Our pasture session was just the latest in a string of skiing adventures shaped by the especially thin-cover conditions prevailing in Northeast US, and in many parts of the lower 48, this season. And while the snowpack has been thin and the deep powder might be in short supply, it continues to be a great season – a season that has forced us to be more creative than usual, to scramble when even a few snow flakes started to fly, and to slow down and simply enjoy what we’ve got.

Here are some highlights of the season to share:

It finally got cold enough to snow in late October, and thanks in part to our edgeless, go anywhere, ski anything Marquette Skis, we were enjoying our first sweet turns of the season on little more than a heavy frost…

A few days later, just before Halloween, the giant storm that knocked out power to thousands of homes across southern New England had us sliding shin deep into some of our favorite runs near Mount Killington, VT…

The Halloween snow didn’t last long, however, and before long, we were back to typical early November conditions…

Thanksgiving delivered, however, with nearly a foot of snow that was dense enough to allow us to slide into some of our favorite tree lines for the first time this season…

But even the Thanksgiving snow didn’t last, and before long, we were making sacrificial turns for the snow gods, in the rain….in December….

Word on the street over the holidays was that Lake Champlain was still ice free and warmer than usual, and right after Christmas, the lake-induced Champlain Powder machine turned on. And it dumped…

Our local mountains were treated to a solid foot of fluff from that first blast of Champlain Pow, just enough to allow Vermont’s Mad River Glen to open for the busy New Year’s weekend. And although a cycle of warm air, light rain and then cold turned our powder to crust on New Year’s Day, mountain snow showers over the last week have been covering up that crust, with conditions improving by the day…

Some higher elevations areas have picked up more than a foot of fresh snow in the last week, and although the snowpack is still very thin and riddled with stumps, hidden branches and stray rocks, we’ve been sliding very carefully into some very tasty zones…

Still, especially at lower elevations, there’s only so much snow to go around. But with just enough snow to tempt us into ripping our neighborhood pastures, we’ve been skiing locally. At times, we don’t even start the cars…

Still, as much as we’ve learned to love the thin-cover season upon us right now, a few feet of fresh snow would make this season even sweeter. Snow is in the forecast for the Northeast and many parts of the country right now… Think snow.

Brian and Emily
EmberPhoto.com
AdventureSkier.com

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Paddling up the Taltson River has gone well so far. The current is not very strong and the water level is low. We have witnessed a change in the landscape as we have traveled south. In the delta of the Taltson, the banks were lined with mud. The farther upriver we go, the more rocky it gets. Granite dominates the landscape, along with lichen, moss, and Jack Pines. We have entered the Canadian Shield.

The Canadian Shield covers about half of Canada. Also called the Precambrian Shield or Laurentian Plateau, it is igneous and metamorphic rock that was formed in the Precambrian era, 500 million years ago. The landscape has been sculpted by the ice sheets of the last Ice Age. The ice sheets carried away much of the soil and scraped out numerous lake basins.

The weather had been really warm and sunny until a few days ago. Then, a wind from the north picked up and we experienced several days of clouds, rain and even snow. The cold weather was welcomed, because it toned down the mosquitoes, and we didn’t really break a sweat while paddling and portaging. Fennel seemed more perky in the cooler weather too.

Most of the portages have been at small rapids and we have been able to carry our stuff across the exposed granite rocks and ledges pretty easily. Where the river funnels down into a gorge, we have longer and more difficult portages. The most brutal, so far, was a mile-long portage. We began by hiking through a tangle of down trees and thick underbrush, the results of a forest fire. It got better as we worked our way along the rim of the gorge and we were thrilled when we found a rough, old trail. We still have a lot of food, so we had to shuttle everything across in two loads. It was a slow, time-consuming process.

Yesterday, we had to think creatively as we approached the Twin Gorges. There is a hydroelectric dam here, producing power for Fort Smith, Hay River and Fort Resolution. Several sets of rapids lie downriver of the dam. We had several mini portages and then waded in the river and lined through slower, shallow rapids. We finished with a portage up to the top of the dam. This process took hours and while we were working, the sun came out, along with the black flies and mosquitoes!

We were welcomed warmly at the top by the power plant operator. His first question was, “How did you guys get here?” He raised an eyebrow and smiled when we said that we had come from downriver and were working our way upriver. After a tour of the area, we showered, ate pizza for dinner and chatted until dark.

For more information about the Canadian Shield, visit: http://csern.laurentian.ca/Canadian_Shield.htm or http://atlas.nrcan.gc.ca/site/english/maps/environment/geology/geologicalprovinces/1

It was ten years ago when we pedaled our gear-laden mountain bikes along Chile’s Lago General Carrera and caught our first glimpse of Chile’s wild and wonderful Rio Baker (Baker River) watershed. Never before had we experienced such a vast and ecologically diverse corner of the planet – and our physical and emotional reaction to the power and beauty before us is something we will never forget.

To the west stood the towering peaks of the Northern Patagonia Ice Sheet, which seemed to hover over the glaciers and temperate rainforests beneath them. Rain and snow melt poured into countless streams and rivers, eventually joining forces with the mighty Baker – Chile’s most voluminous river – on its way to the Pacific. To the south and east were the countless high mountains and deep valleys defining the drier side of the watershed – a region characterized by the small farms of Patagon families, vast regions of unexplored high country and the high-desert environs of the Argentine border. This area is also the home of the future Patagonia National Park.

The Rio Baker itself is a global gem. It’s roaring with spectacular waterfalls and whitewater, it’s teeming with giant trout and it’s so clear and clean that you can open your mouth while swimming…and drink from its sweet, sweet waters. Only a few thousand people call the Baker watershed home. There is no doubt that it is a rare and unique place on this earth.

We returned to the region in both 2004 and 2006 to explore the vast wilderness of the Baker watershed on skis, to document the region’s unique culture and environment, and to investigate plans to build five industrial-scale dams along the Baker and adjacent Pascua River. To say the issue of the dams is controversial and complicated would be an total understatement. What is true is that a Spanish/Italian energy giant, ENEL – and not the Chileans – owns the rights to develop most of Chilean Patagonia’s rivers. (This is because, with one of his last strokes of the pen, former Chilean dictator Augustus Pinochet privatized what was the national Chilean energy utility.) What is also true is that most Chileans oppose the dams and would prefer to develop other forms of alternative energy, including smaller-scale hydro power, rather than stabbing one of their greatest natural treasures in the back.

Last week, the Chilean environmental court approved the environmental impact study (EIS) that ENEL needs to move forward with the construction of the dams. This is not good. Riots and protests have erupted countrywide and will culminate in a series of major protests over the weekend in Chile and at Chilean embassies around the globe. Before ENEL can move forward, it still needs approval for a 1200 mile power-line (most of which will be clear-cut through wild Patagonian forest) connecting the dams to the main Chilean grid. So this is not a done deal.

We’ve reached a time in our history when places like Chile’s Rio Baker watershed cannot simply be left in the hands of one nation – one government – especially if the government cannot listen to its people. These are rare, ecologically vital and globally significant places on this earth that we should all stand behind to help protect and develop with care. Please consider joining the majority of Chileans who hope to save one of our planet’s greatest treasures by getting informed through the links below, and by supporting the great work of International Rivers and others involved in this effort.

Thanks!
Brian Mohr and Emily Johnson
Ember Photography
AdventureSkier.com

General info, latest news, images and links (to our past work) featuring the Baker watershed – HERE
Latest Update from International Rivers – HERE

Keeping up with the car-free lifestyle that we’ve been living for over a month, we have yet to visit the grocery store since we returned to Vermont. Rather, we’ve been feasting on garden greens, some freezer goodies and plenty of stokfisk (dried cod–it tastes much better than it smells!), rugbrod (rye bread) and Gudbrandsdalsost (a yummy sweet brown cheese) that we carried home with us.

Settling back into life here in Vermont, it will take us some time to sort through and begin sharing some of the images and video we captured. Thanks for your patience, and please stay tuned. In the meantime, we’re investing some good time in our gardens, swimming more than usual for this time of year, tending to some other project deadlines and savoring so many great moments from the trip, while they are still fresh in our minds.

Here are a few of those moments, brought to life through our photos…

A special thanks to: WEND Magazine, Black Diamond (Tyler M., John D. and Sarah), Onion River Sports (Kip and Chas and the crew), Surly Bikes, Pacific Outdoor Equipment, Patagonia, Ibex, Skout Natural Foods, Mammut, BOB Trailers, Ortlieb USA, Smith Optics, Smartwool, Brunton, Pale Morning Media (Scott and Matt), VisitNorway, VisitTromso, WEND Magazine(Sami), Alf and Gunnar at Koppangen Brygger, David and Ana at Camp Kviteberg, Asbjorn Rygh at LyngenAlp.no, ski guide Jimmy Halvardsson, Per Arnerberg, Tore and Anna, our families and our friends.

Midnight at “Camp 1″ – Just as the blizzard was winding up…

Emily skiing above Camp 1. Need we say more?

Heading out to the road…

Another reason we simply love to ski…

The Tropics of Norway…

Midnight ski tour – Actual time 1:15 a.m.

The midnight sun, hiding behind an island mountain to our north.

Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for more soon.
-Brian and Emily

Kyle Miller crowed to Sainthood with a halo of powder.

Barely a word was spoken as we made our way up to the mountain. Anger was not the culprit for this lack of enjoying conversation. Powder was. Both Brad and myself wore goofy expressions on our faces, entranced by visions of ourselves flying through “hero” snow. We stopped, picked up Kyle, and then there were three of us in the car making the same damn goofy look.

“Powder day,” said one.

“Powder day,” replied all.

Avalanche danger was high, so for the first day we’d play it safe. Nice gladed tree runs, which we were familiar with, offered epic ski conditions. Although we were riding secret stashes we could easily access in the side country, there is something to be said for nailing the old stomping grounds with good friends, in sun and powder. We didn’t cross a track all day, and the snow, as seen above, was nothing to complain about.

Brad leaps for a damsel in distress. - Norse Peak Wilderness Area, WA

Staying at Kyle’s place just down the mountain allowed us to get some sleep before a good day of touring. Even more, it allowed us to catch up with a good friend and also one of the most accomplished split-boarders in the Pacific Northwest. Filling ourselves with breakfast sandwiches and Kyle’s latest tales of the gnar, it wasn’t long before we were flipping on beacons and methodically climbing to the rhythm of our breathing. Reaching the top of our first line for the day and finding conditions to be favorable, we began chattering like a clique of crushing school girls. Dropping in one by one we relished each turn, trying to milk the beautiful powder that had been eluding us this season. El Niño could reign with an iron fist, but his grip was loosening.

Wearing smiles and snow, we made our way up and down the familiar wilderness area, reaping the best lines and savoring the perfect conditions. Our final descent back to the car was on a slope that should have had sun-affected crust, however, to our delight, we encountered nothing but more sweet nectar of the heavens. Ullr was appeased by us, as were we by him. Powder makes everyone smile.

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.

Author and friend cooking breakfast in the Tatoosh Range.

Mt. Rainier National Park offers some of the most diverse alpine terrain in the Pacific Northwest. Millions of visitors flock to the dormant juggernaut during peak seasons, and even in winter there is a steady flow of admirers. Surrounding areas receive some traffic too, such as the impressive Tatoosh range on the south side of the park. Main peaks like Castle and Plummer see lots of backcountry use by snow shoers and skiers alike. However, as the range continues deeper into the park, use becomes scarce and the terrain less traveled.

Aiming for an area that didn’t see much use, two friends and I brought gear for an overnight trip which would hopefully allow us to tackle more terrain and to ski lines that have seen few descents. We progressed further into the Tatoosh and the clouds pushed down further into our plans. Luckily, our last few glimpses of Unicorn Peak preceded the receding light and we found a spot to call camp for the night. Quickly setting up camp, Joe and myself headed out for a last run of the day and to evaluate snow conditions a bit. Snow pits and a Rouche Block test left us feeling a bit uneasy and we conservatively returned to camp to discuss conditions with Brad. We had a night to sleep on it, so we all felt like waiting to see what the morning would bring.

Author and Joe Bell head out to evaluate snow conditions. (Picture by Brad Kwasnowski) - Tatoosh Range, MRNP

Three glorious inches of light snow greeted us on a morning when the forecast was supposed to be clear. Perfect Washington weather. Occasional pockets of bluebird made the day look promising and breakfast became a time to fill not only our stomachs but also our hopes. We continued our snow assessment discussion and agreed that playing it safe was a better idea. Deciding to cache our gear and return for it on the descent, visibility began to deteriorate yet again. Lapping some relatively safe terrain, the weather finally got the better of us and we called it a day. Returning for our gear we packed up and headed out, traversing the ridgeline until we arrived at our last line to the road.

Avalanches aren’t an uncommon event in the backcountry. They occur all the time, which is why it is so important for backcountry travelers to know how to interpret, comprehend and put to use proper snow evaluation techniques so as to avoid them. And, if necessary, they need know what to do if their involvement is required. Perhaps it was the heavy packs, or maybe this area had been more sun or wind affected, but either way we were growing tired and decided to ski cut as our method of testing stability. It looked good and Brad dropped in. He got to a safe zone and Joe followed, down a slightly steeper part of the slope. I yelled as the entire snowpack underneath him spider-webbed and began to slide. Joe skied out quickly and the three of us watched as the two-foot-deep slide proceeded to its resting spot at the basin floor.

Having a higher starting area, the terrain required me to ski over a section of the upper hill which hadn’t slid yet, but would, once I touched it. Alert and aware, I dropped in quickly, making a hard turn into the snowpack to send it loose and then raced down and out of the way.  I could hear the whoosh! of the snow behind me as I sailed in to our safe zone. Not much to be said but sighs of relief. We safely skied out to the car and packed up to leave. Every time we visit Rainier we learn a lesson, and this time was no exception.

Dragontail rises over 3000 menacing feet above Colchuck Lake.

Deep in the heart of the central eastern Cascades lies the Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area and the Enchantments. Magnificent alpine lakes surrounded by jagged granite rock and remnant glacial fields make this wilderness destination one of the most popular areas in Washington’s backcountry during peak season. Winter offers solitude and a plethora of magnificent lines,filling in even the narrowest and steepest couliors. Add rappelling into the approach and you’ve got yourself an endless supply of ski mountaineering options.

Pulling into the parking lot late we quickly made dinner and packed to head out early the following morning. Sleeping in the back of the Outback was surprisingly comfortable and we awoke to daybreak and other vehicles joining the early morning preparations. After exchanging some greetings with “the regulars”, we began to gain elevation, first on the road and then onto the trail. The wooded approach made it difficult to calculate approximate distance traveled, and the seven mile slog dragged on and on. However, we eventually reached a prominent ridge near Colchuck Lake and we soon found ourselves skinning towards the prominent rock fortress, Dragontail. Scouting a safe campsite away from avalanche danger, we set up our tent and quickly jumped into preparing dinner as the trek in had left us hungry – both for food and powder.

The following morning we made an early start and began climbing up Aasgard Pass. Steeply, we quickly began to gain views of a landscape oozing with steep couliors and chutes, offering challenging terrain for even the most auspicious ski mountaineers. Nearing the saddle, we stopped to soak in some pockets of bluebird skies and enjoy the views. We decided to work our way up the western basin of Dragontail and continue following the ridge up. Flat light and clouds made us wait for a weather window, and when we got it we got moving. After passing back over the saddle and down the western basin, we broke free from the clouds and began to really enjoy the endless powder that greeted us at each turn.

The descent to Colchuck Lake is steep, and luckily deep.

We leap-frogged through Aasgard pass and began moving into more of the steep terrain that make for great skiing. Nearing the apron of Aasgard we expected to find powder covered avy debris, but much to our delight we instead carved turns into buttery, hero snow. Boulders and trees provided us with some final playground equipment as we made our final few turns down to the lake. Although hauling camp is heavy, it was mostly downhill the rest of the way out.  In fact, we still had over 3000′ to drop in the next seven miles which would hopefully help us return to the cars by a decent time. Exiting by headlamp, we skied the last three miles on the road, allowing for an easy and quick exit. Luckily dead batteries were easily brought back to life, being only “mostly dead”. However, our legs definitely felt “all dead”. Changing into comfortable sneakers we began the drive home, still amped from yet another amazing powder run.

Flying from the Eiger, in Switzerland.

Remember, this is illegal in American National Parks. Why? An excellent question.

Sun filters through the clouds, highlighting some good looking lines.

Having just had an amazing day of early season powder, Kyle, Dan and myself were itching to get back up to look for more. This time, we wanted a different destination to vary things up a bit. Curious of what Rainier might have to offer, and noticing the telemetry reading showing almost twice as much snow as before, we set our sights for the north facing slopes of the Tatoosh. Previous summer trips had us well acquainted with the terrain, and the deeper snow pack would help in burying some of the larger rocks. Since the snow pack had consolidated a bit, we decided it was a go.

Driving to Rainier is always pleasant, even if the Longmire gate opens late. Luckily, the mountain was out and about, showing off her beautiful new white dress. Many skis in the parking lot told us this could be a busy day, but most people out to enjoy ski turns headed straight for Paradise, reducing significantly the size of the crowd in our parking lot. Hurriedly we loaded our packs and began to set the skin track, hoping to lap some fresh pow before the swarms destroyed the crop. We climbed steep and fast, and once at the road strided out, briefly trading spots with another group. Again shifting into the front we gained elevation quickly and didn’t stop until we reached the top. In front of us, the sun broke through the clouds and beamed a heavenly light towards a gift that we decided was ours for the taking.

Dan Howell begins turns in an effortless day of PNW powder.

Gazing down from the ridge we could see the specks of backcountry enthusiasts slowly crawling up the slopes below, decimating the skin track and open snowfields below. That is precisely why we hurried to the top. What lay before us was an empty canvas, begging for some artists to strap paintbrushes to their feet and to simply carve art. We were more than happy to oblige. After reaching the summit, we carefully navigated to the nearest and highest access to the slope. Carefully changing over from skins to skis, we soaked in the partial sun breaks and thousands of feet of exposure. When the last of us three was strapped in, we began to display our artwork. Fully inspired and bursting with adrenaline, the empty canvas was soon transformed. Monet would have been proud.

From the bottom we watched as clouds began to fill in our window of opportunity. No matter, we had seized the moment and been rewarded with the smile worn by only those who have earned it. As the sun headed into its evening routine, we looked down the slope where we had seen many people before. We were alone. First to arrive, last to leave. It sounds rude, but when the mountains are the ones throwing the party, then proper etiquette is shot out with a farmer’s blow. Needless to say, we were still disappointed in seeing the highways of skin tracks and grade school artwork displayed on the other side. However, always optimistic, we decided to take a route back to the road that we had spied from the trek up and might offer some untouched tree skiing. For now, we had a few rocks and cornices to play with, so we made the most of it and colored inside the lines. With fleeting light, we got to the road and made it back for one last run to the car.

Dan Howell opts for the full immersion.

Fall became winter in three glorious days of Ullr’s blessings nuking the landscape with blankets of white. Early season powder was upon us, and with it the decision of picking the right terrain. Our plan was to get out early, polish off a good tour, and ski sick pow. Quality over quantity. Knowing what lies under the snow enabled us to quickly agree on a tour that not only offered great lines, but a tour that might offer great lines even in early season. However, nothing could have prepared us for en”lighten”ment.

Snow lay at elevations far below normal for this time of year. Smiles crept across our faces. We continued to discuss the variables all the way into the parking lot. Once there, we donned our gear and traded greetings with two other skiers kind enough to begin breaking trail. We followed, but soon began a detour that would take us to the terrain we thought might be most promising. An ambitious tour for early season, repetition of this particular trip throughout past years allowed our confidence to expand. However, already the odds of us getting the goods were good, and the goods on this tour were usually well worth getting.

Kyle Miller sprays the vegetation.

At the ridge-line the winds howled. Snow swirled and danced across the treetops, looking for gaps in the rocks to hide in. Moving just below the ridge and into a slightly more sheltered area, we scouted our first of three lines. Covered in summer in arrays of brilliant wildflowers, our first line was a slope that slowly steepens into two avalanche chutes which pour into the basin below. After digging a pit and noticing the fireweed still emerging from the snow, we began to ride. Knee deep bliss, coupled every so often with the deeper sensation of good powder underfoot had us licking our chops at the basin bottom. Quickly refueling we exchanged thoughts and jokes. Our first run was promising, but the wind had us feeling that our upcoming north facing run would be much, much sweeter.

Sweet as Georgia sweet tea. From the ridge we could tell the strong winds were picking up and depositing snow into the many north facing couloirs we had to choose from. All debate ended when a lull in the wind produced a clear view of a beautiful, double dog-legged couloir. Steepening and choking between two cliffs in the center leg, this couloir was an active avalanche chute later in the season. The second dogleg exited into the main bowl which poured into the basin and was littered with tiny saplings struggling for their chance to struggle against nature.

I threw myself in like a groupie at a pool party. Knee to thigh deep powder made it easy to grant my mouth permission to grin. Throttling into the choke I dived deep and felt the weightlessness of sifting in bottomless powder. The surreal explosion of my chest effortlessly breaking through the snow pack left me speechless. My beard was caked in snow from being blinded in each and every turn. Right as I was wishing for a snorkel, I eased into knee deep contemplation the rest of the way down. As Kyle and Dan joined me, our sighs and laughter spoke loudest for our feelings of joy.

Gazing longingly at our tracks, we pined for another lap.  Hell, we wanted another twenty of those! The downside of touring long to get the goods, is that you only get one chance. Luckily, we gambled and won the lottery. No more gambling was necessary. Approaching the final ridge, we traversed just below it to escape the wind. Reaching the familiar “back to the car” run, we prepared for sun affected crusts for the next two thousand feet. Fortunately, our luck was still with us. The last run of the day couldn’t have been better as bluebird skies gave way to the fading light, there were powder induced smiles yet again.

Kyle Miller shredding the early season powder on the Flett Glacier - MRNP

Rain. Surprise. With fall starting, the forecast for the Pacific NW was not alarming in the least. However, an also rapidly decreasing freezing level piqued my interest. Maybe, just maybe there would be some of the good stuff. Like a kid sneaking pumpkin pie early at Thanksgiving dinner, the idea was to squeeze in some early season powder turns. As predicted, NOAA forecasted a low freezing level for three days straight with accumulations up to six inches. Things were starting to piece together, and when Kyle told me he’d be down to hike up for some turns, I knew we had ourselves a good time ahead. Kyle and I had been using the rain shadow effect for years in hopes of some bluebird skies when prospects seemed dim. The volcanic and glacially carved formations of Echo and Observation Rock seem to provide shelter from the wind – and snow deposits. Hopefully all of these aspects would prove to add up, but you don’t know ’til you go. So off we went.

Early on things began to look good. In the parking lot we saw glimpses of the mountain and other surrounding peaks telling us the clouds were moving which was a good thing. We began our hike and it started to rain. However we quickly felt the rain turn to snow, and soon we were leaving white boot prints on the lightly dusted trail. Clouds veiled us and visibility dropped, but knowing the trail and area well we pressed on and up looking for the telltale landmarks of Echo and Observation rock. We continued up in a white out until the clouds began to clear and we broke into the rain shadow. The Flett glacier (which is more like a remnant snowfield now) only had a few small cracks and one large cave entrance at the bottom center of the glacier. Everything else seemed to be covered in a healthy coat of the white stuff. It was really cold. It was going to be a good day.

Kyle observes the glacier, dwarfed by Echo Rock.

Deciding to have a look at the Russell glacier as well, we began ascending, kicking our boots into three inches or so of fresh powder. Smiles plastered on our faces, we moved faster and soon relished in our findings. The higher we went, the better and deeper the snow was. Opting for the good stuff, we turned our attention from the Russell back to the Flett and donned our equipment. Slowly gaining speed I began to carve into the canvas of white snow. The suncups that had been there previously that summer were officially covered. Effortless skiing persisted, and finishing out a line I turned back to look at my tracks. Today would require many laps. This was like mounding the entire pumpkin pie.

Several laps in, we stopped near the bottom to refuel. Kyle seemed to read the words right out of my mind, “Check out that cave! Think we can crawl in there?” I had some reservations, but we carefully prodded the terrain until we had secured ourselves inside the entrance of the glacial cave. The ice formations were intriguing and left us in awe of the amazing splendor of places not often seen. Crawling out, it was easy to opt for one last reaping of the cold dusting of powder. As we made our way back to the bottom of the glacier, clouds began to cover the remaining sucker holes, telling us gently that we were overstaying our welcome. Heeding the Mountain’s wishes, we retreated back to the car, smiles on our faces having gotten a foretaste of the feast to come this season.

Ancient mountains watch over old ruins.

My idea of what a mining town might have been like is probably skewed severely by the many westerns I used to watch with my grandpa while growing up. However, the possibility of seeing the remains of the city that was once the center of Washington’s gold rush was extremely intriguing. Coupled with an easy mountain bike approach and the options of backpacking into some of Washington’s most pristine wilderness areas made this trip worth doing not once, but TWO weekends in a row. Plus, with ski lines to be scouted (ski season is just around the corner!) and the promise of alpine lakes full of trout fishing opportunity, Monte Cristo was a destination that seemed to beckon our presence.

The first part of the trek in follows the abandoned Monte Cristo road, which is mostly gravel and cobblestone.  Although a small section of road was washed out in spring floods and requires an exciting tree crossing, the rest of the road is well suited for mountain biking and the bike rack at the site of Monte Cristo reiterates this fact. The four mile road gains four hundred feet of elevation, mostly in short, steep bursts in the latter half. Weaving through the forest and following the river up to the townsite of Monte Cristo, this section is filled with spectacular views of steep rugged mountains that tower into alpine zones. Arriving at the townsite one can look around at the few remaining features including a turntable, cabins and scattered artifacts. The townsite also offers campsites and access into the Henry M. Jackson Wilderness Area.

Walking our bikes through a small creek crossing, we entered the townsite proper of Monte Cristo.

From the townsite, those who venture on have numerous options stemming from two trails which enter the wilderness area. Glacial basin offers spectacular views of high alpine peaks, with abandoned mines and ruins along the three mile trail. To see these peaks from a higher perspective, one must climb up two miles to Poodle Dog Pass near Silver Lake, which offers plenty of campsites and wildberries. Venturing beyond Silver Lake, the trail climbs and then descends to closely follow a ridgeline, entertaining travelers with an astounding abundance of huckleberries, wild blueberries, and spectacular views. A small lookout offers panoramas of Monte Cristo and Columbia Peaks as well as upper and lower Twin Lakes. Reaching a plateau between twin peaks, the trail then descends steeply almost one thousand vertical feet in about 3/4 of a mile down to the lakes in which numerous campsites offer a pristine wilderness experience and solitude.

Due to our short stay we obtained our water from natural sources, however because of high contents of arsenic and lead in the water all around the area, the Forest Service recommends packing in all the water you would need for your excursion since traditional methods of purification will not work for these metals. Not affected by the high metallic content of the water, rainbow and cutthroat trout abound in the Twin Lakes. No campfires are allowed in the wilderness area within a half mile of any water source, so a cookset and stove for frying up your catch is a must! Live bait is also not allowed in wilderness areas, which makes it a perfect spot for some great fly fishing. Wildberries in our pancakes added to the backcountry experience and seduced me into repeating this trip the following weekend as well.

Unless you’ve played Risk or daydream about fly fishing, you’ve probably never heard of eastern Siberia’s Kamchatka Peninsula, one of the last truly wild places on Earth. The volcanic 1,250 kilometer long peninsula is a place where between one sixth and one fourth of all wild salmon spawn, a place with some of the densest brown bear populations in the world, a place with no dams, no massive extractive resource operations, less than one person per square kilometer, only one major highway, and some of the best unexplored whitewater rivers on the planet.

Kamchatka, however, is no protected Eden. As you read this, oil and gas companies are lining up to drill wells and build pipelines, illegal salmon poaching is a billion-dollar-a-year industry, and local inhabitants and politicians are desperate for any source of income that will keep food on their spartan tables.

The Kamchatka Project is an effort to build an open-source community of people who care and want to learn more about this important place and its complex set of issues. The project is being organized by a team of expert whitewater kayakers and filmmakers who will travel to Kamchatka in summer 2010 to navigate previously un-run steep rivers, help scientists survey salmon stocks and habitat, and document perspectives and stories from a diverse range of inhabitants that explore the complex relationships between the place, its people, and its fisheries.

This week The Kamchatka Project is launching the Schoolhouse, an online forum where people from diverse backgrounds are encouraged to discuss and learn about Kamchatka and the salmon that form the backbone of its ecosystems and economy. Over the next five months team members will introduce weekly topics related to Kamchatka’s land, rivers, ecosystems, economy, social dynamics, politics, laws, international relations, and more. The information presented by the team, bolstered by contributions and feedback from The Kamchatka Project community, will form the foundation for a unique and powerful educational tool that will be converted into a high school curriculum and remain online indefinitely.

The Schoolhouse’s weekly topics swill start off with primers on salmon and Kamchatka, and gradually get more focused as the weeks progress. What topics are presented, when they’re presented, and how they’re presented are all dependent on feedback and recommendations from people like you. Topics for the first ten weeks will include:

Salmon Basics
History of Salmon in North America
History of Dams in North America
Salmon: It’s What’s for Dinner
Kamchatka: Why it Matters
Who’s Who in Kamchatka
Money Matters in Kamchatka
Development and Conservation in Kamchatka
Stories from Supporters of The Kamchatka Project
History of Salmon in Kamchatka

WIN this bag!

Prize drawings will be held weekly on the Schoolhouse site as an incentive to join the action. Entering is easy: for every constructive comment or contribution made within each week’s posts, you’ll be entered (up to thirty times/week) to random drawings for sweet gear contributed by friends of The Kamchatka Project.

This week’s topic is Salmon Basics, and we’ll be giving away a shiny new DAKINE backcountry pack to one lucky contributor. Drop in today to share, learn, and enter the drawing!

Sunrise exposes dragons, which can still be found hiding in the clouds in MRNP.

The temperature was finally beginning to drop to a normal level and the forecast was looking good. It was time to head out to another beautiful area in the northern area of Mt. Rainier National Park, only this time the focus was getting in July ski turns. Kyle had returned from skiing a number of volcanoes in the Cascade range, and Jill was looking for a quick escape from the city before she headed off on another adventure traveling the world. The three of us decided to carry our gear up to the Flett glacier (more a snowfield now) for an overnighter and hopefully some decent snow. All of us had been on this trail before, and the laughter of our conversations carried us quickly through the many ups, downs and switchbacks of the first miles of the forested area of the Spray Park trail.

As we climbed in elevation and entered the sub-alpine, our voices were suppressed at the sheer magnitude of the beauty in bloom. We stopped for a quick rest in the increasingly depleting shade, hydrating and applying copious amounts of bug juice, trying to limit the amount of blood to be lost while hiking. However, our disapproval for the mosquitoes was one sentiment. Others felt differently about the situation.

Cascade Frogs take advantage of the warm weather and the abundant mosquito buffet.

As we moved higher in elevation, Spray Park unfolded in a glorious array of wildflowers from the bright yellows of arnica to the deep reds of scarlet paintbrush, scattered with patches of snow a growing amount of rocky alpine terrain. Carefully crossing the talus we made our way to a campsite surrounded by incredible views, heather and solitude. We decided to boil some water and pitch our camp while we waited for the snow to soften a bit more.

We finally began a late afternoon charge to get our turns in, and it appeared to be the right timing. Suncups were littering the snow and unless they were soft, the skiing could be a bit more challenging. This was Jill’s first time carrying her skis in to get summer turns, so Kyle and I were excited to see if she enjoyed it or not, both of us putting in the miles to maintain longer streaks. As we locked in to begin our descent, I headed down first to take pictures of our excursion. Besides fun and a mountain goat jumping down the rocks and scaring Kyle, we worked up appetites not to be trifled with. Upon completing our last snowfield, we arrived at camp to begin cooking right as the sun set behind the horizon.

Sunset on the Flett snowfields.

The next morning brought wind, but with it hoards of weekend hikers, already beginning their treks into the park. We were surprised to see people so early, but also ready to pack up and begin our trek back to civilization. Passing numbers of couples, friends, photographers and avid outdoorsmen, all enjoying the magnitude of the wilderness, one could observe the marmots out playing in the meadows, eating lupine. Again we passed down through the sub-alpine and into the forested area below. We reached Spray Falls and took a break, boiling some water and relieving our backs of the weight of our packs. Pushing on, we concluded our escapade with a dip in Mowich Lake. The weather had been very cooperative, and again we nabbed some great summer turns. However, this time a new face was brought into the world of “earning turns”, as can be the case for anyone willing to walk.

The Emmons-Winthrop Glaciers on Mt. Rainier, divided by Steamboat Prow and the Interglacier.

The Sunrise area of Mt. Rainier National Park, at 6,400 ft., is the highest point one can drive to within the park boundaries. Its location at the northeast corner of the park offers views that many visitors claim are unsurpassed by any other area of the park. From here, one can see from Little Tahoma on the southeast side of the mountain to Ptarmigan Ridge, one of the mountain’s prominent northwestern flanks. The Emmons and Winthrop glaciers pour into the valleys below, divided by the remarkable Interglacier and Steamboat Prow, serving as a landmark for Camp Sherman. The vistas continue on as Curtis Ridge marks the eastern boundary of one of the most dangerous and prominent features on the north side of Mt. Rainier, the Willis Wall. Hiking trails abound and there are a number of backcountry designated areas, making the options endless.

My brother and I decided we wanted to hike one day, then camp with a brief jaunt back to the car the following morning. The Freemont Lookout Tower was our first destination, and from there we decided we were just going to decide as we went. The lookout tower is not actually on Mt. Freemont proper, nor either of the highest peaks marking the ridge. The lookout tower is at the end of the ridgeline, offering spectacular view of Rainier’s northern terrain and into the Winthrop fork of the White River basin. After some time there, we decided to scramble the three high points along the ridge, including Mt. Freemont proper. The first two points offered spectacular views into the basin, but on approach to the third it was apparent we were not alone.

Mountain goat tracks mark the upper slopes.

From Mt. Freemont we had views into the eastern and North Cascades. Looking into the basin was incredible as well, and although Mt. Freemont is not the tallest point, it is the steepest with the greatest amount of exposure. The owner of the tracks we saw earlier did not make itself known until it was making its way across the screefields below, allowing us to finally spot the goat.

As Brian and I made our way back into Berkeley Park, we opted to hike out to the second Burrough mountain to view the White River valley and the Emmons Glacier. The glacier was extremely broken and the views of the valley again were incredible. The Interglacier was looking rough, but still skier friendly this time of year. The wind picked up as we gained elevation, and after our brief excursion we headed for our campsite. However the campground was full, despite the permit they had just issued us that day. Luckily, we obtained one of the 30% of backcountry permits the park keeps for a “first come, first serve” basis. Reserving a permit is $20, but getting one at the ranger station is free. Also, obtaining a backcountry permit can help Mt. Rainier show its increase in number users by registering them. Hopefully this can help the park to gain more federal funding, which can help the park fund expensive operations, like clearing the road to Sunrise in spring. Brian and I decided not to stay however. There was no amount of federal funding that would get rid of mosquitoes. After a meal filled with leg and arm slapping, we attempted a brief nap near Shadow Lake but to no avail. We would walk out by headlamp, reflecting on another incredible day in Washington’s wilderness.

Alpine starts aren’t always necessary, but usually become the norm for a summit bid day. Especially amongst climbers. Skiers sometimes have the luxury of waiting a while since their round trip time is usually cut in half by the descent. However, there were a lot of areas on the upper Tahoma we wished to cross while the snow was solid and shaded. Alpine it would be, and 1:00 am rolled around quickly. We all drifted back to sleep only to be awoken 15 minutes later by a magnificently large ice avalanche from the upper Tahoma ice cliff. Each of us was up and ready in a heartbeat – or in this instance lack thereof. The debris settled a good distance away, yet close enough that we were dusted with the spray from the gust of wind pushed by the slide. Time to roll.

Boiling water is possibly the most difficult task to be patient with. It takes a while at altitude. Everyone loses water quickly and needs to boil more to stay hydrated. The stove takes longer too. When we headed out of camp, our headlamps darted around to get a bearing on things. The nearest artificial lights in our field of view were the lights of south Puget Sound and Tacoma. Amazingly, our lights were still dull in comparison to the light we could see in the furthest reaches of space. Clear sky also meant the temperature had dropped below freezing and we would hopefully have solid snow for the climb up.

Hope was fleeting.

“I’m postholing.”

“Dang, that’s deep! Stugie, yeah?”

“Holy $***”.

That about summed it up.  Our first hour of climbing was incredibly stressful and tiresome. Postholing was having us sinking to our thighs, and sometimes our entire leg. Not only were we already worried about the snow bridges we were crossing, but the false assumption that the snow would be solid was proving to be a humbling and worrying experience. However, turning around to look towards the Puget Sound, we were again encouraged by how much of the glacier we had ascended. The sky gradually filled itself with morning light, stretching the shadow of Rainier towards the horizon naturally pointing one’s view to Tacoma and the Puget Sound. Before we realized it, the three of us parked up on firm snow taking a break to hydrate and soak in the effects of sunrise on the Puget Sound as seen from near 12,000′.

Renewed, we started off again. The extremely firm snow lent way to our making good progress. No more postholing, only careful foot placements as a fall on this firm snow could send our team to some risky terrain quickly. The pitch continued to steepen, and although the couloir would have been much steeper in sections, we still found ourselves carefully navigating fifty degree ice across the broad slopes of the Tahoma glacier. Fluctuating slightly, the Tahoma did not let up as we made steady progress and pushed through burning muscles step after step. Altitude began to affect us all, slowing our pace but not drastically. Finally we made it to a change in the slope as it began to mellow to the summit. We witnessed two climbers topping out on Liberty Cap and walking the ridge to Columbia Crest, our originally intended finish. We amused ourselves following their progress while we refueled on energy, and then skinned the rest of the way to the base of the summit crater. Stepping out of our bindings, we climbed to the summit enjoying grins for the successful ascent. Only two-thirds of the trip to go – skiing down and the drive home.

Dropping down the south side, nearing the entrance to the Fuhrer Finger.

Transitioning quickly, our weary legs relished in dreams of elegant turns through creamy corn snow. Those dreams were answered – after navigating horrendous packed powder and ice. We descended and traversed around a number of rocks and crevasses, landing us a view of the entirety of southern Washington and northern Oregon while trying to stay focused on skiing the Fuhrer Finger. Remnants of fallen rock littered the entrance to the finger and the thumb. Thankfully we did not yet have rock bombs whizzing by our heads as we skied this forty-five degree chute speckled with “mines” of andesite. The snow skied extremely well as we made our way down to the Nisqually glacier. Upon leaving the finger, we made the best of our decent, plowing through slushy snow and trying to avoid wet slides. We skied past the classes practicing crevasse rescue as we threaded our way through a series of wafer thin snow bridges. Reaching the car became a reality and we celebrated with weary smiles and beer. Reaching Tacoma, we exchanged a round of thanks one last time and headed home. Sleeping would not be a problem tonight.

Morning light begins to bask Adams and St. Helens.

Early mornings are not always necessary in the backcountry and sometimes prove difficult to pull off. We still left early, and although it was no alpine start, the sunrise we digested that morning was the breakfast entree that served all three of us and then some. The descent on to the South Tahoma glacier was a bit dicey, balancing precariously on the toes of our ski boots as we delicately stepped from hold to hold, occasionally knocking rocks loose sending them tumbling into the large moats directly below. After traversing onto the glacier, we quickly made our way across the South Tahoma while it was still in the shade and arrived on the Tahoma cleaver to cast first glimpse of our next goal – high camp at St. Andrew’s Rock.

The Tahoma glacier was massive – though it wasn’t the biggest glacier on the mountain, it was one of the more technical glaciers to navigate. Huge gaping crevasses were very apparent low on the glacier, and higher up the glacier would throw numerous ice falls at us, with even larger crevasses spaced precariously close together. As we looked out and studied our route, we made the decision to drop onto the glacier and work our way across it to a large natural ramp in the glacial ice.  Unbeknown to us, the top of the this ramp would only mark the first third of our ascent up, and proved to be the easiest section to move through. Arriving at the top of the ramp, we were given privy to the navigational hazards that lay ahead.

Matt Sheets takes a quick breather before navigating down the rest of the icefall.

We pressed on, thankfully finding a safe area in the shade to melt water. The glacier had been in full sun for a couple of hours, and the heat was intense. We filled up on water and rested a bit, jesting with one another to psychologically lighten our loads. Ready to continue up to our high camp, we were shortly stopped by an incredibly large crevasse, seemingly spanning the length of the glacier. The other side was above us by five or six feet, and any snow bridge that possibly stretched the distance was sketchy at best. We discussed all of our possible options, and it was decided that one of us would attempt to cross an area where the span seemed smallest and snow bridge seemed thickest.

“Stügie, you’re on belay. Make sure you set a bomber picket”, Matt warned.

“Dude, watch me.  I’ll need some slack for the jump, but if I go down…”

“I got you bro”, Matt reassured me.

Brad chimed in, “Stügie, you sure you want to do this?”

“No. Let’s try running this thing out.  We’re pretty remote right now.”

“Agreed.” All of us seemed to be on the same page. We disassembled our belay station and prepared to move down the glacier to see if the crevasse did run out. If so, we could possibly end run it, however there were a lot of hazardous ice falls and other crevasses sitting near both ends, so it wasn’t without danger. Ultimately, all three of us felt that because of our location on the mountain, less risk was worth the extra distance and time. We were close to our high camp as well – we didn’t want to mess this up. Forty-five minutes later, after a successful end run and negotiating several large crevasses on small bridges, we made our way back up our original line.

“What do you guys think of this campsite?” asked Matt.

“Totally.”

“Works for me.”

We were parked near 11,000′, separating ourselves from the avy debris zone with a crevasse.  Setting up camp and observing the route would be our next tasks. Matt, our ice climbing expert, delivered the bomb.

“It doesn’t go through.”

The S.A.H.C. didn’t go through. The top ice section was melted out to the point that we did not feel comfortable navigating without proper protection. A fall at that point in the climb… well, let’s just say it was preferably a “no fall zone”. Since we were planning on a carryover anyway, our attention was turned to other possible ascent routes, and all of us felt very comfortable with our immediate change in plans to then climb the Tahoma glacier – upon making it to the summit, we would then attempt to ski the Fuhrer Finger and follow the Nisqually glacier back to the car. After setting up our camp, Brad and Matt made a quick jaunt for a better view of the SAHC and the Puyallup glacier while I slept. We ate and crashed out sleeping under the starriest sky I’ve ever seen.

Sunset Amphitheater

Standing on the Wonderland trail between Mowich Lake and Longmire in Mt. Rainier National Park I fell in love. The millions of visitors every year do not get to see this part of the mountain. The west side of Rainier although easily visible at a distance, is one of the more remote areas in the park, making access an issue for those unwilling to hike mileage into the double digits. Sunset Amphitheater’s alpine glow can be seen from afar, but the “backstage pass” is reserved for those willing to see a show at the amphitheater, live.

Our plan, after much deliberation about the approach, was to traverse around the mountain from Paradise. We would set up a high camp near St. Andrew’s Rock at 11,000′ and summit the following day via the Sunset Amphitheater Headwall Coulior (shown in the shadows on the left of the above photo). Our descent would then take us back to our high camp by skiing the Tahoma Sickle, the obvious fall line gently curving around the cliff on the right of the above picture. Day three would allow us to traverse back around to Paradise and then head home.

We arrived late Thursday night and bivouackedin the lower Paradise lot. Waking early the next morning, we donned our packs, cursed at how heavy they were, and began to make our way over to the Nisqually Glacier, the first of many we would need to cross. The weather was nice, occasionally shading us with a large lenticular which would in turn dissipate making room for the next one. As we methodically made our way across the various glaciers, we came to the conclusion that our “easy traverse” was going to be much more difficult than we had anticipated. The intense hot weather the entire previous week had melted a lot of the snow, revealing more hazards for us to navigate. Arriving at the Kautz glacier, our route-finding capabilities were tested as we worked our way between the upper and lower ice falls, skirting a precipice which led a long, long way down.

Brad Kwasnowski smiles a sigh of relief.

Prioritizing our hunger, we decided to rest and grab a bite to eat. We were all famished and the traverse was taking much longer than we had planned. Due to the remote nature of our trip and the inherent dangers that come with it, we had planned on a number of options had things not gone according to plan. We unanimously decided that once we reached the Success Cleaver, we would seek out a good spot to bivouac around 8,000′ and engage in our first backup plan – climb the SAHC with all of our gear and do a carry over and ski back down to the car from the front side. After hurriedly crossing the sun affected slopes of the Pyramid and Success glaciers, we found a sheltered enclave of massive boulders with views up the Success Cleaver and the South Tahoma Headwall. Rainier was doing a fantastic job of wowing us into wonderment. The area surrounding us was filled with nothing but the sound of nature, and we had not seen another soul for hours. Dinner, comedic relief, and an amazing sunset finished our itinerary for the evening, allowing us to lay our heads to rest nestled in the comfort of our bivvies.

Sunrise above Shuksan.

Known to indigenous peoples as Koma Kulshan, Mt. Baker is the second most glaciated mountain in the Cascades (besides Rainier) and its collective snow and ice volume is greater than that of all the other Cascadian volcanoes. The Mt. Baker Ski Area averages 650 inches of annual snowfall and holds bragging rights to the world record snowfall, 1140 inches in the ’98-’99 season, making this area a ski/snowboard mecca during the powder season. However an increasing number of people are learning that the ski season can extend well into the late spring and summer by seeking their turns on the glaciated upper reaches of the Cascadian volcanoes.

Brad and I approached via Schreiber’s Meadow, parking our car a good couple miles before the trailhead, along with a handful of other climbers and a bucketload of snowmobilers. We hardly slept – we were antsy to hit the trail. However, after trying to quickly pack our gear we hit the road and soon arrived at what we deemed an acceptable base camp shy of 5,700′. The winds were non-existent and the sky remained clear, mind a scattering of high clouds. We soaked in views of Shuksan, Glacier, Stewart and surrounding peaks while we enjoyed setting up our base camp. We decided that we would spend two days on the mountain which would relax our pace a bit, despite the extra gear we would need. Which also gave us time to get some turns in before it got dark!

Brad Kwasnowski looking towards the summit of Baker.

The painful part about climbing the southern flanks of Mt. Baker is not the hike in. It isn’t the weight of the packs and it’s definitely not the ski descent. The most difficult part about climbing a route on this side of the mountain is simply trying to coexist with snowmobilers. Snowmobiles are allowed on the south side of the mountain, but other than the whining engines droning through the valley and the occasional visual sighting we manage to each stick to our own thing. However, it is worth noting that not all snowmobilers are as aware of the climber’s presence on the mountain, therefore requiring a bit of extra caution.

The whine of engines soon died and we were allowed to peacefully sleep. We woke early and quickly assembled our gear for the ascent. After slowly starting off, we began making good time and set aside time to rehydrate, boil more water, and allow the snow to keep warming to the satisfactory spring “corn” condition. We stopped at the crater rim to take pictures and to give the snow a bit longer to heat up. Our reasoning was because the steepest section of the ski descent, the Roman Wall, is much more enjoyable if the turns are made in corn as opposed to icy, survival turns. Strapping our skis to our packs, we began to climb the Roman Wall, kicking our steps into an already well distinguished boot track. Before we realized we were at the summit, we arrived.

The snow was in immaculate condition, so our priority slid from relaxed enjoyment to let’s click in and go! The Roman Wall had been skied by a few people earlier, but no tracks were left, telling us it had been very icy earlier. We were in for a treat. Each turn was like carving through the smoothest butter, effortless and controlled. We felt like artists, brushes on our feet and an enormous canvas to paint on. We navigated our way down the Squak Glacier, and after quickly tearing down camp while grabbing a bite to eat, we were off.

We decided that the trail would provide us with snowmobile tracked, sun affected, manky snow so we opted to chance a tree run. The snow in the trees was just as good as the rest of the mountain had been. We skied a gully all the way down to a stream crossing, which after a few tricky manuevers we were hiking back down the trail, the car suddenly appearing around a bend.

“We’ve got two beers waiting for us, should I get them now?”

“Oh yeah, dude, for sure.” A cold beer after a climb is always the best beer.

As I reluctantly stepped out of the tent and into the cold, my spirits were lifted when I saw our next objective jutting into the bluebird sky. Mt. Bailey stood across Diamond Lake from us, taunting us with the current perfect conditions. ”Hey you guys, we’ve got bluebird!”

“Really?” came the reply from within the tent. Shortly thereafter the other two emerged. When it was pointed out that it was nearly noon, we contemplated the feasibility of actually summiting and skiing Mt. Bailey. Given the great weather I was game to try, and upon the agreement of all in the group, we quickly readied our packs and tore down our camp following our plans to summit Mt. Bailey that day. We loaded the car and drove over to the sno-park that gave access to Mt. Bailey.

Upon arriving at the sno-park, we began our excursion up Mt. Bailey by first digging out the car. ”Dude, how on earth did you think this was a road!?” exclaimed the other two. I had made the mistake of trying to drive the Subie up the snowmachine trail. Luckily, my car couldn’t make it very far, so our digging was limited to about five minutes worth of digging and about five years worth of jokes to live down. As we donned our gear, we made note of the clouds billowing to the south, provoking our weather window. We quickly began skinning and moved rapidly across the flat terrain. The cat ski operation that runs off the western side of Mt. Bailey left us a groomed cat track to follow, making our efforts effortless.

Before we had arrived in Oregon and were doing our research on the various volcanoes of central Oregon, Mt. Bailey presented itself as one of, if not the, easiest of all our goals. It was straight-forward and had a groomed track almost all the way to the summit.  Almost like skinning to the top of a resort – cake. If there is one thing that I’ve learned while traveling in the mountains, it is that nothing is straight-forward. Outkast said it best when telling Ms. Jackson, “You can plan a pretty picnic but you can’t predict the weather.” Some picnics are just meant to be rained on.

Stopped at the base of Mt. Bailey, we prepared for the only uphill section we would have, the short 3 mile approach to the summit. As we began our siege, the ominous clouds were very much to south of us, and we focused on ascending the mountain one step at a time. Our plan was to get to the summit and drop into the SE facing bowl which would give us spectacular ski lines and send us in a direction to meet up with the trail closer to the parking lot, shaving distance off our trip out. The only concern at this point was possible wind slab formations on SE aspects being as the night before had seen high winds. The sun was giving us beautiful weather, but it would also be consolidating the snow pack, so when we heard the distant whumpf and rumble of an avalanche on the mountain it didn’t come as a surprise. When we heard the second avalanche the warning signs were becoming very clear.

Mother Nature must be a chess fan, and she was waiting for us to make our move before putting us in checkmate. As quickly as the storm clouds from the south blew in and surrounded us, heavy graupel snow began to pelt us and reduce visibility. I made the suggestion that we strongly consider turning around now and skiing the skin track – it would be longer, but safer. However, turning around became the dissenting opinion amongst the three of us. As we gained altitude, the visibility was reduced to no more than a couple of feet. We saw the cat approaching their drop-off point below us and when they got out, we discussed conditions with them.  In so many words, they helped convince our team that turning around should be the only option we should consider.

It is a difficult thing to turn around, to accept not achieving your goal. The real trick is knowing when to do so, and thus becomes the hardest decision making process for the mountaineer. Ed Viesturs once said “(Mountaineering) is a round trip. Getting to the summit is optional, getting down is mandatory.” For us, defeat came in reaching the summit and realizing it would be absurd to try to ski the line we had wanted to ski, thus having to settle for the easy out. Getting down is mandatory, and we were faced with decisions that could have adversely affected the outcome of us getting down. Within the decision making process also comes the inner thoughts of each person involved – different internal goals, aspirations, limits of acceptable risk. Making decisions to turn around are always hard, yet not defeating. Defeat comes in failure, and failure only comes when one stops trying. Mt. Bailey will yet again see our tracks…

We skied into the parking lot under the cover of darkness. We unloaded our gear into the car, and drove to Bend to be close to our next objective and to seek refuge for a short time in the comfort of a grilled stuffed burrito at Taco Bell.

We hurriedly packed up everything into my Subaru and squeezed into the seats. “Do we have everything?” we all seemed to ask in unison. After the mental quadruple check, we felt confident that we were leaving behind nothing of importance. Cranking the Blue Scholars and the defrost, we backed out of the driveway and began our trip southbound.

This trip intended to focus on volcanoes in either northern California or southern Oregon, weather dependent of course. From the looks of the current forecast, we opted for southern Oregon, and we hoped that things would work out for the best. Enticing our fanciful desires were a slough of volcanic peaks – the Sisters, Broken Top, Bailey, Bachelor, Thielsen – just to name a few. Our plan was to summit and ski as many volcanoes as possible within our nine day time span. Weather was our only concern, but as they say, “You don’t know ’til you go.”

We pulled into the Mt. Thielsen sno-park later than expected. We quickly unloaded and tried to throw our touring gear together as fast as possible. If we hurried, we would still might be able to get a good powder run off the upper reaches of the volcano before dark. We raced the clock and headed out at nearly 1:30 in the afternoon.

As we began our approach, the trees seemed endless.  Low clouds added to the confusing travel through the forest.  Taking turns breaking trail, each of us would pause occasionally to confirm we were traveling in the right direction.  Alpine began near eight thousand feet and the actual steeps of Thielsen didn’t even begin until just before alpine,  so we toured according to our map and compass.

At approximately 4:00, we reached the upper flanks of Mt. Thielsen. The volcano stood majestically before us, a spectacle of awe after touring through the trees for hours. We looked across the valley and Diamond Lake to see our next day’s objective, Mt. Bailey, mysteriously revealing bits and pieces through the clouds. Welcome to Oregon. We were in a land of giants.

Late starts always hurry things quite a bit. Chilling winds and low temperatures aid in quickening the pace even more. As we assessed the snow pack and looked for instability, our minds were eased with the results of the NW flanks. There was an ice layer with about a foot of goodness to dig into. With the day quickly dissipating, we set up for filming and dropping lines. Kyle, Dan, and myself milked the slope respectively, as the light snow sloughed delicately, accentuating our tracks in the slope. We had painted our canvas for the day, and with darkness making its presence known, we transitioned to our skins and began our trip back to the sno-park.

Traveling through snowy forests during dusk and into night is a beautiful thing. The stillness of the wilderness is amplified a hundred fold and one’s inner dialogue becomes the foremost conversation as the surrounding sounds are that of silence. With the light of the moon and ambient glow from the snow, we were able to make it back to the car shortly after nightfall. Our first endeavor in Oregon, although not quite according to plan, was successful and had given us a preview to the immense beauty this state had to offer and the feelings of oneness it could create. The following days would also show us the ugly side of the volcanoes and how we would learn from each other and the wilderness, but we were satisfied for the time being. After cooking dinner and setting up camp, we crashed, dreaming about our next objective: Mt. Bailey.

“Where should we go?” asks Kyle, stating in so many words the question in my head as well. It hasn’t snowed significantly since the beginning of January. We’re beginning to feel a bit like Laird Hamilton during a big wave lull.

“I have no idea. We could hope for sun softened corn on southern exposed slopes, but anything else is going to be icy.”

“Nope, it’s too cold for corn.” Kyle shot down all hope I had in us finding anything decent to ride. The telemetry had shown a trace amount had fallen the night before at some higher elevations, but for the most part, we had been sitting in a drought. There was no question; we needed to be in the mountains.  We were just trying to prepare ourselves to not be disappointed by the hard crusted, boilerplate ice we were bound to find.

“At least we’ll have bluebird.” Right on Kyle, at least we’ll have bluebird.

Bluebird days help us to ground ourselves. They take our minds away from the perfect line and the perfect snow, and place our focus back into the essence of the mountains. Being ski mountaineers, we dream about the perfect line in the best conditions. For anyone in their right mind, those conditions can be spelled in a concise, yet powerful six-letter word: P-O-W-D-E-R. However, lack of the fluffy goodness is about as detrimental to a skier as making an Olympic sprinter switch from a well maintained track to broken, concrete streets.

We agreed on an area that we thought would be the best option for us in all types of possible conditions, and then we turned our focus on the gorgeous day. The air was crisp, but not too cold. We moved at a brisk pace, covering ground rapidly. The sun shone brightly in the sky and mountains seared into the intense blue for as far as the eye could see. Visibility was incredible. It was incredibly difficult to stay melancholy when at least we had bluebird. In fact it was impossible not to grin at the beauty of it all.

Crown Point, our destination peak was under our feet before we knew it. We took a break for food and drink. Looking out over the entirety of the central Cascades, we drank in our fill of the mountains’ elixir, “the bluebird tonic“, taking note of Rainier, Adams, St. Helens and other prominent peaks. We transitioned and began to examine the snow on the various aspects. Southerly aspects, as well as those on the ridge, were icy and wind-scoured. Dropping down the ridge a little ways, the northern aspects began to look more and more appealing.

That little six letter word that can be translated as “joy” in skier lingo was very abundant.

We made sure we didn’t miss a drop. We milked the six or so inches of perfect powder until there was nothing left.  We had set out for a day of “touching base”, of entering the mountains with the intention of just being. Allowing the grandeur of the mountains to heal, guide, and teach us. Today, the mountains showed us their giving side.  Powder and bluebird.  Doesn’t get much simpler than that.

Climbing St. Helens while Mt. Adams scrapes the sky in the distance.

When Camp Muir on the south side of Mt. Rainier reaches 69 degrees in January, something is wrong. In this case, it’s the weather inversion taking place in the Puget Sound region. Low clouds and stagnant air have consumed the lowlands, creating fog so thick ‘pea soup’ sounds like an understatement. Cooling temperatures have made the fog freeze at night, adding to the driving hazard. A stage 2 burn ban is in place in Pierce County, the highest level of ban. The stagnant air is trapping the pollution making for poor air quality.

Above about 3000′ elevation, it is a completely different story.

Inversion. Short way of saying global warming. Either way, with spring-like conditions and crystalline blue skies, it was ridiculous not to be above the clouds.

Midweek offered Kyle and Dan the opportunity to try out Silver Star in the North Cascades. They set off in hopes of finding powder, and ended up with some great pictures of spectacular mountains in the North Cascades, bluebird skies, and bitterly frigid nights. The snow conditions were barely tolerable, as any bit of powder they might find was buried under a small, breakable trap crust. As conditions for riding (and sometimes sleeping) were less than favorable, the grand thing about ski mountaineering is above all else, you’re in the mountains. Before the snow, bluebird days, physical exertion or the aesthetic lines. Before the multi-day tours, squabbles over “who’s right??” “where to set camp?” or “how many Backpacker’s Pantry meals we’ve got left?”, we were in the mountains. Their pristine beauty and immensely sharp ridges that cut into the sky were only accentuated by ski mountaineering. We were going to soak as much of it in as possible.

With ambitions for tackling a number of volcanoes this season, Team Cascadia headed to Mt. St. Helens to take advantage of the inversion and tackle the first of many to come. Every member being quite familiar with the mountain, we made our way to the Marble Mountain Sno-Park and quickly began to cover ground. We ran into some old friends with whom we shared some conversation and then continued on.  The day was unbelievably warm, feeling more like May than January. A balmy breeze swept through the trees as we continued onward, taking in spectacular views of Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson, and even the Three Sisters and Mt. Bachelor, some 300 miles away under a perfectly clear blue sky.

As we broke into alpine and continued to ascend, the wind began to pick up in gusts that were strong enough to knock us over if we didn’t brace ourselves properly. Due to extremely strong wind gusts, we chose our ascent route using the ridges to block the wind. Climbing began pleasant once again and we continued on, rhythmically moving poles and skis to the beat of the mountains. Once we reached 7500′, the wind began to pick up dramatically and the wind chill helped in making it feel more like January. We pushed on against the incredibly strong winds and soon we were looking into the crater.

We saw the high point of the crater rim and began our traverse to the true summit. The unrelenting 50mph wind was both beneficial and frightning. We traversed across boilerplate ice, but the wind was pushing us so hard it kept us from slipping. However we stayed well away from the rim, not only for fear of a cornice release but also so our skis would not become sails if we were to fall, catching the wind and carrying us into the heart of the volcano. We quickly transitioned and began navigating our way down, desperate to find remaining patches of sun warmed corn snow. Upon reaching the sub-apline forest, we again met up with our friends. We finished the day together, and shared some excellent burgers and stories at a small Bar & Grill in the small town of Cougar. Again the mountains left us feeling satisfied – mind, body, and soul.