Basking In Olympic Sun

Joe Bell looks out over the Puget Sound towards Mt. Rainier, Mt. Adams, and Mt. St. Helens.

I leapt from bed to turn off my alarm clock, which kept screaming at me like an annoying car alarm. To make it to the Olympics I was going to need to be out early as I was again meeting up with Brad and Joe to tackle a peak with nice steep lines, but not a single recorded ski descent. As we learned before, things don’t always go according to plan but getting an early start would sure help. We met up with Joe at dark thirty and began our endeavor out to Olympic National Park. Cruising along side the dark waters of the Puget Sound, these steep mountains were soon cutting the early morning light with silhouettes that seemed to rise from nowhere.

“What the hell is that!?” All three of us said it almost in unison. There was an amazingly large pile of dirt right in the middle of the forest service road. The sky was just beginning to light up and we were incredibly close — yet so far away. A massive washout had created a magnificent trench wiping out a sixty-yard stretch of road. We reassessed and unanimously agreed to backtrack and follow our backup approach, eventually arriving at our destination. This time it was the steep and slick bushwacking up an unmaintained “primitive” trail with skis on our backs through ridiculously thick underbrush that beckoned the rhetorical question every adventurer eventually asks… “Am I crazy?”

Miles of sketchy logging roads eventually poured us out a few minutes from our new destination.

This time the answer would be no. We opted out with yet another backup plan in tow. Only this time we were gambling on a forest road being open to save us from turning around yet again. As we neared the familiar road our hopes turned to Mt. Ellinor. This time we were hoping the prominent and steep, north-facing coulior would provide good snow for a descent down the classic backcountry ski that eluded us before. Quickly throwing our packs on, we rocketed up the familiar trail and followed the bootpack to the summit. Not being as concerned about the avalanche conditions, we wanted to make sure it hadn’t all been windscoured. After ski cutting it and making a few scratchy turns down the coulior, we deemed it not worth our while and I climbed out.

The grass sometimes is greener on the other side. The sun was beginning to shine brightly, warming the crusts to a buttery cross between powder and corn which was setting up nicely. Leapfrogging down the first run, we all peeled our goggles back, eager to put in a skin track to get more. After a day of disappointment, we had a run that made it all worth the while. The entire mountainside was open and trackless, so we did it again. And again. And again. Oh, it was a good day.