Open Season

Last week at an informal state of the snowpack talk, Don Sharaf of the American Avalanche Institute told his audience that, while the Bridger-Teton Avalanche Center forecasters don't like to turn the whole pyramid to green, it's officially open season in the Tetons. The frightening early season instabilities have healed themselves and slow, steady accumulation with negligible weird weather means the best possible snow conditions: deep and not moving.

"This kind of stability means you get your bucket of balls and just start teeing up shots," Big Don told us.

Indeed.

We had planned in advance to go use up a couple Mountain Collective days at Big Sky, so unfortunately we weren't taking as much advantage of open season as we could be, but decided to aim for a big walk on Sunday. Talking about it and poring over trip reports on the drive home from Montucky, we laid out a plan for Buck. We decided to approach the massive jutting peak from a different route than most people did, a route that added in a little chute and seemed to make more sense.

Buck is a beaut, for sure.

I had a vague sick feeling in my stomach thinking about the descent, mostly because a half decade of hyper-awareness and timidity around avalanche terrain really runs counter to the idea of skiing a huge, steep, open, east-facing aspect, completely at the mercy of those twin snow-movers, sun and wind.

But we packed all of our sharps (a whippet, ice axe, and crampons for each) and arose at 4 a.m. to tackle the peak, maybe. Our biggest fear was that the face would warm too quickly, but at the trailhead the temperature gauge read -10 degrees, and the shock of cold totally blindsided us. Our concern turned to the wisdom of leaving the dog in the car, which we usually do in the Park because it means she isn't left at home to her own devices for what could be twelve or fifteen hours. We fluffed jackets and blankets onto the seats for her and hoped the sun would emerge quickly and turn the van into a greenhouse.

After last week's mission I wondered if big tours were getting easier, but this week I wondered why I felt so shitty. We were both slow and dehydrated from a quasi-debauched Big Sky weekend with Bria and soon lost sight of the objective. Halfway up the annoyingly uneven Maverick skin track, we stopped to have that important conversation: we're not moving fast enough to tackle the summit.

Also, the standard way people get up the peak is via an airy knife ridge with 1,500 feet of exposure, and while we knew the bootpack had been well-established by purportedly fifteen skiers the day before, I loathe exposure. I'm not really cut out for ski mountaineering, obviously. We could boot up the less-exposed face instead but it'd be slower going and people might drop onto us at any time.

We skinned up a gusty, wind-slabby traverse to the top of Chute the Moon and I remembered how much I need to work on keeping my composure when the uphill is even a little bit sketchy. I fall apart every damn time.

So so so so so beautiful.

After skiing the mellow chute in crappy snow, we did another short, windy, butt-clenching climb that should have been a breeze, then pushed past that into the calmer sunshine.

Looking around the deeper part of the range in perfect visibility, it was astonishing to see ski tracks on some of the most consequential lines and faces. Wow, everyone got the memo about open season.  This weekend people tagged the biggest summits in the Tetons and tackled objectives that only get skied a few times a season, if at all. It's very inspiring, and very humbling, because I don't have the ability to climb or ski most of that stuff.

Backing off an objective but still getting to ski two couloirs in a day is pretty neato.

The line we skied, Buckshot off the north side of Buck, was very cool and very steep (for me), and because it has a big snowfield above it, I would never touch it in more dangerous conditions. As it was, the snow was edgeable but wind-battered and firm. I skied slowly, stopping often to catch my breath and shake out my legs.

We continued to admire ski lines all the way down Avalanche Canyon, then committed to the undulating luge through the trees that spat us out on Bradley Lake.

A quick snack stop on the lake. I'm so fortunate to have this one as my backcountry partner.

While we didn't even come close to the summit, it was worth the walk to look around at the majestic peaks in the range's interior. And being done by one left plenty of time for lounging in the sun, eating pizza, and bemoaning the new tanlines on my face. And the dog was fine.

Sparkle Day

The bloated moon hung low in the west. We piled into Sam's second homeowner SUV and made the quick trip into the canyon. It was a day of utmost sparkle. The trees were thickly laced with rime. We breathed in sequins.

I was still hanging onto one of those lame little winter colds that never fully evaporates. I coughed and blew snot. My lanky companions skinned away from me. Their long legs worked up and down like pistons. I tried not to be grumpy about always getting dropped. Immediately.

Our progress slowed when the trail turned elsewhere and we had to cut up to the plateau. The only sound was the gentle collapse of powder under our skis.

We peered across the canyon at the objective. We gauged wind-loading and line choice. A lot of snow and a lot of wind had just happened. Concerning but perhaps not a deal breaker. Perhaps.

The first run was fast, a little sun affected. We straight-lined through a chute. Our fingers got cold in the shaded basin below. The climb out of the creek bed was taxing. We each felt fatigued for different reasons. The pistons pumped at half speed through untouched snow. We swapped pulls at the front.

The Grand emerged before us, an apparition with gusts of cloud wreathing it. I had a beer in my pack but I am rarely in the mood to drink on cold summits.

We picked our way carefully along the softly corniced ridge. My heart beat fast. Moving snow might lead to unmanageable consequences. No snow moved.

Cy was nervous. He was leery of the unknowns. There might be a cliff choke. The chute is a big empty expanse, an obvious slide path. He dropped first into the west-facing trees because he has an airbag. He radio'd back to us. We picked our way down. The snow was really really good.

Our nerves receded as the line revealed itself to be open. It hadn't been blasted by solar rays yet. Nothing moved under our skis. We slashed deep turns. Lovely. Not scary.

We soon had to put skins back on. It was that or wade through snow down the flat canyon. The walk out felt inexorable. My boots found new places to rub. My backpack chafed my shoulders. My nose burned. But all walks end eventually. We lounged by the car. Our gear was strewn around us in attention-seeking piles. I looked smugly at the cross-country skiers filtering in and out of the parking lot. I thought, Going uphill and downhill is far superior.