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.

Rain patters against my window, my girlfriend rolls over and my thoughts turn away from powder playing. It’s 6:00 AM and I’m obligated check the weather data so I can have some facts when I make the call to bail. “Raining all night, low of 35 at 9000’, 50% chance of thunderstorms all day…” Pete has no problems nixing our adventure. Back to bed. 10:30 AM, sun warms my face as I return to conscious land. Confusion…stumbling outside into the full-on blue bird day I can see that the mountains received a generous helping of April showers in the solid form. Frustration…Why are we not on our way to a pristine summit to harvest the goods? Clearly we had dropped the ball. I’ve been in the Rocky Mountains long enough to know better but the mid-westerner in me still shies away from adverse forecasts. I vow never again to stay inside based on a spring time forecast. Pete concurs and we immediately plan for 3 days in the mountains without checking the forecast. Two days later, almost out the door, I can’t resist. My home weather station says 40% chance of rain/snow mix. Thunderstorms possible. Highs in the 40’s at 9000’. It’s graduation weekend and it takes me 20 minutes to cross our quaint/booming/posch/redneck/sushi eating/dumpster diving mountain town (it takes all kinds…of white people. The Midwesterner in me also remembers what true diversity looks like and this aint it folks.) I arrive at Kyle’s stressed by motorists with no risk evaluation experience and no clue of what it really means to be moving 30 miles an hour. Almost to our destination, Pete tells me to pull over as we pass a “bible encampment”. “Mike, we’ve brought you out here for an intervention.” This particular conditioning center was the scene of my infamous blasphemy shouted from a speedy vehicle at hundreds of tabulae rasae. Counselors would lead discussions on what would drive a person to such heathenism and how they could be saved. A few children would leave camp that summer with the seed that our saviors live inside of us and its up to us to set them free. Pete, Kyle and I were well versed in free will and decided the best thing to do was to keep to ourselves in a backcountry playground. Avalanche debris on the road proved no match for Toyota racing technology until the biggest one yet almost bucked me into the creek. Pete and Kyle opted to get out of the truck while I tried again. In the end, a little excavation was necessary.
Driving all the way to the trailhead on mostly dirt was unexpected. Even better was the snowy trail allowing us to start skinning immediately. Best was the lack of rain. Our super conditioned pristine lung tissue allowed us to rapidly gain elevation. We made base camp in just a few hours. Our hulking legs just barely warmed up, we decided to take a lap in the waning light. From the ridge our playground for the next few days revealed itself. Clearly we could push it as much as we deemed safe enough. Pits were dug and a few weaker layers identified. We would ski a conservative line…today.
A nights rest and lots of cowboy coffee (along with our Atlas like strength) had us speeding up our skin track at 9:00 AM. More perfect weather gave the big F. U. to the weatherman. From the top we kicked off several cornices exceeding 300 pounds. The snowpack did not react and this was enough for us. Kyle dropped in, pushing the slope, then fully committing. Our choice of a northern aspect was clearly righteous as Kyle surfed effortlessly through boot top powder in full on May sunshine. In town graduates drank recklessly numbing their minds in preparation for high powered careers. Out here our calculated risks allowed our souls to sing and our minds to sharpen. Back up the skin track and along the ridge to the East a 1200’ North face beckoned. 90 minutes later we were poised for the sickest run of the season. Years of such experiences have yielded a growth of personal power that has manifested as clarity of thought and decisiveness of action. Pete cut the slope with no results and committed to the sustained 40 degree pitch. 30 seconds later Pete reappeared 1200’ below (do the math). With a silent nod from Kyle I was off. I turned left, then right, then left…40 times all the while in disbelief of how good it was. By the time Kyle joined us at tree line, the infinite lightness of being had clearly enveloped us all. After runs like that, its not hard to sign up for another 90 minutes of breaking trail uphill, so up and East we went toward yet another bigger north face. The pictures tell all but the exhaustion we felt after our third run and the will we harnessed to do a fourth. Day two in the books we skied back to our “lone pine” camp and settled in for an evening of recovery. While it’s possible to swallow enough food to account for all the lost calories of a day like this, it’s not possible to actually metabolize it all. Repeated days like this will leave a body famished. After finishing the pork sausages, I crumble ramen and stirred it into the remaining grease. We ate for five hours and passed out. In the morning it became clear that our food has not been completely digested. We brewed up and mustered for one more run which to our surprise turned out to be half powder and half corn snow. After packing up and applying teflon lube to our bases we zipped back to the car and then to the hot springs. Complete.