Sparks light up the pre-dawn highway as ski gear is broadcasted from our roof box onto I-90 eastbound at 75 mph. The car about to pass us dodges diligently, we pull over in haste. Sprinting west I snatch my skis from the path of an oncoming semi with seconds to spare. “I’ve been wanting to detune my edges…” No damage, 10 bonus points for dynafit bindings and atomic skis, back on track. Turning south we enter the valley of the longest undammed stretch of river in North America. The scene of the famous mother’s day caddis hatch just days prior, the river is now blown out with runoff. Scores of anglers had anchored behind every rock and in every eddy, bugs hovered in the millions and trout porpoised out of the water in the thousands. For a few hours each evening fishermen wallowed in the best of what their sport has to offer knowing all the while that it would soon pass. Better get that fly on the water fast! For big mountain backcountry skiers, our hatch happens in the spring and goes off for about 3 months. Warm days and cold nights stabilize the snowpack and transform the surface from bullet proof ice into velvety corn snow for a magical one hour a day after which the surface turns to slush . Northern aspects devoid of direct solar radiation hold mid-winter quality powder. Long days allow for big objectives and often skiing the 8 miles back to the trailhead can be done in less than one hour. Our objective today would be a Y shaped couloir beginning at 10,200 and ending at a lake 2000’ below. The entrance would tilt at a 55 degree pitch, easing up just before a rocky pinch then, joining the east branch, plumet to the lake with an uncompromising fall line. Right out of the gate I screwed up, choosing to walk in my ski boots under the assumption that snow was not far off. 3 miles later I clicked into my skis dreading the hike out. The approach gained over 5000’ of elevation and balmy trailhead conditions soon gave way to 10 degree wind chills and blowing snow. Frozen waterfalls ubiquitously draped the canyon walls. Pillows of blue ice loomed to our right as we boot packed up a steep gully depositing us above treeline. The wind quickened as we skinned higher into more exposed terrain. Nearing our destination, one last steep pitch complete with 30’ overhanging cornice on top barred our way. It would take about 15 minutes to cross this slope during which time the constant threat of avalance or cornice collapse (probable death) in addition to the 40 mph wind could really break one down. After evaluating the stability and deeming it safe enough we traversed one by one staving off fear by trusting our logic and admiring our spectacular surroundings. Ariving on a ridge of tallus the east fork of said couloir came into view. This line is truly awesome and superseriously steep. Deemed too dangerous by some of skiing’s greatest and not tamed until 1995 and only then by another of skiing’s greatest, we would only look at it today. At 10000’ in driving wind, in awe of our remote location two skiers decended on us exchanging minimal words then silently slipped out of sight. Weird. We continued to the ridge top and to our couloir’s west entrance. The recent wind had been transporting new snow all morning leaving a dangerous wind slab in the entrance, I thought. A dark bank of clouds 15 miles to the west stretching north to south as far as we could see was surely a storm to be reckoned with, Pat thought. The couloir contained soft wind packed stable snow and we could all ski it safely and the storm wasn’t really a concern because it’s 2009 and we all have sweet gear and we’re only at 10200’, Geoff thought. While a democracy of hunches devoid of facts isn’t the way to make a “push on” decision, its great for making a “lets play it safe” call. Ice ax plunged to the hilt, wind stinging my nose, I lean out over the entrance observing without reacting to the steep angles and various shades of grey and white and blue that are the line. We retreat without disappointment knowing we still have 4000’ of “consolation skiing” beneath us. What had been a steep, corniced, scary slope on the way up transforms into an elegant 30 second joy ride on the way down. Diverging west of our accent we arrive at a hidden north aspect holding perfect powder for 700’. Two sets of silent tracks are perfectly “figure 8ed” right down the middle. To unexpectly see someone else’s tracks in the backcountry is a bit like catching a glimps of one’s self while passing a mirror. We look at eachother with that peculiar feeling that some weird mental thing just happened. Moments later Geoff pushes his snowboard into a large highspead arc. In his hand is a small tin from which the ashes of his dog, Ghost, are released. Decending through powder, then hard pack, we arrive at an elevation that is experiencing the magic hour of perfect corn. Silky smooth on my 184 cm soul. Soon corn gives way to slush and finally dirt. In less than one hour, we’re back to the car. Just days prior a fat Montana trout rose to an angler’s fly, a silver flash, a set hook. The trout is fat because it is old and because it is old it is wise. Sensing the artificial fly the trout instantaneously rejects its meal, leaving the angler with only a pile of line. Maybe next hatch.