early summer pilgrimage to bcrider’s Fountain of Youth
– Summer research when I desperately comb skiing, backpacking, and fishing blogs to find places that still hold some semblance of snow
– Struggling through August and September on burned out, icy suncups while praying for those first flakes and the excitement of another year

All the while, trying (often unsuccessfully) to explain to Bay Area locals why I do such a funny thing.

For what it’s worth, my streak didn’t end due to apathy or boredom. My streak ended with me standing on snow, unable to ride. In an attempt to make the most of my summer weekends, I had decided to take advantage of a lucky “double-dip” weekend over Labor Day. The plan was to ride in August on Sunday afternoon and earn my September turns on Monday morning.

After leaving home at 5am, I parked at the Dunderberg Peak trailhead only to discover that I had not packed boots. Figuring that, if nothing else, splitboarders are inventive and resourceful, I tightened my binding straps as short as they’d go, strapped on my running shoes, and started rummaging through the Subaru for anything that would let me MacGyver my feet to the bindings. Finding nothing but ratty t-shirts in the back seat, some duct tape, and a few Voile straps, I shoved it all in my pack and started the 2 mile hike to the snow.

45 minutes later, I found a nice flat rock near the snowfield and set to work turning my running shoes and high school lacrosse shirts into something approximating snowboard boots. The Voile straps? I used those to strap my arches to my bindings. This is when I took my first look at the “snow” and I use the term optimistically. The whitish brown stuff receding up the scree field was sheet ice with quarter-sized rocks sticking out for good measure.

“This is it. The streak is over,” I thought to myself.

To reach my 1,000 vertical foot limit, I was looking at a minimum of 20 laps on that chocolate chipped ice block. I was by myself and 2 miles from the car. Discretion being the better part of valor, I decided that Sunday was a good day for fly-fishing.

That’s how Tim scores his experience with “Turns All Year”, now tell us about your streak here.