A Wasatch Collector's Item: Nailing A Unique Line In Good Condition

On a rainy late March morning, I planned a ski tour with a low level of success. Ani and I stopped at the Central Ninth Market in downtown Salt Lake and grabbed breakfast sandwiches. Driving through the drizzle, we stopped and ate them at our buddy Ethan’s house. He was joining us for the day and we finalized plans while we gobbled down our bacon and eggs. The three of us had been skiing together all winter and we still had some bigger spring adventures coming up. While it would have been a good day to chill, we wanted to continue to get out in the mountains, to keep learning, and to keep chasing that feeling of good snow in good terrain.

Between mouthfuls of breakfast, I told my partners: I can’t promise this tour will work. As always, the first concern was that there had been recent avalanches reported, including a particularly nasty injury related to a storm slab, the same problem we might encounter. Then, there was the weather. Winter was over. It was spring. There was a low cloud ceiling, wet snow as high as 8,000 feet, and rain as high as 7,000. The tour plan started much lower than that, on the edge of suburban sprawl where the city starts to bleed into the Wasatch. But the line we were eying was a cool run, one I had “found,” and stood atop of, and one that I thought we would be alone in on that day. So, to me it was worth it. And because of its location in the range, I thought that maybe it wouldn’t have had as much snow or wind as some of the more common areas in the Wasatch.

Ani and Ethan were down for the adventure and we all trusted each other to keep our heads on if the day became unpleasant or plans had to change. So we loaded the car and headed up to a popular dog park to start skiing.

Ani was concerned that there wasn’t any snow. I promised that there would be soon, and if not we wouldn’t walk further than “the water tank” before turning around and driving to a normal trailhead. This arbitrary landmark paid off and we were soon skinning, albeit on completely soaked snow. We all joked that this is what ski touring was often like in our home state of Vermont.

We passed some jean wearing hikers and after about a mile we broke off from the main trail. The skin track wove up a long approach through a tightly forested glade into one of my favorite hidden-in-plain-site canyons. I poked and probed the snow, looking for the freezing line. We chatted about life and skiing, and the conditions, of course. Once we pulled out of the glade, the snow quality got better, less isothermic and dare I say, cold powder. The ecology changed too: the higher we got the trees changed from oak to fir, spruce, and aspens and thinned out.

The canyon we were moving through is home to many strange rock formations: cones, spires, quartzite slabs, fin-like razors jutting up from the sides of peaks and at times, directly up from the earth. These cliffs frame the canyon, and as we climbed snow filled lines started to come into view between the rocks. On a quick rest, the cloud ceiling opened up and we could actually see the run I had hoped we could ski.

This gave us some hope. The rain had long ago turned to a gentle snowfall, the snow surface felt mostly good, and now we could even see some interesting terrain through the gray and white layer of weather. So, as we continued to climb higher, as did our optimism for an interesting descent.

Coming up onto the “the ramp,” a mostly low angle feature we used to gain a summit ridge, we looked back and were greeted by amazing views of our city sitting small in the wide valley, and further out to the west the tan, gray, and silver of the Great Salt Lake. We could hear the soft drone of the highway thousands of feet below, but our canyon itself was completely empty. A surreal juxtaposition but one I have found a joy in: living and participating in our shared urban life, but also the ease with which we can slip into the landscape and watershed that is ultimately part of our larger ecological community.

As we hiked the ramp we broke trail and continued to poke the snow. Every few feet we found different textures: some powder, some windpressed snow, some higher density shallow slab. Digging my hand down into the layers, I felt some degrading crusts but mostly a stable snowpack. We continued up and kept an open mind to whatever would come.

Atop the ramp we saw the steep rocky flutes that led down into our couloir. Along the edges of the line were big panels of wild snow, hangfire that if they were connected by a slab to the snow in the run would be hard to escape. I threw a couple snowballs down into the line. The run was powder. The air was still and the sky was continuing to clear. But, we all still had a feeling that it wasn’t quite right. There were too many unknowns. We had found some slabby snow and crusts on our approach and there had been recent avalanches on similar aspects. And, once we had dropped in we were committed. So, we pivoted. We traversed the ridge, looked into some more terrain, ripped skins and skied back down the ramp.

The ramp was untouched except by our skin track and skied much better than expected. The wind-pressed snow was loose and surfy. We did not feel any of the crusts, and better yet, I skied into a short steep pitch that resembled our objective couloir. I dug around in the snow, and saw no warning signs. The snow was soft and stable.

We put our skins back on and went for another lap. On our second climb, we spread out by 50 feet, each in our own thoughts, listening to our breath, and feeling our skis slide over the snow. This methodical and meditative pace always brings me the most clarity. I can turn down all the noise and just focus on the moment. I went through all the things I had seen in the snow that day and the decisions we had made. I thought about the couloir and how I would enter it, mitigating the hazard, and how we could ski it together in a way that felt responsible.

Hey Ethan, I think we should ski it, I hollered. Without a second pause in between he replied, Yep same here. Let’s do it. He had been having the same internal dialogue. I checked in with Ani, she was “1,000% down.”

When we got back to the drop in there was no doubt in our mind. We knew what we were getting into and we had a plan.

After transitioning to downhill mode and waiting for some clouds to blow out, I pushed my tips into the 45 degree entrance and stayed on edge through rocks and a small cliff. I picked my way into the first soft snow in the line. It was steep, and I still wanted to see if there was any slab quality to the snow. One hop at a time I cut through the snow, forcibly landing on the surface to see if it would crack under my weight. It did not. I took three nice smooth turns, checking over my shoulders, looking for any snow moving. Besides loose sluff, there was none. I started to get excited.

I tucked off into a cave and called my partners to me. For a minute, I was alone in the line. I stood there under a giant wall of stone, on a steep panel of untouched, wild snow looking down on the massive edges of rock that comprised and framed the run walls, and again down into Salt Lake City. I stood in a place that looked like a steep unskiable cliff from down there. But here I was, in my line, finding my way through. The position gave me both the feeling of power and draw of the mountains, as well as the humility for how small I was in this place.

Once we had all gathered, we skied another pitch one at a time to another alcove. This second pitch was less steep, but it was under the big connected panel. So, we kept eyes on each other. After a few turns however, I could feel that this snow like that at the top, was not a slab. It was more settled powder. Excited energy transferred from my body to my skis and into my turns through this epic exposure. I let the skier in me takeover – I linked several turns of complete bliss, arcing powder out behind me.

The final pitch might have been one of my favorite pieces of skiing I have done in a long time. After regrouping above a small choke, I said “have fun” to my partners one final time and made tight, fast turns toward the choke. As the canyon walls closed in, the pitch of the run kicked down again over a steep bulge. For a second, I thought I’d be hopping over rock or ice. I took a look and saw that it went clean, and again I switched into full ski mode and let gravity and my skis surf me through.

As I started to accelerate, I looked up at the 45 degree overhanging blade of rock that composed the right wall of the line. It was like a wave of orange stone breaking above me, but the frozen tube did not collapse and gobble me up, it let me pass. I saw hanging blue ice, I saw the flash of golden quartz streaks. And soon I was blasting out into a wide untracked apron. The settled powder had no crust, no slab. I was able to do what I had been practicing for decades, rip wide open turns. These few seconds of sublime and visceral energy on a blank canvas is what we chase as skiers: ephemeral and powerful.

At the bottom, I let out a primal hoot of joy, and eagerly watched my friends experience that last aesthetic portion of the run. We all regrouped and were almost at a loss for words. We had scored an insane and rare line in excellent condition, and we had done it in a style that was completely within our comfort level and in tune with what the mountains were telling us.

To ski out of the canyon, back down to the hikers and their dogs, to a rainline and springy Salt Lake City, was to remember the lessons of the hills: go out and explore, ramble, have fun with your friends and tune into nature, but also return back and share what you saw, build the mountain humility into your life, and continue to adapt to the changing world.