snow

Colorado Backcountry Turns All Year: Year 1, Months 10-12 (2021/2022)

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Introduction

This is an ongoing series about my ski all-year challenge, which is largely open-ended (though I recently figured it would be cool to get to at least 30 months consecutive) and revolves around a few central points.

  • One ski adventure every month with a minimum of 5 connected turns attained.
  • During snowy months, one location is acceptable for multiple adventures as long as the line skied is different (different, in this case, means on an adjacent mountain face, separate peak, ridgeline, or aspect with logical topographical dividers between “lines.” It does not mean tracks right next to other tracks and calling it different). A topographical divider includes rock ridges, hogbacks, different drainages, etc.
  • Geographical restrictions: the state of Colorado, 1-70 corridor and north. Western limit, the Park/Elkhead Range, and the Gore Range. Eastern limit, front range foothills. Maybe someday the rest of the state, but it’s too big to take out at once.
  • For the summer months, each snowfield or alpine glacier skied cannot be repeated. Safest bets include permanent snowfields on larger mountains and a series of alpine glaciers between. IPW/RMNP (Andrews, Taylor, Sprague, Skyscraper, Navajo Snowfield, Isabelle Glacier, Tyndall, etc.)
  • Avoid high-use areas or hit them during the week.
  • 2 different sidecountry runs allowed per year (located outside of ski resorts but may be accessed from within them).
  • Go for a minimum of 1 year, maximum of?

Months 10-12 represent the fourth article I’ve written about this challenge thus far. For access to previous entries, click the links below:

Table of Contents

Mountain scenery is exceptional if you know where to go.

Backcountry Warnings and Resources

If you’re tip-toeing into backcountry skiing, there are a ton of resources and education that I would consider mandatory before taking it to the hills. I’ve compiled a list below.

  • Avalanche training (look up Avvy 1 certifications near you).
  • Avalanche gear (shovel, probe, beacon, radio).
  • Regular ski gear plus skins, frame/tech bindings.
  • Orienteering skills (download offline maps, have a GPS watch, or bring a physical map and a compass).
  • Scout your line before committing.
  • Ski with partners when able (if not able, compensate by only attempting on the best day conditions wise). This is a touchy point, many refuse to attempt without a partner, and I accept that, but if you have a flexible risk tolerance and can accept more risk in one area (solo journeys), you have to compensate by nailing down all other aspects of the planning process to make the risk defensible.
  • Check the weather up until the moment you leave.
  • Leave your plan with a loved one and have that plan include emergency contact info should you miss a predetermined rendezvous time.
  • Here are some Colorado-focused resources I use: Opensnow, Front Range Skimo, Mountain Weather Forecasts (click here), CAIC (they have an Instagram page, and there are other associated avalanche pages to follow as well), NWS.
  • For added info on planning and gear, please visit these two articles I wrote for an outdoor website called SkyblueOverland. The topics covered are crucial for any aspiring backcountry skier/rider. Essential Backcountry Gear and Guide to Planning a Backcountry Adventure.
  • Additionally, I wrote an overview of Colorado Snow, which has a bunch of additional information pertinent to centennial state winters.
  • Table of Contents

Month 10: November 4, 2021 (Saint Vrain South Slopes)

By the time November 2021 rolled around, I was getting excited about accumulating mountain snowfall. My non-meteorological brain told me there were several big waves of snowfall that struck the Colorado high country yearly. The first was usually in the mid-late Autumn, which helps prep the high country for its peak snowfall months of Dec-early March. Unfortunately, Colorado is notoriously fickle in its winter storm delivery; sometimes, you have incredible week-long storm cycles that produce feet upon feet of snow, and other times you get skunked in mid-January. It is what it is; just keep checking that forecast.

While October was, for the most part, thin on snow, a set of storms toward the end of the month guaranteed some moderate turns off of Shrine Pass Road and got me excited about early November. High pressure was supposed to dig in around the middle of the month, so I knew I had to hit something early to take advantage of this first wave of mountain snow. The stars aligned for a trip back to St. Vrain on November 4th.

Mt St. Vrain sits on the border between RMNP and the Indian Peaks Wilderness. While smaller in stature than surrounding peaks, there are a handful of fun routes on the mountain, including a thigh-burning east-ridge-down-rock-creek-road-run that, if timed and skied correctly, will net you 3,000 vertical feet. I’d done Saint Vrain as one of my first backcountry skis in 2018, so I was keen to do some more exploring on the mountain in search of early season turns.

Part of the Rock Creek Road Ascent.

Mt. St. Vrain, while relatively benign in the summer, is kind of a bear when there’s snow. The approach is long (almost five miles for one run, up to 6-7 if combing skiable runs), and the mountain is always windy. Seriously. I have been up there almost 10 times between all four seasons, and I have yet to have a day on the summit block when there wasn’t some form of blistering wind. So, why bother? Well, it’s away from I-70, if you bundle up, you can handle the wind, and any run combination with the descent back to the car will give you at least 3k of vertical skiing. Plus, all of the “established” runs on it (i.e. what books and the internet have found) are between 25-37-ish degrees, so, while avvy danger may be high locally, at least two runs on St. Vrain can be safe low angle bets.

Nicely spaced trees in the upper portion of Rock Creek Drainage.

My goal today was to ascend up Rock Creek, climb above the start to the East Ridge and scout some of the other lines (Southside slopes and north side). Originally, I’d wanted to ski a lower-angle avalanche chute on St. Vrain’s north side, but I didn’t know the area too well, and the wind stripping made all options that way seem sketchy. Instead, I settled on a south slope variation from right below the summit cairn.

My gear on top of St. Vrain w/ Longs Peak towering behind.

There are two possible routes on the south side of St. Vrain, and both are well-documented (powder project, front range skimo, and my own description w/ this article on skyblueoverland). Of the two, the snowfield west of the summit provides the most consistent snow, but after the long approach (not enough snow to slap skins on until nearly a thousand feet above where I parked) and having to carry my skis over the last few hundred feet of rocky, wind stripped terrain, I wanted something to access quickly. The snowfield on the west shoulder looked nice but would’ve required another half-mile of awkward ski carrying over talus terrain.

My tracks on the South slope direct. The southwest snowfield is the gentler ridge in between my tracks and the continental divide on the horizon.

Curious about alternatives, I found a wind drifted line of snow leading on a meandering journey south from the summit. Of all the routes on St. Vrain, this one had the most hazards, however, the mid-November timeframe meant that it was quite literally the only bit of snow I could feasibly ski without butchering myself or my equipment.

The edge of the line I took (leading diagonal right), ~100 feet below and 50-75 yards west of the true summit.

I hung to the western edge of the snow, where a long deposit of wind-drifted power had gathered enough to guarantee turns.

What the rest of the slope looked like after my first 6-7 turns.

Despite the thin conditions and committing approach, I skied the south line well, making a series of happy turns on the way to a roughly 750-foot vertical ski.

Looking up from the bottom, about 65-70% of the run is visible.

In the winter, the run can continue a few hundred feet more to treeline, but I had to work with what nature gave me; When the snow stopped, so did my skiing. I also, despite my best efforts, scraped a couple thinly buried rocks. Nothing was damaged beyond the point of p-tex repair, but it was a timely reminder to heed early season hazards.

Another shot of my tracks on the lower 2/3rds of the run.

Due to the thin snow and many exposed rocks, traversing from the end of my line back to the eastern side of the mountain was an exercise in frustration, but I endured. The saving grace (at least for the initial traverse) was the sublime views.

The upper St. Vrain glaciers area from the summit of St. Vrain (one of the glaciers is in the shadows under the mountain to the left, which is called Ooh la la). Ogallala is in the middle, and the serrated ridge along the right side of the picture leads to Elktooth.
The Coney Lake drainage, with Paiute’s north face dominating the view, and even a bit of Apache Pk. poking out from behind.
Red Deer Mountain, a reclusive Continental Divide peak with loads of skiing potential, is high on the list for a future adventure. When that big face fills in with sticky, spring snow, it’s just begging for big GS turns.

All in all, this felt like the best, most cohesive skiing I’d done since Andrews in late July. There wasn’t a lot of uniform coverage yet but seeing the mountains with a coat of snow again served as a nice appetizer for the upcoming winter.

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Month 11: December 8, 2021 (Vail Pass East-Uneva north-Saddle Run)

  • Additional skis
  • W. Deming-scouting trip (Dec. 19, 2021)

After a dry and warm mid-late November, December started to turn things around. The snowpack was still lagging statewide, but there had been enough high elevation accumulation to help me get my first month of multiple backcountry adventures since the previous April. Along with the challenge, I was hoping for two separate skis in December and at least three for January-April. A lot of that was going to be based around my work ski instructing at Beaver Creek. Like we’d done for the past few years, my wife and I would dutifully drive up for weekends so I could teach and stay with friends and family in the valley when it didn’t make sense to sit in I-70 traffic.

On the approach to my Dec. line, Vail Pass is visible in the background.

Over the years, we’d developed a pretty good routine and came to enjoy our winter nesting grounds in the vail valley. Since storms generally roll into Colorado from west to east, I figured the western slope would get hit harder and earlier than some of my usual RMNP/IPW/Cameron Pass terrain. Even just driving from the Front Range, you get a sense of the snow disparity. It’s usually bone dry from Golden up to Georgetown, then the highway pops up a thousand feet, and you get mountains with snowy, sheltered faces and wind-stripped sides. Once you’re through the tunnel and into summit county, the snow coverage becomes more widespread. In my experience, though, it’s really the stretch between Copper and East Vail (including both sides of vail pass) that gets some of the best early season snow (as evidenced by my Oct. ski on Shrine Pass road).

Storm clouds over Mt. of the Holy Cross

My selection for December was another Vail Pass run. Since my successful outings in the area the previous April, I’d been keen to go back and do some more exploring. My experience on the thin snowpack in November, however, had me looking at sheltered areas that seem to rake in the most snow. The Saddle Run, a northward line from the saddle between Uneva Pk. and Pt. 12,089, provided just that. I’d skinned up part of this run after skiing one of Uneva’s north Couloirs, so I was comfortable with the terrain. This time, however, I planned to ski deeper into the trees to extend the fun.

Down the saddle, and into the trees.

The snow was a bit heavier than usual, but I was grateful to get as much of a ski line as I did. There were a few ski tracks crisscrossing the area after a storm 2-3 days prior, but I went up on a low avalanche weekday and had the mountains to myself.

My only big obstacle was another front moving through in the mid-afternoon. As long as I could ski my first run and climb back into familiar territory before visibility was stolen, I’d be able to ski back to the pass, no problem.

All the way into the trees.

I made it into the wild North-Tenmile basin and enjoyed some surprisingly fresh powder hiding below the pine tree canopies. The line wasn’t all that difficult, ~30-33 degrees, so less steep than November, but the snow quality was a ton better. I enjoyed every second of it.

On the skin track back to the saddle (low point on the horizon)

The skin back to the ridge wasn’t bad, but since I was a little tired, it took longer than anticipated. Luckily, the weather held off until I was out of the drainage and back to an area where I could return to Vail Pass using already well-established tracks.

Another view of the Saddle run area, the couloirs off Uneva are to the left and off-screen, the mountain you can see is Point 12,089.

On the way down, the storm really kicked into gear and had me flying through a nice accumulation. Again, since visibility was low, I relied on my previous experience in the area, maps, and an obvious skin track to glide effortlessly down to Vail Pass and my car.

A little more than a week later, I found myself with another opportunity to get some turns and decided to go explore W. Deming. I had seen it a few times from previous Vail Pass skiing, and its broad southwestern face looked like a perfect combination of snow-covered and low angle. Since this was a scouting trip, I anticipated the usual problems with discovering a new, trailless area and figured the skiing was going to be sub-par.

West Deming, seen from Uneva Peak.

I did have a few navigational snafus but ultimately made it to within a few hundred feet of the summit (basically where ski options stopped).

Heading up.

The first 5-600 feet were sublime alpine skiing in a large bowl with just enough snow to make turns. The surface was crunchy but provided enough support to ski aggressively.

When I reached treeline, however, it all became an unconsolidated heavy powder mess. I also veered off track to avoid a flat area I’d found on the ascent and overshot my end-point by nearly a half-mile. Directionally, I’d tried to find the safest run, but upon analyzing my route and the end result, I knew any subsequent trip would go up an adjacent valley with more of a direct line to the summit. All in all, though, a great trip for beta.

Like the November trip, a lot of what made this particular scouting trip worth it were the views.

Looking back to Uneva Peak and two lines I’d already skied on it. The Big Couloir to the left of where I skied looks like it’d be worth a future visit.
The beautiful Gore Range.
Bald Mountain, a local favorite for Vail/Avon backcountry skiers.

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Month 12: January 12, 2022 (Banana Bowls-RMNP)

  • Additional Skis
  • Hidden Valley-Orgasm Alley (Jan. 18, 2022)
  • Bighorn Glade variation 1 (Jan. 28, 2022)

The back half of December was busy. Between holiday shenanigans, ski instructing, and my family coming to visit, I stuck to resort skiing. For New Year, my wife and I went to a great party in Denver and contracted the Omicron Variant of Covid. That was Covid #2 for us, a lot less severe than the first time but still a distraction and a loss of the muscle power I’d built up from October. The silver lining, if there ever was one, was resting and recuperating while the high country got slammed with what can only be described as epic snowfall. Over an 8-9 day period, favored areas hauled in over six feet of beautiful powder. Even unfavored areas managed to eke out a few feet, and once I felt good enough to ski instruct, I began to plan a new backcountry adventure.

The approximate location of the upper half of Banana Bowls from Bear Lake Road.

The Banana Bowls had always been interesting since Rocky Mountain National Park was close to home, and I’d heard that it could offer stable, fresh powder skiing without a lot of avalanche risk. With the fresh snow load and relentless wind, the high country stayed dangerous, and I thought that, at least with Banana Bowls, I could get some fresh snow skiing without running into anything crazy. Well, I was right and wrong.

Hallett Peak, Tyndal Gorge, and the Dragontail Couloir area from a rare, empty Bear Lake Parking Lot.

I applaud my choice in general; Banana Bowls is a supremely lapable area that would be an absolute blast on a big powder day. Unfortunately, I didn’t check the updated wind reports in the days leading up to my adventure. Don’t worry; I still skied Banana Bowls, but I fought against some of the hardest wind I’d ever encountered. On more than one occasion I was lifted clean into the air by gusts that easily topped 70mph.

Longs Peak looking on as I struggle against the wind.

Interestingly, I can now say that I’ve managed to ski through hurricane-force gusts, but wind zaps your energy so quickly that by the time I hauled my battered body back to the car, I knew I was going to need at least a few days of minimal movement to recover.

Brutally cold and windy, but at least the sun was out.

The approach to Banana Bowls is fairly mundane and, in fact, quite wind-sheltered, so I really had no idea what I was skinning into when I began my journey. The trails in this part of the park are so wide and well used that they might as well be highways. Despite the fresh snow, I had no trouble following a series of snowshoe, ski, and footprints along the access trail to the lower parts of Banana Bowls. It was only when I reached the bottom, where a large break in the trees gave me a view of the area, that I realized just how windy the day was going to be.

Wind stripping is a big deal in the Front Range, but it doesn’t mean the snow disappears; it just gets redeposited in sheltered areas.

Y’all, this was a mentally and physically exhausting ascent. My skins about froze in place on more than one occasion, and the relentless wind and cold temps (hovering in the low teens) built up a ridiculous sheet of ice under my skins. I had to stop and pry the ice off with a boot scraper a few times, or I just wouldn’t’ve been able to reach the top of the line.

Organizing my gear was another practice in risk management as any time spent out of my mittens ran the risk of giving my frostnip. Ultimately, I used my pack cover as a shield, sat facing away from the wind, and hustled through my routine until I could safely ski down.

I didn’t even risk taking a snack break because I was afraid that if I didn’t get moving, I’d give myself a cold or something worse. Once I was clipped into my skis, I immediately started skiing. Luckily, the wind was at my back, so speed was definitely not an issue. I managed to twist and turn my way down the slope in what I felt was record time until I found the edge of the trees and dove behind them, hoping for a wind reprieve.

All things considered, I was happy with how I skied, but it was far from my prettiest outing. Nevertheless, once I started skiing back to the car, the wind died down, and I remembered what it was like to feel my fingers and toes. I also got a Gopro 8 for Christmas and tried to video some of the descent. Whenever I stop being cheap and upgrade WordPress, I can upload it here, but for now, it’s still free to post on Youtube, so here’s the link.

After six days of working and planning, I organized a quick half-day adventure out to Hidden Valley. I’d already skied Hidden Valley the previous spring and enjoyed it. Granted, the area was an old ski resort, so the skin tracks are easy and the descents similar. Hidden Valley has long been billed as a great intro backcountry intro area. However, don’t let that turn you off from the area, it’s perfect for building skills, and its sheltered orientation (below the ridgeline anyway) can offer fun when the rest of the high country is either avalanche or wind riddled.

The top of a ski line called “Orgasm Alley.”

There’s a super simple main run in Hidden Valley that the lion’s share of visitors ski because it’s easy to figure out and generally skis quite well. There are also a ton of variations that get far less attention. A suspicious run called “Orgasm Alley” is one of them. When Hidden Valley still operated as a ski resort, this run was just outside the resort boundaries to the SE of the main run. A large bowl between it and the main area also merits future exploration, but I’d read about this particular alley in a Rocky Mountain National Park ski guidebook and felt like giving it a try.

Unlike the main areas, the approach I took required some extra navigation. Orgasm alley wasn’t particularly difficult to find with a GPS watch, but it certainly wouldn’t be in season until mid-January when enough snow has built up to cover downed trees and rocks. After the enormous dump of snow around Xmas and New Year, I figured it would fill in nicely, and I was right.

Looking to the High Plains from Hidden Valley.

The skiing was great on not-so-great snow, but I managed the terrain well. The wind and deep freezes had turned a lot of the recent powder into an icy sheet, but I’ll take any chance to backcountry ski over sitting at home twiddling thumbs. After the top bowl, I worked my way over to an old cut in the hillside where a chairlift used to be. What’s left is a thin strip of bumpy terrain and a straight shot down to the base. If you ever want a demanding descent where it’s either short turns or running into trees, this is a great choice. I enjoyed the challenge and wouldn’t mind skiing that part again.

Towards the end of the month, ski instructing picked up, and we decided to camp out at my father-in-law’s place in East Vail to ease the commute to Beaver Creek. This position allowed me to start looking at the area near Vail for more backcountry targets on the days I wasn’t teaching. I figured it would be until at least March before I could ski above treeline with minimal avalanche risk, so I settled for finding the best powder on slopes below treeline. This mentality flip allowed me to pursue the best conditions without running afoul of any of the mid-winter backcountry dangers.

On the skin track, East Vail is visible, along with a small part of I-70. The steep slopes to the left and behind East Vail are the notorious East Vail chutes.

There’s a summer bike path from Copper to Vail that follows the general path of the highway. When it’s snowed over, the path makes for a great access route to lines along the valley in the deep forests between East Vail and the top of Vail Pass. After a beautiful and windless forecast, I decided to explore the path and followed various skin tracks up into the hills. Research told me that the area I was touring rarely got over 30 degrees, and when it did, could easily be avoided. I also knew from being in the valley for years that East Vail tended to haul in the best powder, so when a small storm dropped a few fluffy inches, I set about exploring how I could take advantage of it.

The top of my line.

I actually overshot what I was originally planning for, a notable gully visible from the dog park in East Vail, but made it as far as a fluffy meadow around 10,500 feet (from a base of 8,600) and followed a few old splitboard tracks down the smooth and powder-filled slopes. Most of the run was immaculate, but since it was my first time in the area, I made some navigational decisions that increased my return journey time. Those decisions, however, helped round out my knowledge of the area and would help me hone in future skis.

It wasn’t steep skiing, consistently in the 25-30 degree slope range, but oh.my.god, the conditions were damn near perfect. I just floated down the slope, turning when it was convenient and almost straight-lining near the bottom to maintain speed through the powder. When I got back down, I thought it might’ve been the softest skiing I’d ever done, not realizing I would continuously one-up that distinction through February.

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Final Thoughts

At some point during January, I realized, a little belatedly, that I’d skied for 12 consecutive months in the backcountry! I marked the accomplishment by doubling my efforts to find the best powder I could. So, as the deepest part of winter set in, I began hunting for variations of my east vail excursion to maximize the fluffiest, softest part of the season and the skiing was very, very, very good.

I also got a GoPro over the holidays and set about recording my adventures in a more cohesive way. Here’s a link to a Youtube compilation of my January Turns.

Thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next part of the series!

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Colorado Backcountry Turns All Year: Year 1, Months 7-9 (2021)

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I am not the first person to try and ski every month of the year in Colorado. While the overall numbers aren’t many, there are people who have done this thing every month for decades or more. And while the elevation of the Centennial State guarantees turns through mid-July at hundreds of locations, by the time August and September roll around, you’re options become really limited. Additional limiting factors include the rate of recent snowmelt and the previous season’s snowpack. Luckily for me, I decided to ski in a year that only managed an average winter snowpack and experienced a warmer than average June/July…wheee.

Faced with dwindling options, I honed my focus on the areas of Colorado that seem to hold onto snow the most. In the northern Front Range, those areas are high, cold, sun-starved alpine cirques. Some of these feature permanent snowfields, and some feature the occasional glacier. For August and September, those became my focus while I clung to the hope that October might signal the return of accumulating alpine snow.

This is part of an ongoing series, for parts one and two, click on the links below.

Table of Contents

Backcountry Warning and Resources

If you’re tip-toeing into backcountry skiing, there are a ton of resources and education that I would consider mandatory before taking it to the hills. I’ve compiled a list below.

  • Avalanche training (look up Avvy 1 certifications near you).
  • Avalanche gear (shovel, probe, beacon, radio).
  • Regular ski gear plus skins, frame/tech bindings.
  • Orienteering skills (download offline maps, have a GPS watch, or bring a physical map and a compass).
  • Scout your line before committing.
  • Ski with partners when able (if not able, compensate by only attempting on the best day conditions wise). This is a touchy point, many refuse to attempt without a partner, and I accept that, but if you have a flexible risk tolerance and can accept more risk in one area (solo journeys), you have to compensate by nailing down all other aspects of the planning process to make the risk defensible.
  • Check the weather up until the moment you leave.
  • Leave your plan with a loved one and have that plan include emergency contact info should you miss a predetermined rendezvous time.
  • Here are some Colorado-focused resources I use: Opensnow, Front Range Skimo, Mountain Weather Forecasts (click here), CAIC (they have an Instagram page, and there are other associated avalanche pages to follow as well), NWS.
  • For added info on planning and gear, please visit these two articles I wrote for an outdoor website called SkyblueOverland. The topics covered are crucial for any aspiring backcountry skier/rider. Essential Backcountry Gear, and Guide to Planning a Backcountry Adventure.
  • Additionally, I wrote an overview of Colorado Snow, which has a bunch of additional information pertinent to centennial state winters.
  • Jump to Table of Contents

Month 7: August 25, 2021 (Ptarmigan Glacier)

Ptarmigan Glacier, tucked into the Continental Divide between Flattop Mt. (left) and Notchtop (right).

After a successful July ski of Andrews Glacier, I began looking at the rest of Rocky Mountain National Park in search of other permanent pieces of snow. I’d passed by Ptarmigan Glacier (a name that doesn’t usually show up on official maps but has been recorded in many user trip reports and blogs) the year prior when I scrambled up Little Matterhorn. It’s not too terribly far from the Bear Lake Trailhead (roughly similar to Andrews, just the opposite direction), and from what I’d researched, stays snowy all year. Good enough for me

So, one late August day, after delaying what I knew would be a taxing journey with skis on my back, I finally committed.

Views toward Estes Park as the day slowly dawned.

Like Andrews, I used the Bear Lake Trailhead. This time, however, I went north, around the bulk of FLattop Mt. and the Banana Bowls (another lower angle backcountry area in the winter/spring), and continued as if heading towards Odessa Gorge. The whole Odessa area is magnificent, from the lakeshore to the views of Notchtop; it’s all National Park-level beauty.

Notchtop (and Notchtop Spire) from just above the Odessa Lake trail.

The established trail ascends gently to a saddle near Joe Mills Mountain and then drops into the gorge before finding the shores of Odessa Lake. My turnoff into the backcountry was at the saddle, where a noticeable but unsigned path leads south to Lake Helene, a shallow pond that acts as a great marker.

Lake Helene and the not-so-flat sides of Flattop Mt.

I followed the use trail around the right shore of the lake until a series of paths began veering uphill. Using a combination of a few, I found a route that ascends away from the lake and higher into the gorge. This part was a bit frustrating because Krumholtz kept catching my skis, but I soldiered through, following the occasional cairn, until I broke into the alpine.

As you can see in the picture above, stubborn vegetation gives way to two separate snowfields. Up until July, they are more or less connected. The upper field is what’s generally referred to as the glacier, although both fields are large enough to last all year. The navigation was never really hard on this trip, but it was a taxing approach nonetheless. As the terrain changed to talus and scree, my pace slowed to a crawl to make sure I wasn’t misstepping or taking a long rocky ride down a loose slope.

I broke out the crampons and climbed the first snowfield, thankful to be on more of a solid surface. All around the snowfield were large pieces of talus on unstable slopes. The whole area looked like it moved with some regularity, so I was keen to avoid any suspicious-looking areas. Using the crampons to bypass a particularly perilous-looking hogback saved me time and worry.

Looking back at a couple unnamed tarns as I get ready to climb the first snowfield.
Climbing up the first snowfield, notice the layers of windswept dirt on top of the snow. Not only is summer skiing limited to existing snowfields, but in a lot of cases, you have to deal with dirt, exposed rocks, ice, slush, and rockfall. Just because avalanche danger is low to non-existent doesn’t mean there is no danger.

Between the two snowfields, I chose an angling ascent over loose ground until I could traverse over to the second, larger snowfield, aka Ptarmigan Glacier, and put my crampons back on.

Ptarmigan Glacier.

As far as permanent snowfields go, Ptarmigan didn’t look as sad as some of the others I’d seen; the top half looked fairly cohesive and nice, but the bottom half bled into a talus field with plenty of scree poking up out of the snow. The skiing looked like it would be challenging, which felt appropriate since it was late August. I channeled some energy and spike-stepped my way up.

Up we go.

As I mentioned in a previous post, the ideal time to hit these slopes is before the afternoon sun creates slush out of the top layers of snow. This process slows when you have temperatures that dip below freezing the night before. Well, in the middle of summer, that doesn’t happen often, so, even though I made good time getting to the glacier, the climb was slushy and uncomfortable. I had to brace a few times to stop from sliding.

Interesting looking crevasse near the top.

I made it one piece and allowed myself a bit of time to prepare but wanted to turn around and start skiing soon because the slush issue was only going to become more pronounced as the day warmed up.

Top-down view.

To be honest, the skiing was a bit terrifying. I connected ~10 turns, but the top was a mixed bag of hard snow ridges and sun-cupped BS, the middle was slushy, and the bottom was a minefield of fist-size rocks that could really screw up my skis. I threaded together as many safe turns as I could but ultimately had to take my skis off and boot pack down the last hundred feet; there was just too much detritus to avoid.

It was too dangerous of a ski to film with my phone so this is the only “mid-action” photo I have. I think this day convinced me to start looking at Go-Pros, which I would eventually get by the year’s end.

So, yeah, I skied in August on a dwindling glacier in a National Park. It was harrowing, steep (~42-45 degrees at its steepest pitch), and riddled with debris that would’ve destroyed my skis had I not been paying attention. I don’t think It’ll be on the repeat list anytime soon, but it was a good reminder that while dirty snow can be skied, it’s really tricky.

I also finally got a good idea of what a “rock” glacier is, which I thought was pretty cool.

As yearly erosion dumps more rock and debris into valleys and cirques, they end up covering the top of the ice. The ice doesn’t really go anywhere; it just hangs out under accruing layers of rocks and dirt. Practically, this makes the terrain on top of the ice exceptionally loose and subject to sliding; as far as climate change goes, the layers of rocks actually help hide the glacial layers from direct sun exposure. So, even though you may not see a bunch of ice and snow above ground, in some areas, you can bet that the ice still exists; it’s just hiding below the rocks i.e., rock glacier.

What’s interesting about Ptarmigan (Taylor Glacier is also a good example) is that a substantial portion of the ice is still visible, so you get the above surface “glacier,” and you can see the transition zone into the sub-surface “rock glacier.” Cool stuff.

Here’s what you’re looking at. A roughly 20 foot wide, 8-foot tall chunk of ice covered by dirt and scree. In fact, everything in this picture is resting on top of ice. The only reason this piece is exposed is because the summer snowmelt creates a runoff stream from the glacier; as the water moves, it carries debris down the slope, opening up a channel to sun exposure. Between where I took this photo and the ice chunk, is a ravine about 10 feet deep that leads to a running stream on top of more ice layers. There was no way I was walking up to the edge, so this is as close I got.

Rock Glaciers are exceptionally unstable (because it’s all resting on ice) and demand careful footfalls and risk management. Naturally, I traversed it in ski boots.

Another instance of debris on top of visible ice.

The “rock glacier” continued pretty much right up to the lower snowslope. As I carefully made my way to it, I started to tire of the tedious footing and thought it may be worth it to grab a few extra turns on the lower snowfield and drop a couple of hundred feet relatively quickly.

To my surprise, the snow surface was much more agreeable on this field, and I actually made some half-decent turns without feeling like I was two steps away from dying.

Slide the bar to see roughly where I made my turns. You can see where the snow is disturbed from the turns but it’s not immediately obvious.

After managing a handful of extra turns on the lower snowfield, I felt accomplished enough to call the outing a success. I made my way to the tarn at the base of the lower snowfield and collapsed on a nice, sunny rock. Compelled to celebrate in some way, I stripped down to my birthday suit and got into the water.

Hand down one of the top five coldest water experiences of my entire life, and I’ve jumped into the Arctic Ocean before!

The tarn is only exposed enough to get into for maybe two months out of the year, so it’s all frigid snowmelt. Despite the shock, I didn’t freeze to death and let the sun dry me. A few confused and concerned rock climbers descending from Notchtop probably got more of a show from my naked lounging than they would’ve liked, but hey, after hauling my skis all the way up to Ptarmigan and faced with the daunting prospect of hauling them back to the car, I can’t say I was in much of a caring mood.

Cold, cold water.

After my quick water refresh, I summoned as much energy as I could, strapped down all my gear, and dragged myself back to the parking lot. Unlike the hundreds of questions I had to field coming back from Andrews, I only spoke to a handful of people. There were still hordes of visitors near the trailhead, but I think they were too shocked at my appearance to even let some questions out, fine by me, haha. August ski down!

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Month 8: September 16, 2021 (Knobtop Icefield)

The previous October, I hiked Little Matterhorn, a Class 3 scramble overlooking the Odessa Lake area of Rocky Mountain National Park, and just a stellar adventure all around. While on the ridgeline to the summit, I noticed a large snowfield hiding under the bulk of Knobtop, a relatively ill-defined area with a flat top, gentle western slopes, and a precipitous eastern and northern wall. The snowfield looked large and interesting, so I decided to revisit the area and see if my observation last year held up to skiing scrutiny.

Not bad; decent vertical to boot.

So, a little less than a month after my Ptarmigan Glacier descent, I saddled up for an attempt of the Knobtop Icefield.

I really wanted the snowfield to be exactly the way I’d seen it the year prior, but that turned out to be pretty optimistic on my part.

The approach was fairly benign until I broke from the trail around Lake Helene as I’d done for the previous hike. Instead of heading up into the Ptarmigan Glacier area, I traversed underneath a small headwall and descended below Hope falls. Technically, this is the same gorge that originates near Ptarmigan, but the headwall is a significant enough obstacle to legitimately call them two separate things (Odessa Gorge and Ptarmigan Cirque, for example).

Little Matterhorn and the Gables from near Lake Helene.

After descending below Hope Falls and crossing the stream, I found myself in a familiar talus field and slope (the same approach that I’d used to climb Little Matterhorn the year prior). This part I knew wasn’t terribly long but featured some serious elevation gain that I had to do with skis. It was a long, and grinding ascent, but I stuck to areas that I thought looked the most stable and slowly made my way higher.

Generalized ascent path, turns out, not the easiest way, but certainly the most direct.

My path was…ok, I mean, I arrived where I wanted to, but the loose rocks and steep slope angle made me a bit nervous, and if you’ve ever tried to hike anything with skis on your back, you’ll know how easily you can get off balance. So, I stumbled, cursed, and dragged myself up the rise, hoping to reach what I knew would be a relatively flat talus field leading up to the edge of the icefield.

The first views of the icefield were…not super inspiring.

Oof, dirty and a lot smaller than last year’s observations.

Feeling the looming specter of failure creep in, I resolved to at least scout the whole field from its base to see if there were any places I could rope together a measly five turns. The longest part of the icefield looked initially good but led right to a rockfall chute, and after watching countless fist-sized rocks scream down the icefield and crash into the talus below, I was keen to avoid that part.

I did find one section that looked relatively clean and was tucked up underneath a solid-looking rock wall with nothing overhung above it. To be honest, the whole area was a huge rockfall hazard, but I angled towards an area that looked white (so not a lot of surface debris) and got as close as I could to the start before getting my climbing gear on and preparing for a steep ascent.

Certainly not pretty, but clean enough to ski.

My crampons got their money’s worth as the terrain steepened quickly past 40 degrees. It wasn’t an altogether long ascent, but the sun-cupped surface, steep profile, and constant rockfall danger kept me plenty focused. I angled towards a large bergschrund (specifically, a randkluft in my case) between the top of the icefield and the solid rock walls behind it. In that pocket, I awkwardly got ready.

This is not beginner territory.

Also, in case you are unaware of what a bergschrund or randkluft are, this still shot from a video I took should provide some context. In no way was this a comfortable changeover from crampons to skis.

As the summer sun melts snow slopes, the snow can pull away from the walls behind them, creating a gap or a bergschrund. Technically, since this was the gap between stagnant ice and rocks as opposed to a moving glacier and stagnant ice, the appropriate term is a randkluft, but the key element is the same: a crevasse-like gap between ice and other stuff.
In the randkluft.

After a few trying minutes, I got all my gear ready and awkwardly sidestepped from the lower part of the randkluft up to the crest and gently, nervously, stepped my skis over. I was leaning so much on my inside edges I thought I’d fall right back into the randkluft, but it all held together, and I slid forward to a patch of clean snow.

Yeah, so, perhaps unsurprisingly, this was not a banner skiing day, but in the middle of the summer, beggars can’t be choosers. Would I ever repeat it though? ….Uhm.

I didn’t take any pictures on the way down but did manage to put together a set of turns that actually made me really proud. Despite my wonky start, I settled in quickly and hit the skiable bit with the same confidence I had at Andrews Glacier, which is saying something. I hated the rockfall danger and looming sense of potential catastrophe, but I skied better this day than I did on Ptarmigan in August.

I did get some perspective shots from further back and could trace my lines, which was neat.

Gotta love old iPhone pic quality. Below the red line, I unstrapped and just carefully heel kicked my way down, far too much debris.

Below is a different perspective from farther away. I drew in the lines using a computer mouse, so there may be small differences between representations, but you can clearly see my first few turns in the shade on the undrawn version.


The skiing was strangely better than August, but this was by far the most dangerous ski of the year.

Although I made it down the ski slope just fine, I had another couple of heart-stopping moments when chunks of rocks cascaded down from higher elevations. Hearing a rock pick up speed, hitting what looked like 60-80 mph, and then split into a thousand pieces when it hits a piece of talus bigger than an SUV certainly leaves an impression.

Luckily, I had scouted potential lower-risk escape routes, and because I had already identified the problem spots above me, I knew I wasn’t in immediate danger. With barely any wind that day, the biggest factors were sun-melt on the ice and rockfall from gullies and slots that broke through the walls above me. I could tell where those gullies emptied out because of how the snow looked (darker=more debris covered), and you can see that in the picture below. Purposely picking my line to ski the best conditions, as opposed to the longest vertical, saved my skis from getting too beat up and kept me in one physical piece.

Left pic, no markup. Right pic, Red arrows=most likely rockfall direction based on my observations. Blue=the area where I skied. PLEASE NOTE: all of this was completely dangerous, I just worked with the best option.

Still, having a bunch of rocks break a few dozen meters away from you is not a calming experience. I kept my helmet on for the majority of the return hike to lake Helene and only stowed it when I was safely back on established trails.

The hike back felt somehow more exhausting and challenging than last month’s outing; my ski straps kept loosening, so I had to do a bunch of re-adjusts, and talus hopping with skis on just beats you up. I did make it back successfully, and despite the rapidly forming blisters, felt pretty good about how I’d managed what is definitely one of the craziest backcountry adventures I’ve done.

Quick PSA: This is all completely nuts, and I think that should be noted somewhere in every piece I write about this kinda stuff. I am a competent skier and mountaineer with decades of experience; I’m also a 6-year ski instructor; additionally, I have years of trail-building and months of alpine camping/living under my belt. I make it my business to understand the mountains and the hazards they harbor, and I have turned around on many adventures when the conditions weren’t right.

I really like being alive, but I also intimately understand my personal thresholds because I have that conversation with myself often. Like most aspects of life, thresholds change over time. As silly as it sounds, the best advice when you’re pushing yourself in the outdoors is to get right with yourself, figure out what you can and won’t do, and identify the gray area where you can build skills into. After all the years I’ve spent in the outdoors (along with the hundreds of Colorado mountains I’ve climbed), I felt that I could handle the risks presented to me on this day, but I am always preparing for the day when that’s no longer the case.

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Month 9: October 28, 2021 (Shrine Pass Meadows)

When we talk about the alpine in Colorado, there’s usually a period of time in the autumn when a series of high elevation storms bring the first snow of the year. Most of this is unskiable from resorts, and there’s a fair amount of melting between storms because the sun angle is still high, but it signals the inevitable arrival of colder weather. Well, this year, that first bout of snow took its sweet time showing up. There were a few anemic spurts in early October, but finally, towards the back half of the month, a stronger storm targeting the western slope dropped up to a foot on the mountains around Vail Pass. My time had arrived.

By this time, I’d also managed to wrestle down the inevitable criteria I would use for the challenge. With an understanding that I’d elected to keep my skiing limited to the I-70 corridor and north, I figured exploring a small section west of Vail Pass would make for a nice excursion. I knew the road to Shrine Pass was skiable, so I planned for that.

The new snow, while copious for October, was also still drivable, so I ended up giving the ole snow tires a workout and chugged up the Shrine Pass Road, looking specifically for low-angle grassy slopes where the chances of skiing rocks was a lot lower.

I had no illusions that this was going to be a short outing. Already limited by early season snowfall, my hope was to just recycle a few slopes until I felt like I’d made my five requisite turns. All in all, I found three separate “runs” and pieced together about 20 turns between them.

Easy and it counts.

There were a few people out skiing the road, but after driving over some bare patches, it looked, to me, like it would still mess up a pair of skis, so I was relatively excited to find soft slopes without surprise gravel under them.

There were a couple of times I broke through the snow, but luckily the surface was soft underneath. If you strain, you can see at least five turns in this photo.

This day wasn’t anything to shout about, but after languishing through the first part of October, wondering if I’d get to ski fresh snow or be forced to have another experience like August and September, I was just happy to be able to ski something soft.

I think from start to finish, I was on my skis for maybe 90 minutes total, and a lot of that was just soaking up being outside.

Yeah, no real issues, just enjoyed some high-altitude October turns under cloudy skies and on top of fresh snow.

Naturally, thoughts turned towards the following month since another storm was set to hit, and I wanted to take advantage but I also took a moment to give myself a high five, month 9 of backcountry turns complete! Only three more before I’d skied a whole year!

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Colorado Backcountry Turns All Year: Year 1, Months 4-6 (2021)

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April 2021 was a breakout backcountry ski month for me. While I only managed three days out in the hills, they were all exceptionally satisfying, and my confidence rose accordingly. As I mentioned in my previous turns all year post, by early May, the idea of doing a full year of backcountry skiing still hadn’t made it to the forefront of my brain. As a kind of interim goal, I’d resolved to keep the skis out of storage until at least June. In fact, I already had an idea of what the ski adventure could look like. As for July and beyond? Hadn’t even considered it yet.

From late April through mid-May, my wife and I had a few trips we needed to take (family visits and a sister’s graduation from college), so backcountry took a backseat. However, as May wound down and I found myself with a solid week and a half weather window, the pressure to go do something epic began to ratchet up in my head. And while the winter of 2020/2021 was average in pretty much every sense of the word, the spring of 2021 was temperate and wet, with a lot of alpine spring snow available for the taking.

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Backcountry Warnings and Resources

If you’re tip-toeing into backcountry skiing, there are a ton of resources and education that I would consider mandatory before taking it to the hills. I’ve compiled a list below.

  • Avalanche training (look up Avvy 1 certifications near you).
  • Avalanche gear (shovel, probe, beacon, radio).
  • Regular ski gear plus skins, frame/tech bindings.
  • Orienteering skills (download offline maps, have a GPS watch, or bring a physical map and a compass).
  • Scout your line before committing.
  • Ski with partners when able (if not able, compensate by only attempting on the best day conditions wise). This is a touchy point, many refuse to attempt without a partner, and I accept that, but if you have a flexible risk tolerance and can accept more risk in one area (solo journeys), you have to compensate by nailing down all other aspects of the planning process to make the risk defensible.
  • Check the weather up until the moment you leave.
  • Leave your plan with a loved one and have that plan include emergency contact info should you miss a predetermined rendezvous time.
  • Here are some Colorado-focused resources I use: Opensnow, Front Range Skimo, Mountain Weather Forecasts (click here), CAIC (they have an Instagram page, and there are other associated avalanche pages to follow as well), NWS.
  • For added info on planning and gear, please visit these two articles I wrote for an outdoor website called SkyblueOverland. The topics covered are crucial for any aspiring backcountry skier/rider. Essential Backcountry Gear, and Guide to Planning a Backcountry Adventure.
  • Additionally, I wrote an overview of Colorado Snow, which has a bunch of additional information pertinent to centennial state winters.
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Month 4: May 22, 2021 (Tyndall Glacier & Gorge)

Rocky Mountain National Park is one of the top 5 most-visited national parks in the country, and for good reason, it’s really pretty and less than two hours from a large metro area. The park is an outdoor mecca, and that means winter recreation as well. The Bear Lake Road corridor is a particular highlight, and any casual outdoor Instagram follower will have seen a ton of #inspiring/#grateful posts featuring a lake, pinnacles to the right, and a tilted blocky looking mountain to the left. The gorge in-between them is Tyndall Gorge, and if you hike up to the headwall, you get Tyndall Glacier. Ever since seeing the view from Dream Lake (picture below), I’d wanted to do a couple of things, ski Tyndall Glacier and climb Chaos Couloir up Hallett Peak. This year I’d do both, but since the snow was starting to melt lower down, skiing became the top priority.

Bam. While you can’t quite see the glacier yet, you get an idea of the gorge run (down the middle), Hallett Peak (left), and the Pinnacles to the right that house two gnarly ski mountaineering routes: Dragontail Couloir and Dead Elk Couloir.

With an elevation above 9k, the top of Bear Lake Road is the perfect place to explore some spring skiing. While there are many ways to access Tyndall Glacier, I wanted to skin up from the bottom because I hadn’t skied in the upper part of the gorge, and I wanted to see it before dropping in. When I arrived at the parking lot, there was enough snow about 1/4 mile from the trailhead to strap skins on, which I gratefully did. Not that carrying skis is overly complicated; they’re just heavy. So, I was keen to take any chance to connect snowfields without the extra weight.

On the way in, you pass three lakes, Nymph Lake, Dream Lake, and Emerald Lake. Beyond Emerald, the terrain steepens sharply, the crowds fall to the wayside, and you feel as though you’re back in the wild. Starting early enough, I’d already beaten most of the day-trippers, but crowd avoiding is a big part of my outdoor ethos. Not that I mind people beholding magnificent scenery, but for a serious outdoor adventure, you don’t necessarily want a huge audience watching your every move. Unfortunately, my head was so focused on speeding up to the start of the line that I took an ill-advised shortcut across a corner of Nymph Lake. In my defense, the ice was thick when I stepped onto it, but after crossing the lake, I had to get back on dry land, and the edge had a weak ice layer that was rapidly melting. My weight sent my skis through, and before I could curse, both boots were in the drink.

Soaked and a little pissed, I took stock of the damage, dried the boots as best I could, slapped a new pair of socks on, and continued. The weather was supposed to be a warm 50 degrees with ample sunshine (and no humidity because Colorado is high and dry), so I figured I wasn’t going to freeze to death, and the thought of being defeated by four feet of water didn’t leave a particularly great taste in my mouth. So, I soldiered on.

National Park-worthy scenery almost every step of the way.
If you look closely, you can see at least three climbers on the lower/mid portion of Dragontail Couloir.

The two other lakes passed in quick succession, and before I knew it, I was scrambling over some boulders near Emerald Lake, looking to gain elevation for the eventual ascent into the gorge. As predicted, the crowds vanished after Emerald until it was just me and a handful of other backcountry hopefuls, each set on their own objectives.

Dead Elk Couloir (L.), and DragonTail Couloir (R.).

I saw a group peel off to the East Couloir, a 45-degree option that attacked the ridge of Hallett Peak, and another group further ahead, heading for Tyndall Couloir. In the Tyndall area alone, there are at least eight well-established backcountry ski lines, and the variety is pretty spectacular. My goal, Tyndall Glacier, is one of the few alpine glaciers left in Colorado. There are a handful of them on the eastern slope of the northern Front Range, which is peculiar because the eastern side of the Front Range doesn’t get as much snow as the Western Slope. The glacier’s location can be explained by looking at the wind scouring that happens in this part of the state.

Quick weather PSA, for the full scoop, read this piece. Colorado winters are variable; storms roll in (very, very generally) from west to east. So, snow slams into the western slope first. However, the wind really kicks up over the northern Front Range. That wind, ruthless as it is, steals snow from the Western Slope and lobs it over the continental divide until it settles in high, cold, east, and north-facing alpine basins. These areas, consequently, have the most consistent snow. Colorado also isn’t as far north as people think, which means the sun factor is more critical. An eastern and northern aspect helps shield these areas from sun-melt. All of this is, of course, subject to climate change, but for now, these areas of snow and ice are the last vestiges of Colorado’s glacial history. Back during the last mini ice age, glaciers in Northern Colorado were huge and helped shape the gnarled-looking valleys of the Indian Peaks and RMNP. Estes Park and its world-famous rock climbing areas were carved out by advancing and retreating glaciers.

ANYWAY, Tyndall was one of a few left, and I kind of wanted to see them all, which of course led to a follow-up thought, “Hey, I wonder if you can ski any of them.” As evidenced by multiple trip reports, blogs, websites, and guidebooks, the answer to that is absofreakinglutely. Tyndall made sense because it was in the middle of a well-traveled and well-documented area, had a low avalanche rating due to snowpack consolidation and nightly freezes, was supposedly an enjoyable descent, and since I hit it early enough in the year, there was enough snow to take me from the top of the glacier on a more than a mile-long journey to the shores of Emerald Lake. (Quick aside: Tyndall Glacier slides every year, so a scouting trip is HIGHLY recommended before you commit.)

I found it astounding that this run even existed because if you’ve only been as far as Emerald Lake, you’d think the valley simply ended on the other side of the lake. You can’t see over the slope in front of you, so you assume it stops. In reality, there’s at least another mile of terrain between you and what’s left of the glacier.

The upper part of the gorge with a small tarn visible. The glacier is nestled up against the headwall (hard to see when most things are covered in snow).

So after a lot of grunting and sweating, I arrived at the base of the glacier and then faced the daunting task of climbing it. I had followed a set of previous skin tracks that ultimately broke up to Tyndall Couloir, so I approached the glaciers steeper south side (45-50 degrees). Armed with a trusty ice axe, crampons, and general mountain enthusiasm, I resolved to climb the steeper portion of the glacier and ski the mellower part.

Hallett Peak frames the southern side of the gorge rim.

This was a steep climb, made harder by the rising temperature and slushy snow. The biggest concern in spring is the idea of a wet avalanche, where the sun melts the top layers of snow, and they gradually sluff off the slope. Usually, if you have a good freeze overnight (which I did), you can get to the top of your line and ski it before the sun increases the wet slide risk. I made the timing work, but it was a bit later than I would’ve liked, with the slush making upward progress more difficult.

You can see my ascent tracks heading diagonally right to avoid the cornices up top.

By the time I reached the very top, I was down to shorts and a t-shirt. With added effort, I managed to crest the top, avoid the cornices, and take in the beauty of the alpine.

Looking northward around the rim of the gorge—the Mummy Range is in the background.

I took a little time to rest at the top and snap some photos of the surround. After some food, water, and a bit of stretching, I got ready to descend. The first set of turns I made were simple, just along the top of the glacier angling towards the mellower north side. I used those first turns to test my gear and then made necessary adjustments to my bindings before pouring into the gorge.

First few turns from the top of my climb.

Once I felt I had made all necessary adjustments, I swallowed a rapidly expanding bubble of anxiety (pretty common when you think about any crazy outdoor activity you’re about to do) and ripped into my descent. It went perfectly. The turns were soft but not too soft, and the snow held without sending me any wet avalanche signs.

Looking up to my ascent tracks (left) and where I skied down (hard to see my tracks through the darker patches).

Now, Tyndall Glacier descends into a formidable terrain trap. A terrain trap is simply a set of features preventing a continuous ski. In my case, the steeper side of the glacier bled into a large bowl rimmed by talus. If I skied the way gravity wanted me to, I’d end up in it, have to put my skis on my back, and hike out to the nearest continuous snow line. Well, all of that sounded awful, so about 2/3 of the way down, I made an abrupt left-hand turn and aimed for a 10-20 foot wide snow chute that offered the best chance for continuous skiing.

Slide the bar to see my marked-up ascent/descent routes.

Luckily, the little slot I’d chosen held just enough snow for me to ski through some chokepoints and continue unhindered. Turning the glacier into a continuous descent down the gorge was a game-changer and the only times I stopped were to take pictures, say “wow” under my breath, and, occasionally, catch my breath when I needed to.

Slushy turns.

At one point, I had to ski on one ski to fit through a section, and at another, lost all my momentum; but, after some sidestepping and huffing, I was able to keep connecting continuous snow-fields. I think another day or two after I went, and the snowmelt would’ve made that impossible.

The last part of the descent is interesting because you bulldoze into view of everyone down at Emerald Lake. You can’t hear them if you’re skiing and making turns, but boy, can they see you. I managed to make it all the way down to the shore and scooted around it until running into the crowds. I could feel eyes on me but only really began to field questions when I stowed all the gear that could be stowed, got out my hikers/crampons, and fastened my skis to my backpack.

Here’s a generalized drawing of the last part of the run down to Emerald Lake. I traded emails with a girl from Virginia who sent me this picture. It’s hard to see, but the skier in the circle is me.

All told, I skied more than a mile and dropped 2,300 feet over the course of my run, and I could not be happier. While conditions may have been better overall for April, skiing down an alpine cirque glacier in a National Park will always be a top memory for me. What a day, and to think I almost quit when I fell into Nymph Lake! Granted, my pruney and smelly feet had a lot to say about that choice, but I took a week and a half to lick my wounds before attacking my June ski.

From the top of the Glacier, looking down the gorge, Emerald Lake is hidden from view.

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Month 5: June 2, 2021 (Sundance Mt. North Face)

Longs Peak, seen from near the start of my ski line down Sundance Mountain.

Even though the summer solstice doesn’t occur until the end of June, you could tell that warm weather was on its way. After a wet and cool April-May, the heat was coming. Following an upper elevation snowstorm (11k and above), the weather forecast looked dry and sunny. I wanted to take advantage of a couple of things, ease of access, high altitude, and good weather. I came up with Sundance Mountain.

Trail Ridge Road is the primary road bisecting Rocky Mountain National Park and closes down over the winter. When it opens back up (around Memorial Day, weather permitting), there are still large snowfields left above treeline that the road gets very close to. One of those is Sundance Mountain’s north face. The year prior, I’d taken my parents through the park, and near the highest part of the road is a small trail to the Toll Memorial. It was on this trail that my dad and I noticed some skiers, and ever since, I thought that it would be the perfect early summer Colorado ski candidate. I was right.

Let’s get it.

Armed with a June plan and still high off my Tyndall Glacier descent, I finally committed to the ski all-year challenge and was eager to try some summer backcountry skiing. I had only skied in June once before, in 2019, the year A-Basin stayed open to July 4th. My friends and I skied on a few inches of fresh powder on June 23rd, which was my current record for latest season ski. While I wouldn’t break that with an early June ski, I was confident I’d find the snow.

June 23, 2019, A-Basin.

So, June 2 rolls around, and I bulldoze up the recently opened Trail Ridge Road to just beyond its highest point. I was the first car in the parking lot, and that’s always strange, especially with an area as popular as Trail Ridge, but I was thankful for the solitude as it allowed me to futz with my gear and take oodles of pictures of mountains.

The Mummy Range from the Toll Memorial Trail.

There are a couple of ways that you can ski Sundance Mountains North Face. The top of the run gives you more than 700 vertical feet of super easy 20-25 degrees slopes. This is where most people ski. When the slope narrows and steepens (to the tune of 45 degrees), most people find a stopping point, slap some skins on, and recycle the upper portion. Well, I’d just skied a glacier; there was no way I was going to let a juicy 45-degree slope go to waste.

So, I skied the upper portion on a cold morning and enjoyed the fresh crunch under my boots while making wide GS turns. As all the other reports I’d seen indicated, it was fairly obvious when the slope angle steepened past the point of many people’s comfort zone. And, while unfortunate to discuss, people have died on the lower portion of this particular run, so you really need to “know thyself” before making critical terrain choices.

The beautiful and effortless upper portion of Sundance.

Having said that, when I finally got a good look at the lower portion, I knew I had to ski it. I had years of experience and had skied similar slopes recently. I knew I could handle the slop angle and the conditions. So, when I passed the logical point of no return, I flashed a smile and began slicing my way down.

The snow didn’t really soften up until the bottom half, so I wouldn’t say it was the best day out for the type of snow surface encountered, but just like Tyndall, I surprised myself with how smooth my turns ended up being. Aside from one break to scout my line through the bottom section, I skied a 2,000-foot slope without stopping.

Yeah, it gets steep. The line ends at the foot of the large meadowy patch of snow at the bottom left.

By the time I reached a logical end-point, I collapsed into the snow and practiced breathing for a while. The run only took about 10-12 minutes, but that is a significant time for continuous skiing. Once I collected myself, I took a shot from the bottom-up.

Runs like Sundance North have obvious benefits. Since Trail Ridge climbs up beyond the start, you can be out of your car and skiing within a few minutes. However, if you want to ski the whole line, and unless you car positioned, you have to reclimb the slope. Needless to say, this bit took a lot longer than the skiing, but the temperature began to moderate, and it was nice to feel my muscles working. About halfway up, I was surprised by the presence of a Coyote. I stopped and watched him stick his nose in a Pika nest, pull one out and devour it. Nature is beautiful, but she can be cruel.

Who wants Pika for breakfast?

Eventually, the coyote noticed me and began to saunter off, but not before I grabbed a few more pictures. Even in a state like Colorado, where wildlife is abundant, it’s always so cool to see big animals roaming around.

Lookin good fella.

Seeing the coyote actually gave me a nice break, which I used to adjust the weight I was carrying and eventually make it back up to the starting point. For the bottom portion, I had to use my crampons and carry my skis, but after the Coyote sighting, the slope angle lessened enough for me to reapply skins. By the time I reached the top, at least a handful of other skiers were out and about enjoying the day. The gawking from the masses on the way back to my car was a bit much, but I shoved some earbuds in, smiled when someone looked at me and kept moving.

Sadly, only a week later, another skier died on the lower portion of Sundance, which by slope degree alone is easily a Black Diamond or Double Black Diamond run at any ski resort. I began wondering if the ease of access and gentle upper portion were fooling people into thinking they could do all of it. Was this slope only being advertised as beginner terrain? And by advertised, I mean by word of mouth, which is really how this stuff spreads.

This is the point of no return, or as close to it as I thought made sense to photograph. Once you pass that rock, you are committing to a steep and dangerous slope.

I don’t know; I guess hearing about another death in a year that had already killed more backcountry enthusiasts than any other in the last 50+ years made me wonder if those risks aren’t being communicated effectively enough. In reality, it’s just the top snowfield that can support those easier turns; once you commit to the bottom, you absolutely need to know what you’re doing. I hope that people are accurately conveying not only the rewards of backcountry but the risks as well; there are a lot of them.

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Month 6: July 25, 2021 (Andrews Glacier)

Andrews Glacier

After my early June ascent, I turned my attention to other outdoor opportunities.

  • I took on Hallett Peaks Chaos Couloir, a fantastic mixed climb up an iconic peak, on June 8th.
  • I scrambled across the Gorge Lakes Rim, which included Mt. Ida, Chief Cheley, Cracktop, and Mt. Julian on June 14th.
  • I scrambled up a Class 4 route on the Spearhead, one of the more vertigo-inducing summits in RMNP, on June 30.
  • I scrambled a Class 3+/4 route up Lead Mt. in the Never Summers, one of the true hidden-gems of the area and a bear to get to.
  • I also hiked a few area favorites with my wife and had a banner scrambling day on Horsetooth Peak, a little known Boulder County mountain with an outrageous Class 4 option that I thoroughly enjoyed.

I was having so much fun embracing summer that by the time the last week and a half of July rolled around, I realize I hadn’t gotten my July ski in yet! A quick bout of panic turned into an opportunity when I settled on a trip to Andrews Glacier.

Andrews is in Rocky Mountain National Park and a fairly popular place; however, since it’s on the way to Sky Pond (arguably the prettiest lake on the eastern side of the park), it tends to draw far fewer people.

My wife and I hiked in and had most of the trail to ourselves once we took the cutoff away from Sky Pond. I’m glad I had gotten all the hikes in that I did since Sundance, so my body could handle carrying skis for 4+ miles because there was zero snow up until the foot of the glacier.

As far as alpine glaciers are concerned, Andrews still shows signs of movement and is generally considered an active glacier (unlike other nearby pieces of snow like Moomaw Glacier, St. Marys Glacier, and Skyscraper Glacier). Throughout most of the summer, the snow reaches down to a beautiful tarn at its base. By mid-August, the glacier retreats to above the tarn, but when we arrived, there was still a twenty-foot snow connection to the shores of the lake, which made for a much more aesthetically pleasing descent.

Andrews is not a steep glacier and has a maximum pitch of maaaaaybe 33 degrees. Most of the run is in the high 20’s, making it easy to connect soft, satisfying turns all the way down.

The conditions were typical for the summer, with some firm patches on the way up, bowing to warm slush by the time I made it to the top and clipped in. Even still, I had a great time slicing down the slope and made a series of excellent turns. It’s not often you can say that you backcountry skied in Colorado on July 25th!

Perhaps the most unexpected part of the adventure was the sheer number of people who could not believe that I had actually found snow. For many, this was their first time in Rocky Mountain National Park, so they wore clear expressions of deep confusion when they saw a sweaty man with a pair of skis on his back passing them. Everyone was friendly, though, and on a beautiful summer day, it’s not hard to smile and field a couple of questions.

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Final Thoughts

With Andrews being such an easy ski (and a tough but manageable approach), I began thinking about the next three months, and a bit of worry crept in. I’d always heard that August and September can be the toughest months to ski in Colorado because even after a heavy previous winter, the snow is more or less gone (except for the 100 or so permanent snowfields left in the state), and the conditions on what’s left can be quite dangerous. And while the high peaks can see snowflakes any month of the year, skiable accumulations don’t really occur until mid-late October, which presented a bit of a logistical problem. I had to find two skiable candidates during the two driest months in the state….hurray.

So, despite my elation at making it this far into my challenge, I began to wonder how difficult the next couple of adventures would end up being… One thing was for certain, now that I’d committed, I’d be hunting snow in August, September, and October, no matter how hard it ended up being.

I hope you tune back to read the next part of this ongoing series!

Colorado Backcountry Turns All Year: Year 1, Months 1-3 (2021)

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In a lot of ways, it already felt like I’d missed my shot. I got into backcountry skiing during the winter of 18/19, and THAT would’ve been the perfect season to pursue turns all year. The drubbing the mountains received in March (including an upslope storm that dumped over 20 inches of snow on Denver) set the stage for a super productive spring with mountain snow lasting all summer. People were linking dozens of turns on St. Mary’s Glacier through August, which is surprising because it’s not an actual glacier and has melted completely in drier years. Hell, even A-Basin spun a lift on July 4th, the first time they’d been able to do that in years. But, as pretty much anyone with backcountry experience will tell you, start slow, get better over time, and do not take more than the mountains are willing to give. So, I learned slowly.

Brainard Recreation Area, unnamed snow shots south of Brainard Lake.

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All bundled up for those cold March days.

Backcountry Warnings and Resources

If you’re tip-toeing into backcountry skiing, there are a ton of resources and education that I would consider mandatory before taking it to the hills. I’ve compiled a list below.

  • Avalanche training (look up Avvy 1 certifications near you).
  • Avalanche gear (shovel, probe, beacon, radio).
  • Regular ski gear plus skins, frame/tech bindings.
  • Orienteering skills (download offline maps, or have a GPS watch or bring a physcial map and a compass).
  • Scout your line before committing.
  • Ski with patners when able (if not able, compensate by only attempting on the best day conditions wise). This is a touchy point, many refuse to attempt without a partner and I accept that, but if you have a flexible risk tolerance, and can accept more risk in one area (solo journeys) you have to compensate by nailing down all other aspects of the planning process to make the risk defensible.
  • Check weather up until the moment you leave.
  • Leave your plan with a loved one and have that plan include emergency contact info should you miss a predetermined rendezvous time.
  • Here are some Colorado focused resources I use: Opensnow, Front Range Skimo, Mountain Weather Forecasts (click here), CAIC (they have an instagram page and there are other associaed avalanche pages to follow as well), NWS.
  • For added info on planning and gear, please visit these two articles I wrote for an outdoor website called SkyblueOverland. The topics covered are crucial for any aspiring backcountry skier/rider. Essential Backcountry Gear, and Guide to Planning a Backcountry Adventure.
  • Additionally, I just wrote an overview of Colorado Snow, which has a bunch of additional information pertinent to centennial state winters.
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Recent avalanche cracking on Pt. 12,089. Be safe out there!

Transitions and Whatnot

This is the part of the website where I talk about my past; it’s not long, but feel free to skip by clicking here. Maybe I’ll just bullet point the details; that should simplify it:

  • Feb. 2015, accepted job trail building with Southwest Conservation Corp out of Durango, CO.
  • March-end of May: road trip out west from a home base in Georgia.
  • June 1-early Oct: trail work in the San Juans (slopes of El Diente).
  • Started climbing 14,000-foot mountains on my off days.
  • Applied/accepted to teach skiing at Beaver Creek (Nov. 2015-April 2016).
  • Met my future wife, worked two jobs (retail and instructing). Ski instructed for 140ish days, and skied a million vertical feet (ouch).
  • Accepted position with CFI (March 2016) (trail building outfit focused exclusively on the 14ers, worked alongside them on El Diente).
  • Proposed in Vancouver, ~April 17, 2016 (she said yes!).
  • Rebuilt summit trail to Mt. Eolus (reroute through talus field so leveraging ~500-1000 lbs rocks into place to make sustainable staircases through the talus), best job ever, keep climbing 14ers.
  • (2016/2017) 2nd winter at Beaver Creek (another million vertical feet, 125 days teaching, so burnt out afterward, but am now an excellent skier).
  • 3rd summer (2017) rebuilt the summit trail on Mt. Quandary with CFI.
  • First hut trip, ski touring, borrowed a pair of backcountry skis from my friend.
  • Applied and got accepted to a masters program for tourism management in Fort Collins at CSU.
  • Move to FoCo and do the grad school thing (getting closer on the 14ers challenge) 2017-2018 (May).
  • Part-time at Beaver Creek (winter of 17/18) and ski the Minturn Mile for the first time, technically a sidecountry run but started the brain thinking about backcountry skiing.
  • 2018-Alli moves to FoCo, I graduate in May.
  • Move to Boulder, June 2018, get married in Sept.
  • 9/23/18 summited Little Bear, have now climbed all 54 official 14,000-foot mountains in Colorado and a dozen un-official summits for a ~65ish total count.
  • The 14ers got me into scrambling, so I focused hard on epic scrambles, a few of which I’ve written about in this blog. Start developing a scrambling challenge but really just enjoying being outside. Backpacking trips with Alli & friends.
  • 18/19, epic winter, ski instructing part-time, and freeskiing a lot (Minturn mile #2).
  • 1/20/19: small backcountry run off the south side of Loveland Pass (ok, marginal snow and lots of tourists).
  • Get a Rocky Mountain National Park season pass.
  • 4/28/19-backcountry ski East Slope of St. Vrain Mt. for the first time (the “spark”).
  • Scouting mission up Shoshoni Pk, in IPW 6/8, still a TON of snow left on the ground, decide to come back and ski Queensway Couloir, which you can see from Shoshoni’s summit.
  • 6/29/2019-skied Queensway, first big mountain Couloir, ~35-37 degrees, adjusted to snow conditions well.
  • Rest of summer spent scrambling and loving the outdoors; then, of course, COVID comes to crash the party.
  • Winter 19/20 kicks off ok, abbreviated when ski hills close in March, still got a decent amount of resort skiing and teaching in along with a couple of sidecountry forays (Minturn mile #3 and Alta Chutes near Beaver Creek).
  • 5/23/20-ski Vail Pass east, Stump top east, and a side climb of Uneva Pk. (can read about that area here).
  • 5/31/20-Queensway ski #2
  • So at this point, I’ve settled on a handful of spring backcountry runs to bridge the seasons until I can scramble on open rock again; naturally, the hold of backcountry skiing gets stronger over time, aided by the pro-isolation early days of the pandemic.
  • Start conducting research on backcountry routes in the park and in the IPW.
  • Hiked/scrambled all summer in the Front Range with occasional forays to the western slope, but the Cameron Peak Fire and East Troublesome choke out hiking options by mid-September.
  • Winter 20/21, part-time at Beaver Creek again, Minturn Mile #4 (Feb. 26. 2021).
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Gotta love that smooth canvas.

A Challenge of my own making

I think one of the most interesting things about the turns all year challenge for me was that I didn’t even know it was a challenge until May. As evidenced by one of the bullet points above, my forays into the discipline came initially from a “bridge the seasons” mentality. I was tired of waiting for snowdrifts to take until mid-July to melt in some places, and I wanted to get comfortable on snow. Working tirelessly at Beaver Creek (which had one of the most comprehensive and well-rounded instructor programs in the state when I joined) no doubt had an influence on my confidence, but it wasn’t the flick of a switch.

As I’m writing this, I’m in my 6th season at the resort. For the first two years, I taught an ungodly amount, which forced me to understand skiing as not just a snow sport but as a complicated and evolving discipline. When I finally went down to part-time, I used my knowledge to catapult my own abilities and between Year 2 and 3 at the resort saw an enormous leap in not only my ability but my skiing awareness. By the time I tried my first backcountry run (2019), I had skied every run at Beaver Creek and neighboring Vail—had experienced snow in all its myriad conditions, and learned to adjust my body position accordingly. The nail in the coffin was when my buddy gave me his center-mounted Solomon Rockr skis with frame bindings. He was getting more into mountain biking and I did not hesitate to accept them.

The frame bindings were the missing ingredient. There are, of course, much lighter AT bindings out there, but without a binding that allows your heel to rise, you won’t be making it uphill. Combine a heel riser binding and a pair of outdoor skins and all of a sudden, uphill travel is not impossible. A pair of used skins later (the attachment that allows your skis to grip the slope when climbing), I was ready.

Making my way down Queensway Couloir for the second time in 2020.

By the time I finally developed a loose set of criteria around my challenge, the pieces seemed to have fallen into place already.

  • One ski adventure every month with a minimum of 5 connected turns attained.
  • During snowy months, one location is acceptable for multiple adventures as long as the line skied is different (different, in this case, means on an adjacent mountain face, mountain, ridgeline, or aspect with logical topographical dividers between “lines.” It does not mean tracks right next to other tracks and calling it different).
  • Geographical restrictions: the state of Colorado, 1-70 corridor and north. Maybe someday the rest of the state, but it’s too big to take out at once.
  • For the summer months, each snowfield or alpine glacier skied cannot be repeated. Safest bets include permanent snowfields on larger mountains and a series of alpine glaciers between. IPW/RMNP (Andrews, Taylor, Sprague, Skyscraper, Navajo Snowfield, Isabelle Glacier, Tyndall, etc.)
  • Avoid high use areas or hit them during the week.
  • 2 different sidecountry runs allowed per year (located outside of ski resorts but may be accessed from within them).
  • Go for a minimum of 1 year, maximum of?

Yeah, pretty open-ended, just don’t repeat lines, and in the summer, one snowfield/glacier is one line, unless there are extenuating topographical considerations, like the obvious separation in late spring between Tyndall Couloir and Tyndall Glacier (separate lines).

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The First One: February 26, 2021

The top of the Minturn Mile.

So, although at the time I had no idea how big the challenge would become, on February 26, 2021, I skied the Minturn Mile with my wife for the 4th time. For those unaware, the Mile is actually closer to three miles, exits from the inbounds terrain at Vail, and never gets over a light-mid 30 degrees in slope angle. After a good powder dump and with a ride waiting at the bottom, it is an exceptional way to end a resort day. Conversely, it makes for a longer but gratifying skin up.

All fluff on a powder day in 2020.

Isn’t side-country different than backcountry? Yes and no. Many sidecountry runs are only called sidecountry because they are adjacent to a ski resort, meaning you could ride a lift up and then ski down. However, no one would call a sidecountry run a resort run, so it occupies kind of a weird middle ground. To me, what really matters are the conditions along the line. No ski patrol, no snowcats, no slow zones; yup, that counts. As an additional form of punishment, I hiked with both Alli and my skis to the top of Ricky’s Ridge, the highest possible start of the mile. The hike added 150 vertical feet and 0.3 miles, which, I know, isn’t a lot, but since climate change may rob Colorado of its pristine winters soon anyway, I’m leaving the net as wide as I can. (Max. 2 sidecountry runs allowed per year).

Slide the bar to see where the Mile begins and Vail Resort ends.

Feb. 26, 2021. The winter of 2020/2021 was perfectly mundane, and before I knew it, March was on the doorstep. Skiing had finally gotten good in mid-January, but it seemed that a recent warm spell would melt a lot of the terrain features on the mile I needed to stay covered. Of concern were the beaver ponds, which are much less fun to cross when they’re wet (instead of frozen), and the luge, which has an afternoon sun face that can occasionally melt out LONG before other parts of the route. If you want a long analysis of the mile itself, check out this article I wrote: Minturn Mile.

It was a fun day and a great way to end a ski day at Vail. With decades of skiing between us, Alli and I were seldom chasing vertical feet, and lo and behold—skiing had gotten fun again. We skied maybe four runs at Vail before chasing the mile and it was by far the best run. Choose your own adventures, but try to shelve the weekend warrior mindset when you can, if skiing isn’t fun, then really, what’s the point?

At the bottom of the Minturn Mile.

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Month 2: March 28, 2021 (Pawnee Pk. SE Slopes)

  • Additional Skis
  • Hidden Valley (March, 9, 2021.)
Sunrise along Brainard Lake Road.

March 2021 started with a dry spell, and ultimately that gave me the idea to try Hidden Valley, which I wrote about here. Lots of good info there. Because of the dry spell and wind-loaded slopes, hazard identification was easy. 2,000 vertical feet later, I was ready to ski down. Hidden Valley is not hidden, and there were others out but only hours after I showed up, which was a timely reminder to abandon the “get there at the ass crack of dawn” approach I’d always taken to big outdoor undertakings. With variable conditions, wind, and sun exposure, I’d forgotten about the dynamic nature of snow. After a pronounced freeze overnight, the snow was very hard-packed and icy. I still had fun but could’ve benefited from a little later of a start time. Ok, noted.

The top of Hidden Valley, with typical Front Range wind stripping occurring on the slope opposite me.

The adventure I ultimately picked for my March entry was a foray into the IPW to ski Pawnee Peak’s SE slopes. On March 28, on a blustery 20-degree day, I parked at the winter gate for Brainard Recreation area and made the 2.5-mile road skin to the beginning of the trail.

Fresh skin tracks between Long Lake and Lake Isabelle.

There were a couple of motivations for getting out in suboptimal conditions. I had a weekday with no one around, I’d already skied Queensway Couloir twice, which shares the approach with Pawnee until Lake Isabelle, and the SE slopes of Pawnee are a relatively modest undertaking surrounded by more dramatic terrain. The avalanche rating from CAIC was yellow (alpine) and green (below treeline), and I wasn’t going to wait for the next storm to dramatically increase that risk. So, off I went.

A 2.5-mile road skin and a 2-mile trail section got me to Lake Isabelle, but not without some doing. The wind was fierce along the road, resulting in massive snowdrifts, the powder was thick and heavy beneath the trees, which ate up visibility, and the weather looked iffy. Still, the scenery was spectacular.

Once I began rising into Pawnee Basin, the views took on a life of their own, and I saw many, many lines for me to ski in the future. Sticking with my original plan, I took the easiest way up and passed by the bottom of the stellar-looking Pawnee Couloir (HIGH on the list for future endeavors).

The wind started really complicating things after I passed above a small, defined couloir and attacked the summit area. The summit of Pawnee (12,943 ft.) is a broad area with no protection from the wind, and after wandering aimlessly around near the top in a cloud, freezing my nuts off, I decided I’d come as close to the top as I would. After a world record changeover, I ripped skins, stowed excess gear, got my game face on, and began to ski.

The top of Pawnee Peak from my ascent route, ten minutes later, it was all cloud-covered.

The top 400 vertical feet or so was wide open and great for large GS turns on harder packed snow and quickly put a smile on my face despite the absolute onslaught of wind. Then, the run spilled left (east) towards the mini couloir I’d sighted and steepened sharply to a slope angle somewhere in the higher 30’s.

At the top of a steeper portion.

The couloir skiing was very short but very fun. From there, it was another slope of wider but still 30+ degrees until a looooooooong runout back to the Isabelle lake trail. Most of this was skiable but in one area, in particular, I lost all momentum and had to awkwardly scoot along, not willing to put skins back on.

Beyond the walking section, the pitch stiffened up again, and I was able to ski down past Lake Isabelle to the flat bit of valley at the head of Long Lake. Finally, the skins came out, and I started huffing my way back.

Looking back at the summit of Pawnee from below, Pawnee Couloir is front and center.

During much of this adventure, I was thinking, “wow, this is a stupid idea,” as 30 mph winds were screaming into my ear, and the true temperature hovered around 18 degrees F. But coming from such a hike/scramble first mindest, I’ve come to appreciate (and prepare for) the complete outdoor package. Not only did I manage to net ~1800-2,000 vertical feet of descent, but I also got to experience the high alpine in the middle of winter conditions, with a dense snow coat due to a recent upslope storm. Between the skiing, the views, and the solitude (zero people sighted until within a few minutes of the winter lot), I could’ve done a lot worse.

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Month 3: April 26, 2021. Vail Pass East-Uneva North (Couloir 2)

  • Additional Skis
  • April 12, 2021. Cameron Pass (Lake Agnes Bowl and Hot Dog Bowls)
  • April 20, 2021. Vail Pass East-Uneva South Ridge and Stump Glades
Skinning near Vail Pass with the Gore Range in the background.

April and May were my best backcountry skiing months. A lot of things were happening in my personal life (all good things, travel, family, etc.), so I didn’t get out as much as I had wanted, but a combination of even keel temperatures, nice spring moisture, and good coverage led to some of my best skiing lines.

I got out to Cameron Pass first, which you can read about here. This is a special area and a favorite stash for skiers from Fort Collins to Greeley, and I can see why. The pass divides the craggy end of the Never Summer Mountain Range and the Medicine Bow. To the west of these ranges, is a large, high elevation plateau known as North Park. With little topographical interference, if the wind hits these ranges right, they pull MUCH more snow out of passing systems than areas only 5-10 miles to the east. The avalanche danger is also SEVERE, and there are casualties almost every year, so I was keen to wait until a consolidated snowpack in early April to give it all a go.

Looking at the saddle between Mt. Richtofen (left) and Mt. Mahler (right), where my ski line awaits!

I skied two lines; one is the Lake Agnes Bowl, which attacks the saddle to the south of Lake Agnes (possibly the most popular lake in the area). The skiing was firm and fun, though I once again could’ve waited a bit for the surface to soften before scraping down.

About 2/3 of the way up.

Aside from a flat section on Lake Agnes itself and through a field a few hundred feet below, I was able to ski all the way down to the Michigan River before a quick jaunt back up to the winter parking lot. West of Cameron Pass is in Colorado State Forest State Park, which does have a parking fee. East is on public lands, so keep that in mind if heading this way.

I felt rejuvenated putting my ski gear back into the ole Subaru, so I thought, might as well do some more exploring. That exploration led to a skin-up and ski down of the Hot Dog Bowls. Despite the later afternoon descent, the temperatures held, slush was minimal, and the views were, once again, amazing.

Looking north to Cameron Peak, where the largest Colorado Fire in history began, you can see the burn scars (where snow is more visible along the trees below the alpine areas of the peak).

My second and third outings in April all revolved around Vail Pass. It is a pay-to-play area during the middle of the winter, but they waive fees in mid-April when Vail Resort is gearing up to close. Free access and a base elevation over 10k means skiable snow can linger here until June. So, on 4/20, after a storm dropped half a foot, I dragged my butt up to the pass and began skinning east with a mission to crest the first big ridge south of Uneva Peak and see what was on the other side. While the first run ended up being quite short, it was the softest set of turns I’d ever done.

Just, utter bliss.

I ended up with a couple of runs that day, all south of Uneva Peak, and one repeat from a year prior. They were all smooth like butter.

Awesome.

Naturally, I began plotting a return trip the next week to take advantage of some of the many terrain options north of Uneva Pk. On April 26, I returned and skied my steepest line to date.

The reason I chose 4/26 as my entry wasn’t because the conditions were best. They were still good, don’t get me wrong, but nothing could’ve topped the 4/20 trip. I chose 4/26 because it was a beautiful, steep mountain couloir that put me in an untouched alpine basin.

About halfway down Couloir 2.

Not only was the slope angle exciting (42-43 degrees), but I was also skiing at my best. Every turn was patterned, I dealt with a double fall line (when a ridge splits gravity into two directions on one run), typically blustery conditions, and absolutely killed it.

12/19/21: on another backcountry adventure, I managed to get a good perspective shot of the Couloir I skied. It’s Couloir 2 of 4 potential couloirs heading east from the saddle between Uneva and Pt. 12,089. There’s A LOT to explore here.

The skin up to get out the basin wasn’t all that bad either and gave me more stunning scenery to behold. It felt a bit strange that my best skiing of the season was after many resorts had already closed, and I’d personally closed out another year of ski instructing, but the benefits of the seldom utilized alpine spring are numerous.

Endless lines and LOTS of cornice danger, beware!

Does that mean people don’t take advantage of alpine spring skiing? Oh hell no, spring is popping with backcountry skiers because the snowpack has usually stabilized by then, so avalanche risk takes a nosedive. I just resolved to go a little farther and skin a little higher than most to get away from the heavily used areas. Rewards are plentiful for those willing to work a bit.

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Final Thoughts

Even as I came down from my run on 4/26, the idea of turns all year hadn’t quite sunken in. I’d reached a tentative agreement with myself to continue as long as conditions were good. In my head, that meant maybe late May/early June. Since that was my partial goal, it seemed more attainable than trying to find pieces of snow in August or September. Still, I was riding a high from recent runs, and my form felt great. Once I finally finished up the month of May, the thought of doing this all year really took off. And by then, my ambitions had grown significantly, aided by a set of bankable outdoor skills and a touch of mountain masochism.

Hope you’ll stick around for Part 2 (May-July)!

Up Queensway Couloir.

Part 6: Intro to SWCC and The Subtle Art of Falling Down A Mountain

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This post is divided between an explanation/introduction to Conservation Corps and my close call on Engineer Mt. If you just want the mountain story, skip to the section header that reads Engineer Mt. If you’re curious about what kind of a job I’d signed on to for my 2015 Colorado summer, proceed below.

Southwest Conservation Corps is a branch of Americorps and tangential to Peace Corps. While Peace Corps. goes abroad, Americorp stays domestic. If you’ve never heard of Americorps, you can check out more information on their website and watch a very hokey video about it here. For a more succinct definition, we turn to Wikipedia, where it states: “Americorps is a voluntary civil society program supported by the U.S. Federal Government, foundations, corporations, and other donors that engage adults in public service work with a goal of helping others and meeting critical needs in the community.” In the southwestern corner of Colorado, a lot of that community service comes in the form of various conservation initiatives, the largest contingent being trails, hence the local Americorps chapter: Southwest Conservation Corps. In many cases, trails are the only way to access truly fantastic areas of natural heritage and beauty, especially in the remote areas of the West, where towns are few and far between. Our job was to help keep that network open.

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A Brief History of Conservation Corps and the Importance of NAAAAAATUUUUURE

The current iteration of Americorps was founded by Bill Clinton in 1993, but he is not the father of conservation. Teddy Roosevelt and Gifford Pinchot usually come up high in the US conservation history ranking, but Aldo Leopold and John Muir are essential contributors as well. Point being, the idea of conservation arrived in the late 1800s and early 1900’s when we were busy clear-cutting our way westward and displacing thousands of Native Americans. Many early explorers uncovered areas of obscene natural beauty, such as Yosemite Valley, and started thinking, “well, gee whiz, we should probably protect this or whatever” (not an actual quote). While the conservation movement was relatively low key initially, it really came into focus during the Great Depression. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt (FDR) enacted a wide range of policies aimed to help ease the burden of the unemployed called the New Deal. A large component of the New Deal was the establishment of the Civilian Conservation Corps. Like Americorps and later iterations, the goal was to put people to work and create a societal conscience regarding nature conservation. Once WWII ramped up, the national focus shifted to the army, and the program was closed by Congress. 

Naysayers would probably say the Corps didn’t add much to the fabric of America, but that is entirely untrue. In fact, just by focusing on conservation, the program helped shape our opinions about the natural world. As many know, the National Parks have long been declared America’s greatest idea, but it was not always so. To defend a parcel of land simply for the enjoyment of the masses was not a very intuitive idea back in the day. As indicated by recent record admittance, people love the Parks, and for good reason. If you’ve ever been to a National Park, or a wilderness area, then you know why. The Parks are a beautiful part of American legacy. The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) helped increase public access to parks and helped build some of the most popular features in a lot of the parks. Perhaps you’ve already been in a part of the country that benefited from the CCC and didn’t even know it. Here is an incomplete list of some of their notable accomplishments:

  • Helped build and improve the Blue Ridge Parkway
  • Opened up access to Zion National Park, which was very remote and seldom utilized beforehand.
  • Ever seen the Shining? Or been up to Mt. Hood? Timberline Lodge was built by the CCC.
  • Rebuilt the stairways up the East face of Half Dome in Yosemite, including replacing existing cables.
  • Planted 3.5 billion trees to counter western clear-cutting
  • Created over 700 state parks
  • Built 3,000 fire-towers
  • Helped launch the American downhill ski industry. Don’t believe me? Check this article out. Here’s another one if you’re still unconvinced. Of course, Western Skiing developed in different stages, and this isn’t to take away from the legacy of the 10th Mountain Division or anything, but the original American skiers were in New England before the 10th Mt. and the CCC helped get the industry going for the benefit of the whole country. Talk about a lasting legacy!

Sources: History Channel Article, New Deal Projects

Great, so they did some stuff way back when, you say, why is it important now? Excellent question my inquisitive friend! Well, because conditions change. As time churns on, erosion beats up on the outdoors, and things need a fixin’. Plus, when the population of people exploring the outdoors increases, repairs and improvements to access become necessary. On top of that, as more areas open up for nature lovers and use increases in popular ones, new challenges emerge. Take the alpine, for instance. It covers less than 1% of the world and is a harsh and unforgiving environment for humans. Naturally, humans approached the alpine as a challenge to be conquered, and now hundreds of thousands throw themselves to the elements to touch a highpoint (myself included). With increased visitation comes increased problems. Imagine being a plant that has spent thousands of years adapting to a harsh environment only to die because some yahoo stepped on you. Trail improvements are necessary so we don’t screw up fragile ecosystems. Conservation requires us to work in tandem with nature so we can all enjoy what it has to offer. The early American mindset of “CONQUER AND KILL EVERYTHING” pitted man against nature. Not surprisingly, that was a terrible idea. Between clear-cutting (which leads to devastating mudslides) and soil abuse (which contributed to the dustbowl), you kind of start to realize that if we disregard nature, we’ll all suffer because of it.

You could be forgiven for not realizing how much effort goes into trail building, but trails don’t just appear out of nowhere. Every time you take a nature walk or hike a mountain, chances are, for at least some of the adventure, you’ll be on a trail. Trail work is not meant to conquer nature or make mountain climbing easier. It’s designed to, above all else, conserve the unique environments we have on Earth while simultaneously encouraging people to see and understand the natural world they exist alongside. Cool, everyone a tree hugger now? Great, moving on.

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My Intro to SWCC

Southwest Conservation Corps (SWCC) trail crews operated out of a property west-southwest of Durango, near a place called Hesperus. It consisted of a couple of farm buildings and a dirt parking lot where rabbits routinely climbed under your truck hood and chewed on your car wires. It’s unassuming presentation felt appropriate as the goal of the Corps was never to showboat, but to get things done. From this property, we would load up, restock and debrief after our hitches. We didn’t train there, however.

The actual training occurred near Haveland Lake, north of Durango. For five days, hundreds of crew-members were given presentations and taken on practice construction projects throughout the Rapp Corral property, a horse ranch nearby. We set up with our respective teams for the week and attempted to get to know each other. Here’s my goofy ass building a drainage runoff.

Added style points for the World War One era helmet design.

Brief Side-note: I met a lot of people through Conservation Corps, some will be featured heavily in future blogs, and others I’ll only mention in passing. This isn’t to slight anyone, but I’m trying to unload a lot of information concisely, so some things are bound to get cut. I’ve also decided to give everyone codenames because codenames rock.

Our team consisted of two leaders: Poetry and Pennsylvania; and six crew members, Gatorgal, Dusty, Bull, Wisco, Indiana, and myself. It was a pretty even split, four guys, four gals. Like any forced introduction, there wasn’t a whole lot we learned about each other that first week, but everyone seemed pleasant enough, and our general excitement at being in such an outdoor focused area squashed any reservations we may have had.

The general gist was that our crew would go out for nine days on a project secured ahead of time by our corporate office. We’d pack the van and the trailer full of our personal items, tools, tarps, and general food supplies, haul out of the area and post up wherever they wanted us. We’d come back and have five days off before being summoned back for another round. There were some options for reduced rent and a suggestion of places to stay during our off-time, but after doing the quick math, I realized it was much cheaper to stay at different campgrounds and use my off-time to go hike. Thus, my full transformation to dirt-bag life commenced.

Quick aside: There are A TON of definitions of dirtbag out there, most of which I found online, but it mostly revolves around a transient, outdoor-focused lifestyle. Some of the definitions are decidedly NOT flattering. In my little world, the title was embraced by trail builders because, well, we played around in the dirt a lot in order to build….uh, you know…trails. When you’re cutting into the ground to create tread, you dig up excess dirt, and then quite literally put it in a dirtbag to haul off for other areas of the project or release the dirt back into the wild. As far as all the subsets of dirtbags are concerned, I’m fairly certain only trail builders can legitimately make the claim that they consistently use a bag…filled with dirt.

The Van and the trailer.

I quickly developed a routine during my off-hitch time. I’d shower at the local Rec-Center (7$ for a day pass in 2015), do laundry at the ‘mat on the north side of town, hop across the street for a cheap beer at Durango Brewing (which has since closed), and then fart around until the call of the wild pushed me towards summiting mountains once more. It took me a little bit to nail the routine down, but after the training, I was still feeling that Road-trip restlessness, so I went searching for mountain challenges. After training, we were given a shorter break, maybe 3 or 4 days, before our first real project would begin. Taking the opportunity, I headed into Durango and bought some maps.

Stocked on local suggestions, I locked in a target: Engineer Mountain. I’d seen it on my drive over from Mt. Sneffels and immediately wanted to scale it. It’s a high 12,000 footer and a bit offset from the other major peaks in the area, giving it an open and regal feel. At this point in my Colorado adventures, even though I’d hit one 14er, the thought of doing all of them was still far from my mind; I just wanted to hike pretty things.

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Engineer Mountain

So, as the title of the blog post suggests, there was some drama involved with this climb, and I feel it necessary to kind of break down what happened. It’s important, especially in the age of Instagram bragging, to detail when things don’t go according to plan because usually, there are some stellar lessons involved with failure. However, ignoring these kinds of lessons all but guarantees you’ll repeat them.

June 6th, 2015: the snowdrifts were already a problem less than fifteen feet from the parking lot. Luckily US 550, the main road through the San Juans, is plowed during the winter, so access wasn’t too complicated. However, with a trailhead at more than 10,000 feet, I should’ve anticipated the amount of snow I’d need to deal with. Instead, I was lulled into complacency after my previous summit of Mt. Sneffels because in the week since the climb, there’d been nothing but blue skies and warm temps. So, of course, my naive ass thought, “Ah, sun melt snow, good good, no snow, no problem”. Mistake #1.

The other problem that occurs with drifting snow is that one side of the hill may be covered, but once you walk to the other, it may be bare. This poses a bit of a logistical nightmare, especially if you’re trying to find a trail you’ve never hiked on before. With no scouting hike under my belt, I was flying blind. Mistake #2.

Gorgeous colors though.

Nevertheless, I strapped on my snow-shoes, clipped my mountaineering axe and crampons to my pack, and set off…without telling anyone where I was going. Mistake #3.

harry potter idiot GIF
Drifts and banks of snow complicating my attempts to follow the trail.

After the first three mistakes, I actually settled into a routine and made it up to tree-line following some snowshoe tracks. Then, after finally sighting my target, I began regretting everything.

Intimdating, eh?

At this point, I did actually feel a part inside me saying, “Hey pal, maybe pack it in.” But then, of course, ego came roaring back. I politely reminded myself of previously successful climbs up St. Helens, Wheeler, and Sneffels and thought, to hell with turning around; I can do it. Mistake #4.

Forging ahead, excitement took hold, and I didn’t bother looking at the map because, duh, I could see the thing in front of me. Had I bothered to look, I may have found the easy way to attack the ridge. Instead, I opted to climb an area that had already melted out. This led to my first exposure with the loose volcanic crud emblematic of the San Juans. The added effort needed to get to the ridge-line left me tired and out of breath, contributing to questionable decisions later. Mistake #5.

After a fifteen-minute break where I just practiced breathing, the climbing resumed. Now properly on the nose of the ridge, I figured I’d scamper up to the top in no time. The weather, unfortunately, had other plans and I ascended straight into a cloud. Not wanting to walk straight off a cliff in the low visibility, I stop to let the cloud pass, wasting valuable time, which again, would come back to bite me later. Mistake #6, not checking the weather.

Dark and dreary. Just above the hardest technical part. To the left is a thousand foot drop.

Once I passed what I’d read was the toughest part of the climb, a short Class 3 scramble, I felt better…mentally. But if you’ve ever been in situations of intense concentration, the toll on your body only becomes apparent once the adrenaline fades. I didn’t feel gassed immediately, and the sun coming back out helped me along, but by the time I got to the higher part of the ridge, I was totally sucking wind. Mistake #7, not listening to my body.

With the Class 3 section behind me, I thought the rest would be smooth sailing, which ended up becoming Mistake #8: only preparing for the most difficult section of the hike instead of the entire hike.

Above the scrambling section, the snow became an ever-present factor and I had to cross three large, sloping snowfields. The crampons came out, and I stepped, toes first, into each hold and worked my way along the ridgeline until I’d crossed. Breaking fresh trail through the snow is extremely exhausting, which added considerably to my overall fatigue. However, after moving through the last section, I was within spitting distance of the top, so all other considerations and concerns just sort of vanished.

Looking down the spine of the ridge. You can see my tracks just to the right of the ridge line.

Le top.

Fun fact, this is one of the only pictures of my Axe with a lanyard. Keep reading and you’ll find out why I don’t use them anymore.

I waited on the summit for a few minutes and the clouds finally parted. The sun came back and I flopped down to accept its warmth for wayyyyyyy longer than I should’ve. Little did I realize, the sun was also beating down on the snow I had climbed earlier, melting the top layer and rendering all future steps slushy, which had a big role in contributing to my accident. Mistake #9, waiting too long at the top. Mistake #10 underestimating the power of the sun.

After my summit sojourn, I finally turned to go back down. Immediately, I could feel the snow surface change underneath my crampons. My brain said, “pay attention,” my body said, “no, you already did that, just get off the mountain.” At that moment, my body hurt more than my brain, so I heeded the physical desire to get off the peak. Mistake #11, not treating the descent as seriously as the ascent. The top is really only halfway.

I crossed the first snowfield no problem and made it about halfway across the second one until stopping to take the picture below.

Only a few steps from danger.

At this point, I’d been doing it right, toe-in, slow steps, facing the ridge-line. Then, I had this brilliant idea to….not do that? To this day, I’m still struggling to figure out what caused me to abruptly change strategies, but I did and decided to face away from the ridge. Now, instead of having the ridge-line to lean against, I was parallel to it. This unfortunate position forced me to take sideways steps along the top of a 35-degree snow slope. It’d be the dry land equivalent of rolling your ankle after every single step you take. Mistake #12, letting mental fatigue alter a strategy that was working.

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The Accident

I slipped out of my crampon after, at best, two steps. It happened cartoonishly fast.

With nothing to catch my fall, my upper body crashed downhill over my legs, and I landed on my back, head down. For a split second, right as I landed, I felt my body stop moving as if cradled by the snow. Then, the cradle broke, all my organs seized up, and I started sliding backward down the side of this mountain, picking up a crazy amount of speed. The time between slip, fall, and slide, was less than a couple of seconds.

Faced with a full spectrum of possibilities, ranging from no injury to death, my mind automatically locked in on what I needed to do to survive. Grip the slope. Ok, how? First step, spin my body so my head was above my feet. Second step, flip onto my stomach instead of flailing like a turtle, shell-down. Third step, plunge my mountaineering axe into the slope.

In theory, this should’ve stopped me, but there is a fundamental misunderstanding about the usability of axes in mountaineering, compounded by Hollywood. In all those dramatic movie moments, the climber slams their axe into the slope, and whatever crisis they’re in is instantly averted, Badda-bing Badda-boom, right? Hell, no.

The second I put even just a bit of the pick end into the snow, the force of my slide ripped the whole thing out of my hand. The lanyard, attached to the axe shaft and my arm, ripped my damn glove off and cut my wrist, but stayed attached to me. So now, I had a mountaineering axe projectile chasing my body down the slope, because the stupid lanyard was still stuck to my wrist. Fearing the axe would take an unfortunate bounce and stab me in the face the second I slowed down, I slipped my arm out of the loop and watched the axe fade from view while I continued accelerating.

Looking below me, I saw my future. If I couldn’t slow down, I’d barrel past the snow chute into an exposed talus field and then tumble right off a cliff. F*%k!

…You know all those motivational speakers? The ones that are always up on stage screaming, NeVEr GiVe uP! YoU CAn dO IT! That crap didn’t really click in for me until Engineer Mountain.

Right after I ripped the axe lanyard from my hand, panic had its best chance to step in and end me. There I was, sliding down the side of a 12,968-foot chunk of Earth. If I panicked and gave up, it would’ve cost me my life. The realization was so crisp and terrifying, my brain immediately interpreted it as truth. My entire life, whittled down to one simple question: fight or die? So, I fought back.

Suddenly, an overwhelming feeling erupted from inside and with it, an INTENSE desire for life. I don’t know how else to describe it, but it completely replaced the panic and hopelessness. 4th Quarter comeback drive. With four available appendages, I snapped into survival mode and did EVERYTHING I could to slow down.

Already belly down, I began kicking my feet into the slope as often as possible, just clubbing them into the snow. I lost one of my crampons in the process but the repeated motion started to have an effect. At the same time, I balled up my exposed hands and forced them into the snow above me like a backward wedge. Snow piled into the pocket created between my arms and my face, adding the final bit of resistance needed to begin slowing down…

I didn’t stop right away but I could feel the danger lessening as I gained more control. When I finally did come to a stop, I just sat there, unable to truly comprehend the danger I had put myself in. My mind was blank, my body numb, and my heart was racing so fast I thought it was going to beat through my ribcage. The first thought that managed to weasel into my brain seemed appropriate: “Holy shit, that was close.” I spent many subsequent minutes yelling obscenities at the clouds. It sort of helped.

Was it a textbook self-arrest? God no. But I used my body weight, booted feet, and blistered hands to maximum effect, and most importantly, I never gave up. Not that I felt overly proud, mind you. Was I thankful that I didn’t cascade over a set of cliffs? Yes, but I could’ve easily avoided the entire situation. I knew I messed up and couldn’t help but feel profoundly ashamed. I went out alone, there was literally no one else for me to blame.

After stuffing my frozen hands under my armpits to get the feeling back, I began the arduous task of collecting all of my stranded gear, now hundreds of feet above me. Surprisingly, the straps of one of my crampons stayed on my foot. Resetting the spikes, I used that little bit of traction to begin gear hunting. In the end, I collected every piece of equipment I’d dropped and made it back to my original line of descent.

The axe was the last thing I collected. As I angrily picked it up, I wanted nothing more than to believe it was all the axe’s fault. Understandable, I couldn’t blame anyone else but I could absolutely blame the gear…right? Tempting, though deep down I knew it was my fault for not using the axe appropriately. Mistake #13.

All you aspiring mountaineers out there, pay attention. A lot of people know this, a lot of people don’t, but an ice climbing axe is not a mountaineering axe. In ice climbing, the user needs two sharp axes to grip the ice. The two axes become your 3rd and 4th points of contact because human hands are rubbish at gripping ice. The shaft of an ice axe is curved, and the handle is rubbled to create grip. These bad boys are excellent on ice, but less ideal for standard mountaineering because they are often too short to use effectively as support.

In standard mountaineering (no ice climbing pitches and slope angles up to 45ish degrees), you don’t need the curved body, and you hardly ever use the pick portion by itself. Check this video out for proper mountaineering axe techniques. With the mountaineering axe, you tend to grip the head of the axe around the shaft, pick, and adze ends, in order to help guarantee the whole apparatus does not slip from your hand. You also use two hands to offset the pressure on one. During the accident, I did none of those things.

Feeling bad for spreading the blame, I apologized to the axe, untied the lanyard, and strapped the tool back to my pack. Before continuing my descent, I took a couple pictures showing the approximate line and duration of my slide.

Not great. The whole situation instantly seared itself into my memory. Even now, I can recall exactly what happened as it happened and the emotional whirlwind that came with it.

Finally fully aware of the dangerous position I’d put myself in, I took my sweet time getting back to level ground. The clouds began building, and a lot of the descent was again, mired in low visibility, which only slowed my progress further. Finally, after dropping off the main mountain block, I captured the following shot of the cliffs I had been sliding towards, from below them.

I stumbled to treeline and cast a few looks back at what I’d fallen down, all the while cursing myself for being so boneheaded. The next photo gives the best estimate of my slide and really hammers home how dangerous it could’ve been. Only a few more yards and I would’ve been bouncing through talus on my way to a cliff. An impressively bad situation all around.

Use the slide bar to see where I fell (red X) and where the normal descent route goes (gray arrows). Once you have a visual, slide to the unmarked photo to see if you can spot my tracks, almost all of the slide is visible.

Engineer Mt. is an easy Class 3 summit in the summer, and a worthy winter destination, but not even close to the hardest mountain in the state. What this story hopefully proves, is that ANY mountain can shake your constitution if you don’t give it the respect it deserves. I was exceptionally lucky to be able to slow my rate of descent before careening into the talus below the snowfield. Many outdoor folks aren’t so lucky.

Completely humbled, I limped back towards Durango and hung out with some crew-members who had set up shop in a campground north of town. Trading stories and laughs helped settle my mood, but I was thinking about the experience long afterward, eventually getting a tattoo to remember it. Every time I see the tattoo I’m reminded of how close I came to ending my whole journey. Think what you will about body ink, but with the memory preserved on my right shoulder, I know I won’t ever forget the colossal set of mistakes that led to that slide.

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Final Thoughts

Engineer Mt. absolutely reshaped my approach to hiking and scrambling. Because of my numerous missteps, I developed a checklist of factors that help me determine whether a hike is worth it. I’m over 500 summits into my mountain career and still kickin because of that list.

Mistakes and failures should NEVER be ignored. There’s a lesson in every single one of them. Sometimes it doesn’t reveal itself right away but over time, it will. Although we tend to shove mistakes and failures under the rug for the sake of self-preservation, they often offer the best chances for personal growth. I firmly believe that. It’s ok to fail, everyone fails; it’s what you do with failure that sets you apart from others.

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Queensway Couloir: An IPW Backcountry Ski Shuffle

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Background

(Adventure date: May 31, 2020)

It’s cold in winter, it’s hot in the summer. In most places around the globe, this distinction holds true. Colorado, however, likes to push the limits of what these seasons mean. While ski resorts in the state are usually open from Thanksgiving to mid-April, it can snow any month of the year. In fact, as I sit here typing up this report in July, two inches are forecast to fall above 13,500 feet in some parts of the state tomorrow night. Nice.

So, if May rolls around, and you’ve done all the resort skiing you want, what do you do while the snow at the higher elevations slowly melts out? You could wait for most of the snow to disappear, but depending on the ferocity of the previous winter, that waiting could push you into mid-July. If that’s the case, you only have two months before the first snows roll back in. Summer is short in the big mountains. Alternatively, you could strap on some crampons and go forth to bag some peaks, or you could go backcountry skiing. From April-June, there are ample opportunities to go out and earn your turns, while advancing into places that would normally be inaccessible until months later. Over the last couple of years, I’ve been dabbling in some backcountry skiing while I wait for the high country to open up.

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Logistics and Risks

Like most mountain activities, backcountry skiing is inherently dangerous. You need to be able to ski or ride at an expert level and understand how changing snow conditions affect your body position. Additionally, you must understand avalanches, what causes them, what features to avoid, and what the avalanche forecast calls for. To this end, a visit to the Colorado Avalanche Information Center is MANDATORY before any backcountry run in Colorado. In addition, the following bullet points are HIGHLY RECOMMENDED, if not also mandatory. Remember, Colorado is the embarkation point for a lot of people visiting the Rocky Mountains, do not end up on the local news because you died trying to do something you had no business doing.

Before you Go Checklist:

  • Can you ski at an expert level?
  • Have you checked the weather? Tip: If theres snow on the ground and its sunny, apply sunscreen liberally and wear thick sunglasses or ski goggles. The snow reflects sunlight right into your face and eyes.
  • Was it cold enough to freeze last night? If not, you will encounter very slushy and slidey conditions, plan accordingly.
  • How’s the wind forecast? I count this separately because wind is such a crucial factor for not only Colorado in general but you’re well being as well. A 25 mph day up high will zap all your energy and can easily lead to frost bite.
  • Have you checked the avalanche forecast site? (CAIC )
  • Do you have all the proper equipment? Backcountry ski set up? Skins? Beacon? Probe? Radios? HELMET?
  • Did you bring a friend?
  • Have you researched the route THOROUGHLY before attempting?
  • Did you text (at minimum) 2 other people your plan and emergency numbers to call should you not return at the planned time? (numbers to know: local forest service ranger district AND county sheriff office where you are adventuring)
  • Do you know the following information for your plan?: trailhead, access point, mountain names, distinct geographic features in your area, ie markers to reference should you need an emergency extraction
Apache Pk with Queensway Couloir to the left of the summit: May 31, 2020

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The Plan

1. Gateway Trailhead and road section 2. Start of lakes section 3. Start of alpine section. NOTE: the lines I drew were on a small phone and I have fat fingers, use the actual trails to follow path of least resistance.

The Indian Peaks Wilderness (IPW), is a 73,391-acre swath of protected federal land near Boulder and Denver. The wilderness straddles the continental divide and there are no roads across the divide near it (the closest northern option being Trail Ridge in Rocky Mountain National Park, and the closest southern option being Berthoud Pass). Because of its unique geographic location, the wilderness can be divided into an eastern and western section. The eastern section lies only an hour from Boulder and two from the Denver Metro area. It is VERY popular in the summer months. However, there is a seasonal caveat. Owing in part to the amount of snow received, the road into Brainard Lake Recreation area (one of two hugely popular eastern wilderness access points) does not open up until June. When it is open, the paved road into Brainard requires a 12$ entrance fee (2020) and deposits you close to the mountain majesty. Up until the road opens, if you are willing to park at the gateway trailhead (adding 2.5 miles of road walking each direction), you can get into the wilderness for free and lose the crowds relatively quickly.

Why would anyone want to add an extra five miles to an already taxing outdoor excursion? Well, there are a TON of unique backcountry ski lines that can be accessed from the Brainard area, and they only exist as long as there’s snow. Waiting for the winter gate to open often means missing these lines. Because its so close to Boulder, even in the transition months (March-June), you’ll find hearty Coloradans here, heading out before dawn to shred the gnar. Click here for an older, but nicely laid out front range backcountry ski information page.

My buddy, Harlan, had been wanting to take on a ski descent of the Queensway Couloir on Apache Peak for a while. I had done a solo outing on it the year prior and wanted to revisit, thus the plan was born. We’d meet at Brainard Gateway Trailhead, get to the top of Queensway, ski down as far as possible, and get back to the car. Statistics: ~15 miles (5 miles total of road walk). Elevation gain: 3000 feet. Altogether it is not a monstrous day, that five miles of road walking is a huge hindrance, unless…

Two wheels are better than none.

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Part 1: The Shuffle

Bikes! Yes! A few years back when I first encountered the “road problem”, I noticed that everyone else crazy enough to be at the trailhead at 4:30 AM had bikes. Even with a couple snow berms blocking the road, if the conditions are right (think mid/late May), there are large stretches of road behind the winter gate at Brainard that can be biked. This is the first logistical hurdle of the shuffle, don’t forget to bring a bike, 5 miles of road walking with skis on your back is a chore.

Upon meeting at the trailhead, Harlan and I set up our skis ( I went A-frame, while Harlan opted for a diagonal carry since he had a specific backcountry pack that allowed this very simple set up). Click here for a simple video of some (not all) ski carry variations. The goal of backcountry skiing, aside from having a rad time, is to carry your skis as little as possible. The bikes helped this problem out immensely.

We made tracks up the road to the Long Lake trailhead, locked up our bikes, and looked at the conditions before us. Luckily, with thick snow covering the trail, we could set up our skins and clip into AT bindings without having to carry the skis up the trailhead. (Ski Skins definition: Wikipedia)

Photo stop, we continued w/ bikes until Long Lake TH.

We skinned awkwardly past Long Lake (on the North, or right side) and up to Lake Isabelle, enjoying brief conversation amongst near-constant huffing and puffing. The trail was snow-covered the whole way, but it hadn’t snowed in a week, so many sets of obvious skin tracks led us up to the lake. If this isn’t the case for you, stay to the right side of Long Lake on the ascent, continue on flat terrain until arriving at a signed trail junction. Head right, as if making for Pawnee Pass (a turn left will just circle Long Lake). Parallel the slope for as long as you can, ultimately banking right up a steeper snow chute BEFORE you get to the waterfall (you’ll be able to see it) that spills down from Lake Isabelle. At the top of this incline, bear left to a slightly higher bench and you’ll reach Lake Isabelle.

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Part 2: Enter Alpine

The next logistic challenge was getting around the lake. There is a trail on the right (north) side of the lake but with snow and slick conditions, it’s a pain to traverse. Luckily for us, 75% of the lake was still frozen. After nervously testing the ice and trying to see how thick it was (thankfully quite thick, at least 6 inches) we marched across the lake.

Skinning across Lake Isabelle. (L to R.) Niwot Ridge, Navajo Pk (the snowcone looking one), ridge up to Apache Pk, Shoshoni Pk in front and furthest Right)

On the far side, we encountered our next large ascent. In ideal conditions, you can ski from the top of Apache Pk all the way down to the shores of Lake Isabelle. We missed the window by a few weeks and found that out upon climbing this incline and seeing an exposed rock garden for about 30 feet. Dutifully, we unclipped, held our skis, and traversed across to the next snowfield before putting them back on. The next section was relatively flat and included a couple of stretches that melt out a little faster than others. This section ended at an unnamed tarn with fantastic views of the upper cirque, ringed by the always intimidating looking Navajo Peak and the broad shoulders of Apache Peak.

The direct ascent route up to the bench that holds Isabelle Glacier and the beginning of Queensway Couloir is steep and unforgiving. Once climbed, there is only a brief respite before you have to ascend the couloir. While probably the fastest route, we were in no rush and decided to cross below the tarn to the north side of the bowl and climb up to the foot of the glacier, roughly mirroring the route of the summer trail. Our reasoning was simple, if we ascended this way, we’d have to carry the skis for a shorter period of time. We could then leisurely skin along the edge of the glacier (which sits on a pleasant bench and doesn’t require any crampon action) with the couloir in full view, until our final climb up it. With the direct ascent route, your skis are on your back from the tarn all the way up to the top of the couloir (or even the summit of Apache if you’re going further).

Up where the summer trail goes, you can barely see the unnamed tarn behind the second line of rocks. The long horizontal line through the snow in the back is the way to the direct ascent.

This plan worked fairly well and before long we were done with our first climb, back into our skis and skinning alongside one of Colorado’s last (and most accessible) glaciers. There were two guys that had passed us near the beginning of the trailhead hours earlier, and from the glacier, we had a great view of their ascent. We were even treated to a show as we watched them descend. The visual of the route really gives you a better idea of what to expect if it’s your first time up there. Pro Tip: if you want to scout the route, climb Shoshoni Pk, the summit has a great view of most of the descent.

A tired Harlan, and the rest of our route alongside the glacier edge to the Couloir
A close up view of the Couloir

After another 30 minutes of skinning, we arrived at the base of the couloir and reattached skis to packs once more. Here, the crampons came out. Microspikes are not a good alternative for this kind of adventure. Although they say they can help on slopes up to 35 degrees, the margin for error is too great —you’re not just carrying a normal pack’s worth of weight. You want big, beefy crampon spikes to carry you and all the gear your hauling up. Don’t skimp on good gear.

Me, climbing up the couloir

This was the most exhausting and most exhilarating part of the ascent. Is it the steepest couloir you can climb in Colorado? No, but its one of the closest places to the front range that makes you feel like you are truly mountaineering. It’s also a GREAT training ground for practicing snow skills and self-arrest techniques as the couloir doesn’t melt out until late August and the glacier sticks around all year.

After getting out of the couloir, we continued up to a smattering of rocks about 300 feet higher. We were doggin’ it at this point and clouds were starting to build to our west. Here, we made one of the most crucial decisions in mountaineering, to continue, or drop-down? The temptation to reach the summit is intoxicating (hence why they call it summit fever), try not to give in to it. Harlan helped me through this decision and proved why it’s so important to have friends with you in the backcountry. The mountain will be there tomorrow, you might not be if you push too hard. So, at ~13,100ft we strapped in and began our descent.

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Part 3: The Descent

This is an edited picture from the summit of Shoshoni (taken the year prior) for route perspective.

The skiing was great, but the conditions were challenging. The slushy snow forced us to really sink our body weight back as we made our turns, or risk tomahawking over the front of our skis. Shaking off the initial jitters, we made it back down to the glacial bench and skied down the “direct ascent” route back down to the tarn, marked with a 3 in the picture above.

The down view from ~300 feet below where we started.
Towards the top of Queensway
Pondering the future
Me, in upper center of the couloir, good perspective of slope angle.

Skiing the actual couloir does not take long, you can thread through it in maybe 10-15 turns. At its steepest, the slope is roughly 35 degrees. On the descent, skier’s right starts mellow before getting sharply steeper. Skier’s left starts steeply above the couloir entrance (Section 1) and then mellows out towards the bottom. The middle was ok.

At the bottom of the couloir as the apron opens up. You can see the terminal tarn poking out of the bottom of the glacier (center mid, below Shoshoni’s cliffs). To the right of (and behind) Shoshoni’s jagged edge is Lake Isabelle, and even further back is Long Lake, ~ 2.5 miles further was our starting point.

From here, we had two brief ski carries across rock gardens before we were able to strap in and ski the last section back down to the shores of Lake Isabelle. While recrossing the ice, we got hailed on, which was unfortunate. However, after we crossed and hunkered down, it only took another fifteen minutes for the storm to swipe passed us. We only heard one thunderclap, which was lucky.

The rest of the skin and hike out was exhausting. As always it seemed longer than on the way up, but we made it back to our bikes in decent time, hopped on, and got back to the trailhead in one piece. The most amusing part of the whole adventure was the looks we received from casual day hikers along the road portion back to our car. Nearly everyone was in disbelief, which went a long way towards making us feel better for all the effort we just put into the adventure.

Well, there you have it, one of the best ski descents near the big metro areas of Colorado and one where you can say, without any reservations, that you earned your turns. Now, with the snow on full meltdown, it’s time to switch to scrambling season!

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