We didn’t really have a great plan – at least that’s how I felt. My backcountry partner wanted to ski a certain line that I was sure didn’t have any snow on it. But I didn’t say anything. Misgivings aside, my gear was neatly laid out and ready to go for the next morning. And I was ready when my friend rolled up at 5am. Away we went, compass pointing north.
We arrived at the empty trailhead around sunrise to the sounds of chirping birds and chomping deer. And there was no snow in sight. Boots went on skis, skis went on packs, and we hoisted the annoyingly heavy load onto our backs. But this is what it took to ski, and we had to ski.
It had been a particularly unsatisfying backcountry skiing season for our group. A perfect day on Grizzly Peak off Independence Pass was cut short by a pained turnaround due to rockfall near, but not that near, the couloir. That decision felt woefully over-cautious when we saw two figures ski down the line as we made our decision on the apron. Meeting up with them moments later we noticed the shorter one had braces. The taller one might have been a little older. But their combined ages probably didn’t match any of our own.
I also had a discouraging solo day on Mount Adams in Washington, where I was unable to get my friends in Seattle or otherwise to meet up for what I thought might be a weather window. And it seemed I indeed missed the chance when I woke up to pouring rain. After a failed camping stove and pathetic cold breakfast, I decided to try anyways. But only achieved about 2000 vertical feet. Losing feeling in my hands from the windchill and unable to see the peak due to cloud cover, I called it. As I got back to my car, tail between my legs, I looked up to see the whole mountain glowing under the morning sun. And it wasn’t a sucker hole. Hours later, driving toward home on the expansive Oregon High Desert, I saw the entire mountain from nearly 100 miles away. Not a cloud in sight.
The conversation was light as we ascended the trail. Whatever happened we weren’t reaching for a big objective; nerves didn’t need to be steeled. And we still hadn’t seen any snow anyways. We finally approached the basin that held the peak we were looking for with its broad southern snowfield. As we spied the mountain we saw some snow, but not enough to ski. We decided to at least splash our way through the boggy and braided runoff channel ahead, toward the center of the basin, to see what else we could find.
And it was the usual familiar cirque that surrounded a snowbound tarn awaiting a fleeting summer. But above the idyllic little lake that anchored the basin we spotted a soft shoulder on the ridge directly ahead of us to the north. It looked like a few hundred feet of turns, and worthy of skiing. And it might offer a glimpse over the ridge, into parts unknown.
We quickly made our way over and skinned up to the shoulder, where we found the last push to be an eroded cornice. It was steep enough to make pulling out the ice axe feel justified, giving a little more spice to our day. We plodded up, reached a highpoint on the ridge, and there it was.
A peak lay due to our west, whose summit we had known but whose steep and full northeast face we hadn’t. We were smitten. We wanted to ski that. The top started steep, maybe 40 degrees, and mellowed as it descended into the adjacent basin for maybe 1200 feet. It felt tantalizingly close, especially with a bright June sun over our heads and perfect corn snow under our feet. But we knew that this wasn’t the day. We’d have to come back.
After my recent failed attempts at big and noteworthy peaks, I had become deeply frustrated with backcountry skiing that spring. I felt indelibly linked to what I achieved – a summit and descent were all that mattered. I felt horribly disappointed with anything less than that, even though those experiences were ones still surrounded by friends, where we camped under unfathomably clear skies, in places so beautiful most people would be happy just to look at them in a photograph. Still, I struggled: I knew my mindset came with twisted logic. But I so needed to succeed and could find nothing else worthy of my time in the backcountry than that.
I found myself deep in memory, reminiscing of what felt like easier times when I was younger – times when I was easier on myself. Those were the days before I backcountry skied; before I spent time doing things that weren’t fun so much as rewarding. That was prior to my Strava profile; times long before I made preseason (and postseason) training programs.
I probably spent too much time at the bar in those days, spending mornings sleeping off the night before instead of using the dawn as a starting point for adventure (or exercise). But it still felt like I had lost something along the way – that I wasn’t able to be patient, to enjoy a quiet moment, I wasn’t happy just being. Everything revolved around achievement now. Yes, I had done things that I was proud of, but was I any happier?
I had been laid off during my paternity leave and hadn’t quite gotten around to getting a job again. But my baby boy had a coveted spot in daycare. So I talked my ski partner into playing hooky from work and three days later, we were back, primed to tackle the face we had seen just a few days before.
We bounced up the dirt road in the truck to a different trailhead, again put our heavy packs on, and started walking up a ghostly landscape where a forest once stood but wildfire had intervened. We picked our way up the steepening grade until we reached the last push to the summit. The stacked rocks and serene day made for an exciting climb. Nearing the top, we could see where the snow began. Ahead of me, my partner got first eyes on the line. His face told the story – it looked good.
We took some time to scout things out. I started feeling jitters replace determination as it became clear we were going to ski the line. It was steep with committing first turns. We picked a good entrance, avoiding places where an early misstep or fall could be a problem. We poked at the snow before entering – perfect Colorado solstice corn. My partner took the lead. And immediately yelled out in excitement as he skied. He jumped turned his way to a safe spot, stopped and yelled out “It’s so good!”
I followed suit – I traversed onto the gut, made one alpine turn, and instantly agreed. It was the kind of snow you wish for. I switched to telemark turns, jumping with each lunge, coming back down on the most forgiving snow on the steep pitch. I met my partner in the safe zone. We were so full of joy we couldn’t really communicate besides yelling and hugging. We took the rest of the descent together and entered the basin. There we stopped and continued hollering as we looked at our work, two ski tracks crisscrossing down the snowfield.
Excitement transformed to giddy resolve as we still had plenty left to do. We had seen a snowfield on our earlier trip to the area that connected our current basin to the one that would get us home. But we struggled to find it. My partner suggested a rugged climb up the ridge that I vetoed as too dangerous. We plodded around until we finally found our exit. Unbeknownst to us it wasn’t a smooth ascent that might require skins, but a rugged class two snow climb. We punched our way up, ice axe in hand, until we made the top, where our mountain and ski tracks smiled down on us.
From there we had one more small ridge to climb that took us back to the ghost forest above the truck. Topping that last climb, vehicle almost in sight well down the mountain, we stopped for a moment to soak things in. We had done so much in a day: the climbing, the route finding. And the skiing. It was a complete feeling, felt more deeply as a shared experience with a friend. And a redemptive one. We made our way to the truck, one foot in front of the other.
That feeling didn’t last though. By the time we were driving home the rush had mostly left my tired and aching body. The conquest had been complete: not only had we attained the mountain, but I had beaten back the vibrating anxiety of my previous failures. I could move on. But only for now. There would be new failures, and hopefully new successes. But the circle would not and could not be broken.
We toil in the mountains. These rugged, crumbling relics of upheaval are our temples of accomplishment and often failure. We share the moments of joy and hardship there with our trusted partners, who not only belay us or carry shovel, beacon, probe in solidarity, but more so act as accomplices of addiction; as enablers of single-minded dependence. Because once we get that taste, once we feel that heady brew of fear, conquest, and achievement on a high, snowy peak, nothing is ever quite the same again.
The moments I have had in the mountains have been amongst the most important to me personally. It is a wildly privileged opportunity I have had to be stuck here, in this cycle of obsessing over fitness and snowpack, thin openings in schedules and balancing things at home. All for typically skiing shitty snow or simply failing to do much at all even after long travels. But sometimes it all comes together. Sometimes you get what you came for. And it’s too sweet to not try for. Again and again.
The person I used to be – the barfly, the mellow twenty-something – is gone. And I do miss him from time to time and his easygoing attitude and modest needs. He needed less to make him feel whole, and I look back on those days as being content ones.
Maybe being content is best felt in youth, in those halcyon days that last forever, before the reality of precious little time sets in. Before life becomes about toiling toward meaning. Because there are things to get to.
Sometimes I hope that one day I can recapture who I was, if only for a brief moment. Maybe I could take a long break from who I am now and enjoy easy pleasures again, and forget about the failures and struggles of the mountains and just enjoy myself for once. But alas, I am here, with my present, rarely satisfied self, already thinking of the next objective.
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