Baker!

As a backcountry skier I’m in the middle of the spectrum among my friends. To me, summiting a volcano isn’t a huge deal or a bucket list item I have to spend months preparing for, but I’m definitely not bagging peaks all the time. And aside from that one failed attempt on Hood, I actually haven't done any volcanoes, so I was excited to head up Baker on Tuesday. 

When we moved here, we were quickly adopted by Jon, a guy who’s fresh out of college and probably the most rabidly enthusiastic skier I know. In the Tetons it’s easy to live and breathe skiing — not like there’s much else to do, and you’re only twenty or thirty minutes from any given parking lot. But here the riding is distractingly good (and much closer) and the snow is consistently inconsistent and so dang far away. That doesn’t adulterate Jon’s glee though, so he’s always the one trying to reverse our slump into non-skierdom each winter. 

As spring arrived, he had a mission to get us to ski Baker. Cy had various ailments and prior commitments that kept him from doing it but when Jon told me there was a choice weather window coming in 48 hours, I decided to shirk my duties that day. 

We had a call on Monday to talk gear and timing. I reminded him I wouldn’t be an equal partner on the hill. I have zero glacier travel experience and only a nebulous understanding of what all the ropes and dangly bits are for — don’t fall in a crevasse is the number one rule, I guess? And I know tackling an objective while operating with a guide or mentor mentality is more fatiguing than being with a peer. He said he was understood and was looking forward to that aspect. Fortunately I was confident that, unlike in the usual guide-client partnership, I could hold my own on fitness. 

We left the trailhead at 4:30 a.m. We were both wearing running shoes for the three-mile dry walk on trail, but Jon changed his mind at the last minute and instead we committed to some semi-heinous PNW-style forest 'shwacking in exchange for a lot more on-snow time on the descent. 

We started skinning up the first col as the sun rose. The snow surface, pebbled like a lizard skin with ice crystals, was firm and slick. I churned forward, feeling good until the track got steeper, the snow got icier, and we climbed into a wind tunnel at the toe of the glacier. I longed for ski crampons. During a snack break I had a small crisis of confidence. Wind plus icy skinning always makes me feel vulnerable and irrationally scared. Cy has dealt with me in this deer-in-the-headlights mode several times. 

But the wind let up and we strapped on boot crampons and my mood immediately improved. The crampons made me feel beyond safe, like a superhero she-panther stalking up the steep pitch, the snow the perfect firmness for fast side-pointing progress.

We summited with little ado. We needed to wait for the snow to soften up on the main descent and Jon had his eyes on the Park Headwall, a slope that had already received the right amount of sun. The extra ski meant we had to climb back out of a hole, but I was game.

Jon dropped onto the perfectly slushy pitch with fluid, powerful arcs. When it was my turn I realized the slope was much steeper than it looked — 50 degrees, we later confirmed — and I shakily made clumsy hop turns, my eyes glued to the row of bergschrunds below. Is this bad glacier travel behavior? An intermediate skier hopping for her life in a no-fall zone? Maybe. 

Something I’ve realized about Jon is that he’s such a good skier and spends so much time with other good skiers that he sometimes forgets that the downhill, not the uphill, can be where someone falters and finds their limits. As a result, I have accidentally followed him into some scary places where I'm in over my head. I learned to ski as an adult and only started feeling proficient a few years ago, and skiing has taken a backseat in Washington. But I have survival fundamentals, and I did indeed survive the Park Headwall. 

We were still on a steep, hot slope when we switched back to uphill mode and I tackled another of my fears — transitioning in steeps. Cy has coached me through this several times to help me overcome the irrational terror of falling backward and the more rational terror of a vital piece of equipment sliding away, never to be retrieved. I am generally a meticulous person and being meticulous is essential when you’re managing gear in the steeps. 

With crampons back on and my skis safely strapped to my pack, I was back in control, happily punching steps into the snow. I felt remarkably strong even as we exceeded the vertical gain of my biggest ski day ever. Then we skied delicious bonus turns on the Roman Wall, skinned up again, and enjoyed 6,000 feet of the best, most consistent corn skiing I’ve ever experienced. 

After we picked our way down the snowy banks of Grouse Creek, I bumped up against bonk-flavored frustration for the first time. Jon called a reset and we doffed sweaty clothes and helmets, drank water, ate snacks, and prepared for the thankless final ‘shwack. 

The day went as well as I could possibly have hoped. We did the volcano quickly, in good style, in perfect conditions, and as a smooth team. 

Even though I’m relatively inexperienced with big objectives, I’ve done so much backcountry skiing (and have benefited from Cy’s gear and knowledge largesse). I have a very light setup that I'm comfortable with, I have a tried and true layering system, I know how my body and brain work (and yes, as usual, I didn’t eat enough, but I never actually bonked), and best of all, I have so many years of endurance stored up in my legs that climbing feels almost effortless. 

The next day I was riding home from work and saw the snowy behemoth on the skyline. I didn’t expect it to have an effect on me, but I got goosebumps. I skied that!

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. 

The Spoon Couloir

Couloir skiing is what you’re supposed to do in the Tetons. You’re supposed to hunger for those long, steep, narrow strips of snow, lines that you have to ascend to assess, and lines that you’re fully committed to once you’re in them. I’m not sure, though, that I actually like couloir skiing.

Not my happy place.

Cy, Dapper Dan and I set out from Driggs early on Saturday in pursuit of the Spoon, an aesthetic couloir in GTNP that cuts through rock bulwarks on Disappointment Peak's northeast face. I hadn’t skied anything scary for a while so I was nervous. Let me clarify: the Spoon is a scary line to me, but it wouldn’t be for many skiers I know. I don’t enjoy skinning on icy surfaces, bootpacking up steep lines, or skiing in no-fall zones. I’ve been skiing couloirs for half a decade but definitely started before I was actually a competent enough skier to safely do so. Fortunately I have had supportive partners every time and definitely got real lucky

once or twice.

We were skiing with pointy accessories (an ice axe or a whippet, Black Diamond’s ingenious ski pole with a pick on the end for self arrests), a new concept to me, and one I’m not entirely comfortable with. If I need more sharp objects than just my ski edges, I’m leery of the consequences.

Skinning at dawn.

The forecast seemed to be on our side; no snow had fallen in a week and the impending storm kept getting pushed back in the day. We made quick work of the long flat skin from the Taggart Lake Trailhead to the toe of Disappointment and then booked it uphill, me lagging slightly behind those two with their long-ass legs. Cresting the shore of Surprise Lake, we were hit with big gusts funneling through the basin. The snow was polished to an icy sheen by the constant wind. We picked our way around the Amphitheater Lake basin, found softer snow in the apron of the Spoon, and put our skis on our backs. The first traverse freaked me out because I hate bootpacking sideways on steep slopes, but we decided to continue uphill after I had stopped hyperventilating. It was fast going at first, the boys punching steps into the supportive snow, but near the top of the couloir the wind intensified, slapping our faces and blinding us with vicious spindrifts.

We fought our way across the top to hide in the flattish berth of a rock. The guys were patient as I transitioned shakily, paranoid that all of my gear would be ripped from my hands by the wind and thrown into the abyss.

Cy finds some soft snow after 800 feet of hardpack.

The avalanche danger appeared to be minimal. The loading zone was scraped clean and the couloir was groomer-firm. We each skittered down the slope, and I made nary an arcing turn; my top priority was to keep my ski edges dug into the snow. Each time another gust blasted me, I sat down and plunged my whippet behind me. Pretty graceless way to ski a couloir, if you ask me.

That said, I'm a much better skier than I used to be, so the descent was uneventful. The three of us were very happy to exit the Spoon without incident and we traveled down to Delta Lake via a much nicer and almost as aesthetic second line. The snow in Glacier Gulch was soft and the terrain was playful, but I wasn’t as appreciative as I would have been with fresher legs. Somehow the trek back to the car was much longer than the ingress, but isn’t that always the case when your boots are rubbing your feet raw and you can hear the siren call of Coors?

Dapper, stoked to be in soft snow again.
Little did he know he would be split skiing the rest of the descent.

Safely off the mountain, I reflected on the fear that grips me in couloirs, and wondered if it’s worth it. Climbing and descending consequential lines scares the piss out of me for extended amounts of time and I don’t really enjoy it. Am I a real Teton skier? Should I content myself with skiing low-angle bowls and effortless powder trees? And would that be the worst thing in the world?

Or will I forget the paralyzing fear once a few weeks have passed and start perusing trip reports again, dreaming of big, beautiful lines?

I mean it is really fun sometimes.

Super Gully

The other night at the bar, I got good and sandbagged by a local character who loves to climb and ski remote peaks. We were talking about Super Gully on Lost River Peak. It's a straightforward line and not difficult, per se, but the way he described it was a little facile: “You walk uphill on an obvious trail for a bit and then skin and then you boot pack, you can’t miss the line, and I’m sure you can ski all the way back to the car. It’s really popular, there will probably be tons of people at the campsite.”

That was a stretch. Bones, Dapper, Cy and I set out from Driggs, drove through Mackay, and spotted Super Gully. It was very obvious, as promised: a long wide path of snow that swept down from tall rock buttresses into a drainage out of sight. But the ascent looked dry, and steep, and long, and where there was snow it looked thin.

We turned onto a dirt road and followed it until it dead-ended at a clearing with a fire ring. Not another soul in sight. The ground was too slanted to get a good night’s sleep.

The weather the next morning was pretty ideal for a safe ascent of the southwest face: overcast, not too warm, and not too windy. We started out in running shoes and I was happy clambering up the slope despite a heavy pack. When we hit the snow line we switched to skinning and then inevitably started bootpacking at the bottom of the gully. I kind of hate bootpacking.

Instead of booting straight up we opted to thread up and around it from the south, which was maybe a little slower but certainly more interesting. It was pretty easy to kick steps in the firm snow although I was sometimes forced to wallow through unconsolidated sugar.

The pitch steepened further and I was glad I had borrowed both a whippet and an ice axe. If I fell, I wouldn’t stop sliding for a couple thousand feet. The sun teased us and the wind blew cold.

Our roundabout route did require that we traverse a shale field and it scared the shit out of me. I didn’t trust my foothold and fell a couple times, skittering down the slope and clawing my way back up, pissed off and shaking. The guys waited for me to cross. I wanted to descend from there but we decided it would be more feasible to keep going and fortunately the final push was much easier.

We quickly topped out on the false summit and gaped at the panorama of peaks before us. The Lost River Range, mostly hidden from the road, was a wide spread of towering mountains with that signature layer cake geology. To the west the Pioneers sprawled across the horizon and the Lemhi rippled on the eastern front. I love Idaho.

We didn’t sit on the snowy little landing for long. Both of my pairs of gloves were wet from ascending on all fours and I was worried about getting too cold. The drop from the top was steep, firm, and precipitously rocky to the north. The surface was chattery and my legs quaked with 5,000 feet of climbing but the snow provided plenty of grip for my ski edges.

Back in the sun at the apron of the gully, we chose a return route, knowing the skiing would be questionable. We picked our way through some north-facing trees in snow that was rotten to its core and so touchy that it kept collapsing in broad patches, plunging us under the isothermal layers. Not necessarily dangerous but certainly spooky.

Snow turned to runnels of mud and I again fell repeatedly, coating myself with mud. I cursed and removed my ski boots in a fit of pique. Once I put my running shoes on I was much happier, billy-goating down the bushy hill, following trails dotted with elk droppings, until, knees aching, we were back at the truck.

The chances of mishap on a ski tour increase exponentially with every additional group member, but the four of us made it up and down without incident. At the end I was dirty, inexplicably sunburned, and dehydrated, but gratified.

We stopped in a bar in town for margarita pitchers and burgers. The bartender asked us what the hell we had come to Mackay for, and she looked nonplussed when we said skiing. On the drive home rain began to beat on the windshield and then turned to snow in Tetonia, thick wet snow that coated the ground and caused us to groan about the never-ending winter. My gear is still muddy in the garage and I am escaping Idaho to go mountain biking this weekend. Such is life. 

Running Away

I've been wrestling with how to write this trip report.

My first yurt trip wasn’t a rosy experience. Last week's yurt trip was a massive improvement over that, even though the distinct taste of pure snowmelt still reminds me a little of ralphing for twelve hours.

I didn’t have a group, a gameplan, or any idea of what life would look like five months down the road, but in October I booked two March nights at Baldy Yurt.  They were a couple of the last nights available for the year.

My life did change in the intervening time. Tyler and I broke up last month. I am embarrassed to give the reasons because they look trivial and selfish on paper, but it happened. I moved out. I gave up my dog except for occasional custody.

I’ve been staying so busy that my new room is still full of unpacked boxes, and mounds of clothes have sprouted up on the floor because I haven’t had the time to deal with them…or I’m just avoiding facing the reality of life right now.

I had been looking forward to the yurt trip forever, but began to dread it. I couldn’t find enough people to fill the roster. I felt disorganized. I’m not a great trip leader. Should we plan meals? Was I going to end up footing the whole bill? Was the guiding outfit ever going to get back to me or could we just waltz up there with no confirmation?

A damn good crew
Pics courtesy of Cy

I pieced together the group with the only people in the valley who gave me a firm yes: a fellow Julia, new roommate Pat, frequent accomplice Cy, and all-around rad person Amanda.

Pieps and Pat, getting ready for a big day out

It seemed like an incongruous group and I was nervous about how the personalities would mesh, but it ended up being the most perfect union. Everyone was well-informed, decisive but not pushy, communicative, and happy to do yurt chores. I don’t want to say everything went smoothly because the chicks outnumbered the dudes but…that didn’t hurt.

Oh yeah, it was really deep

Picking those two nights five months ago proved to be serendipitous. In the week before our trip, it dumped but conditions stayed stable. On our ingress we broke trail through deep, light snow and took turns shlepping the heavy sled of food and beer. Visibility was poor as snow continued to fall.

Oh yeah, it was really pretty

The sun came out the next day. Everything we could see was our playground. Big bowls, long steep runs, mini cliff lines tucked into trees, all untracked.  We were on the same page—open to walking a lot, stoked on skiing but not interested in tempting fate. Each lap yielded whoops of delight. 

Disco ball: essential yurt accessory

Footsore on the third morning, we cleaned and packed, and skied some more. The return track was fast and playful, the snow just on the cusp of turning to garbage. We drank beers on the tailgate of the Subaru. Everyone else’s smart phones were flooded with little dings and beeps from stale notifications. My phone stayed silent. It stresses me out to get messages after a hiatus from service, so I was glad no one missed me while I hid in the woods for a couple days.

I dragged my feet on reacclimatizing to real life, preferring to stay in my cocoon of post-yurt good vibes. Monday was tough, trying to crank out four days' of content and talking on the phone with recalcitrant interviewees.

I still think it's worth the comedown to have these perfect experiences. Strengthen friendships, explore the backyard, run away from sadness, and ski deep powder? Yeah, I'll take that.

Altered Perception

I hate letting weekends get away from me, so I start texting around early in the week to get a tour going on Saturday. 

We go to GTNP. There are six of us in the parking lot. All girls. I love it. We are noisy and colorful, and somehow alone at the trailhead--everyone else in the region is on the Pass, or at the Village, or the Ghee, or elsewhere in the Park. 

So many ladies
Pics courtesy of Erin

I break trail the whole way up, probably three hours of thigh-burning work. I am as happy as a hamster in a wheel. I don't even mind that we decide to turn around before the summit. We stay together and take turns slicing through the deep, sparkly surface hoar. We go to the Bodega afterwards, mill around and drink sloshies. Make plans to go out dancing that night. The band plays Klezmer music and Greek folk songs and the cellist has his instrument slung around his neck like a guitar. It's awesome.

Stoked to be in the Park on a sunny day

The next morning Dapper Dan texts everyone at Casa del Haters. Targhee backcountry? This thought has already occurred to us, so we organize cars for a Teton Canyon shuttle. 

I hear there are some big mountains here
Pics courtesy of Dapper

The frontside of the resort is haggard so we immediately drop out-of-bounds. Skin a couple laps on Steve Baugh and defile the once-virgin bowl with huge surf turns. 

Tyler gets some air time

After beer and snacks in the sunshine, we use the atlas to find the entrance of a south-facing couloir. Alex guinea-pigs the line. He radios to us, "It's a bit committing." Radios are cool. 

It's a good reminder of what a more consequential line feels like, what imperfect snow and wedging your ski against a rock and being out of breath from fear instead of exertion feels like. It isn't a hard line but I'm out of practice. I stay upright and ski out gracelessly. 

Somewhere in Wydaho...or maybe Colorado

The snow grows more affected, punchy, variable. We whip through willow saplings and brush. I am better at this than I used to be. I find myself on top of a little cliff band and I have to huck to flat on crusty snow. At the canyon floor, everyone transitions and starts the long glide out on the groomed trail. I don't get why people cross country ski for fun. 

On Monday I walk the dog before work wearing a light puffy, because it's sunny. My nose hairs freeze but I've gotten used to that sensation. When I turn the Subi on the engine grumbles awhile before it turns over. The temperature gauge reads -9°. Ah. The new norm. 

I am happy and satisfied at work. Sunshine, loud music, sketchy ice...writing articles, editing photos, eating Twizzlers. 

It's amazing how much a big weekend outside changes my outlook. 

OMG Opening Day

We all sit restlessly, thumbs up asses, waiting for ski season to start in earnest, building dumb little snow features off the backyard deck and proving to ourselves how deeply uncool we are. I feed the rat with long slogging wet-footed runs and we indulge in smelly hot springs and big gatherings and too much beer.

We are creatures that play outside but we forget that our moods are so reliant on the seasons, wondering where this listless apathy is coming from. We live in an oblivious sad fog until, hello, suddenly It Is Winter and Targhee, after a two week delay, gets a massive storm and starts spinning lifts and it’s dumping all day and we are all the happiest sons of guns you’ve ever met.

Opening day is usually a party scene but we’re all skiing so hard that we don’t have time or patience for beers. We are reveling in sobriety, lap after lap, hunting down those moments of flotation, snow blasting our faces, each of us starring in our own ski film with songs playing in our heads as we slow-mo through knee deep powder and yes it is early season and our bases are cheese-grated by lurking rocks but we don’t care, it’s so worth it.

No one waits for each other but it doesn’t matter because there are enough of us that you always find yourself in the (nonexistent) lift line with a friend and everyone is covered in snow and beaming.

My legs usually cry early season but the slogging runs have worked wonders and I can power through the day and ski so much stronger than I’m used to this time of year. A lot of people have quit by lunchtime to retire their noodle legs but the snow is still accumulating so on we charge.

In front of the fire at home we are all buzzing and glowing and drowsy, tempers realigned, souls rejuvenated, purpose rediscovered. Oh yes, we remember, we live here for this. We voluntarily give up stability and creature comforts and wealth for this and my god it’s so worth it.

Only took one lame picture all day because...powder