Big Mountains, Free Heels

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It was already time to get moving. After pretending to sleep for a handful of hours, 3:30am had come fast. Slowly rousing, I clung to my sleeping pad at what seemed like a fifteen degree angle, illuminating that a restful slumber was never in the cards. Half asleep, we laughed as we exited the tilting tent. But the crisp, cool June air at camp and the remaining snow still embracing the high peaks above reminded us that we weren’t here to snooze, anyways. We were here to ski.

We had smashed our way up the old four wheel road the evening prior, our campsite just a mile or so from the base of our towering objective. Our friend Pete had taken his driving (and Tacoma) to new levels. We cheered each creek crossing as cold snowmelt splashed the windshield. And we hollered as the truck rode lion’s backs and ruts. The drive itself was an adventure, through thick, pine-perfumed forest, just miles from the interstate exit but another world away from the paved paths and concrete of everyday.

But the comforts of the ordinary world would come back to my mind as the mountain came into view that next morning. We walked the remaining mile of road to the base of the slope in darkness, trail runners on our feet, traipsing through the muddy, fading two-track. With heavy packs on our backs–skis, boots, and all–we splashed through a braided creek, the same one we had crossed in a far wider form farther down the valley just seven hours before. We then arrived at the bottom of the couloir, the snow firm like a cold, unyielding styrofoam ramp. There we removed our packs, and got to work putting on dry socks, ski boots, and crampons.

There my mind went to my usual, domestic, wonderful and warm everyday life. Photos of my wild two-year-old son flashed in my mind’s eye while I imagined my sweet, unflappable wife– eight months pregnant–resting back home in our bed. Looking up the couloir and seeing its rocky, labyrinthine path terminating some three-thousand feet higher, I wondered why I had left my safe oasis. In that moment I longed for home and all the things that went with it. For a flash I wasn't sure why I had ever had the notion to climb and ski this slope at all.

But something drove me onward. That moment of doubt was met with some sort of moment of purpose, no matter how infinitesimal, no matter how selfish it may have been. Climbing and skiing a mountain is of little importance to the wider machinations, but on a personal level it can reveal an intimate exposure of the self. Emotions and yearnings–some contrary to one another–come and go. Immersion in the moment is met by a wandering mind, where on the boot pack memories can randomly emerge before evaporating. But a look over the shoulder and into empty air brings the mind quickly back to the snow and rock, a dizzying realization of the small perch your body holds on an immensely large mountain, in an unfathomably wide world, amongst a sheer infinity of entropy. Somewhere in that mire climbing a mountain at dawn means something, and often powerfully so.

So up we went.

The climb brought clarity. And the firm, stable snow gave our group of four confidence. We made our way, my partners–ever strong and ever mindful–breaking trail, kicking thousands of steps into the shaded vernal snow. The rising sun soon splashed rosy tones on the higher reaches of the mountain; the peaks all around us followed suit and were soon draped in a serene morning alpenglow.

Higher and higher we ascended, the steepening grade making for an exciting snow climb. Occasionally beset by fear or doubt, I kept focused, finding solace in the rhythmic staccato of ice ax and feet. And having my friends nearby (and doing most of the work) ushered me onward.

We found our way onto the sun dappled upper reaches of the peak, the snow staying solid under our feet, but taking the sun’s nearly equinox energy quickly. Soft, and welcomed corn snow emerged from the firm plane, glistening in the sun. And soon we arrived at the top of the corridor, eager to ski its spoils.

Atop the line we spied a world far and wide. To the east, the bustling, hot grid of Denver sat poised for another busy Saturday. To our north and west we were greeted by a cadre of serene mountain ranges–the Gores, the Sawatch, the Tenmile. The therapeutic sound of the chugging creek that had accompanied our climb lower on the flanks was now replaced with the din of Interstate 70–just three-and-a-half miles and four thousand feet below us. Regardless, we were happy where we found ourselves that morning, exposed to a breadth of sights, sounds, and feelings that staying home could not have provided. No matter how comfortable, no matter how much we loved it.

While there was a cerebral meaning in the climb, we had come this far for the excitement of the descent on skis. On a small snow ramp we alternated; individually transitioning to downhill mode. Pete took the lead, scraping careful turns before opening up larger arcs down the slope. His voice crackled to life on the radio. It was good.

From there we skied the couloir in pitches, the four of us yo-yoing down the mountain on soft, supple snow. The forgiving corn was just what we had come for–and this luck did not escape us. At each regrouping point we related how great the ski was, how good the snow felt, how lucky we were to be up there.

And on we went. Though the grade was not precipitous, it was exciting skiing. Having relented to making only alpine turns the previous weekend skiing a firm and mostly frozen slice in the mountains just to our west, I felt an exuberant redemption to be skiing in the telemark style. The snaking couloir had multitudes of paths–from the more open face to intermittent tight chutes between rock bands. And the soft snow took to the telemark beautifully, granting soulful lead changes as I pointed down the slope. Genuflecting as I went, I picked up more and more momentum on the steeper sections, feeling gravity tug me down until I lunged deeply, driving hard with my back foot to control my speed.

Eventually we came to the bottom, pleased with our effort, relieved it went so smoothly, and full of pride in our accomplishment. We retraced our steps back to camp, through the awakened forest, the morning now fully in bloom.

I made my way alone for a moment, at once elated by our endeavor, but also lost in thought. Loved ones came to mind, some no longer amongst us in this world. And I unavoidably wondered what point there might be in this toil–of leaving home for a moment to squeeze in climbing and skiing high peaks. As a boy I had long looked at towering, snowbound mountains with awe and trepidation, and saw my future self atop them; not only physically high but also having achieved a loftier plane of existence. I imagined backcountry skiing would one day mold me into the person I hoped to become.

But three-and-a-half decades on I hadn’t outrun myself. The same anxieties still followed me, the same burdens were still mine, occasionally joined by new ones. And not only did no one else look upon me differently for skiing these peaks; I still saw myself in so many ways as that idealistic but nervous boy gazing high on the horizon.

We all arrived back at camp, sharing tired smiles while we packed up for the journey home. Soon we were back in the truck, bumping down that mountain road. Creek crossing and rocky negotiations brought us to the valley floor where the busy interstate lay. The dusty truck was pointed West, onto the onramp. And there we rejoined the throngs on that paved pathway, one that we had purposefully escaped, but that would now take us back to our loved ones and friends; take us back home.

We were content in that moment, full from our journey. But we left that mountain as mostly unchanged men, like we had left every other ski adventure. Still, we had come back, yearning again to find something, be it simple fun or higher meaning, on the snowy slopes of a big mountain. And we would return again.