FOUR SEASONS OF VASCO DA POW POW IZZYISMS Words MICHAEL “IZZY” ISRAELSON WE HAVE A long-standing debate, Vasco and I. Oceans or mountains? Despite himself, he’s coming around, I think. I could sit for an eternity and stare at the waves breaking against the shore, but I feel trapped against that blue wall. Sure, I can surf, swim, sail, or snorkel. But with rare exceptions, none of those take me too far into the sea. I could sit for an eternity and stare at my mountains too. The sun’s path bookended by alpenglow, the wind in the trees, the mys-terious lights borne by nocturnal hikers. The mountains, however, also afford exploration. I can hike, ride, or drive into them. There is infinite complexity in the forests and the tundra, a Mandelbrot set of possibilities. And they are, of course, host to the seasons. And this is where I think Vasco may be starting to crack. A child of the sea, Vasco Da Pow Pow was born in coastal Portugal before his family immigrated to America’s Eastern Seaboard. Vasco does all of the things that you should do on the ocean. He surfs. He fishes. He boats. He stares. But a graduate course of study brought him to the mountains. While he will wax “come for the winter, stay for the summer,” Vasco stayed for a lady named Tara, who happens to be on my side of the debate. You see, mountains have four usable seasons. Six if you are a mud-season optimist. Or a hunter. Even Vasco, a new convert to the high hills, never finds a climate that doesn’t suit his clothes. This unexpected enthusiasm has led to my calendar being dictated by the Four Seasons of Vasco Da Pow Pow. Springtime means rafting. Summer—single track. And fall is for fishing. Any leftover time is dedicated to finding swell with a nice right. But it’s the most important season of all that may have trans-formed this seaborne human for good. Winter is the twinkle in Vasco’s eye, a time when mountains become usable in a whole new way. Fishing for lines, surfing with gravity. All in three dimensions, his water reimagined. And it is here on the flanks of the alpine that I spend most of my time with Vasco. His nickname came after a big day spent touring Berthoud Pass, CO. Amid unending musing regarding John Denver, which sparkling wine is preferred in the White House, and the use of a horse rib to assess the quality of a cured meat, Tara interrupted. “Do you have any idea where you are going?” she said. “I’m Portuguese,” he responded. “My people are explorers. Do you know Vasco Da Gamma?” Mountains to ocean and back again—some skiers follow their own type of water cycle. Photo: Mattias Fredriksson Our modern-day explorer of frozen water is correct, and with an accumulated knowledge of snowpack, aspect and early morning skintracks, Vasco has indeed discovered new lands (or at least new ways of approaching them). Heraclitus once suggested that “no man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” In Vasco’s endless exploration of the Continental Divide, I’ve realized the only constant in life is the change of seasons. In spring, Vasco will be piloting his raft over Berthoud runoff. When the mountains are fringed with forget-me-nots and kinnick-innic, Vasco’s fat tires will churn up singletrack. And as the winds start to blow colder from the north, the rivers will run gin-clear and invite the flies Vasco tied during mud season. On a mercury’s midnight drop, my old friend El Niño will blow in autumnal beauty. That moment of peering west to see the high country draped in a veil of pure white will only last a minute. Not even a breath. Vasco will see it too. It won’t be long before my phone blows up. A series of one-line messages arriving to turn my internal calendar’s page. “Time to shelve the fat tires, Izzy!” he’ll say. “Touring on Friday—alpine start!” 032 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume 16, Issue 2: Page 32
