Skiing Elbert
by Brian Mohr/EmberPhoto

It’s been over a month now since we climbed and skied Colorado’s highest 14er, Mount Elbert, a peak Emily and I hadn’t skied since the late 90s when we still lived in Colorado. Elbert’s north facing drainage is a classic and relatively straight-forward descent, and it tends to hold a long, skiable line well into July. So back in late June, while traveling the scenic route from the Front Range to a wedding in Paonia, we couldn’t resist the idea of skiing Elbert again. Driving through Leadville at sunrise, we scouted Elbert’s north side from a distance. It appeared that there was just barely enough snow to string together a solid descent from the very summit, down along the summit ridge, and over into the depths of the mountain’s north facing drainage.

With sneakers on our feet and our skis on our backs, we cruised up the mountain via the well-worn trail that climbs away from Half Moon Creek, and by late morning, we were on the summit. We figured we had at least an hour to spare before thunderstorms would become a threat, so we soaked up the clear views across the heart of Colorado’s mountain country.

A sandwich and then a few passing rain drops had us swapping sneakers for ski boots, and for the next thirty minutes, we savored what would turn out to be our last ski descent of the season. Incredibly, the snow burned out along only one 50m stretch below the summit ridge, and we were able to ski a beautiful line nearly to treeline.

Think snow.

-Brian

Pedal Powered Skiing
by Brian Mohr

Earlier this spring, with our options for skiing out the back door melting away, we loaded our skis, poles, day packs and boots into our bike trailers. About an hour later, we’d be stashing our bikes in the woods and skinning toward the base of our local Mad River Glen ski area. We’d spend several hours skiing a mix of lift-served and sidecountry terrain, catch up with a few friends, and when the shadows chased us off the mountain, we’d enjoy a bonus off-piste ski descent to our bikes in the woods. Back on the bikes, our soon-to-be-cycling-season legs appreciated the early spring warm up. We’d spot crocuses in the valley blooming along the edge of snow patches, hear our first peepers of the season and watch the sun dip behind the Green Mountain Divide along the final uphill approach to our home. More than anything, it just felt good to spend the afternoon out skiing in the big mountains, without having to drive.

On the bikes, the trip (60-70 minutes) takes approx. 45 minutes longer than it does by car (20 minutes)… no big deal. We once pulled off a 3-day pedal-powered ski trip in the Rockies, biking a little, skiing a lot. Now, with gas prices climbing (finally!), glaciers melting (not cool) and fossil fuel combustion causing all sorts of global problems (oil spills, air/water pollution, war), it’s time for something different…

Imagine… 2 weeks, countless peaks and a great variety of ski descents, pedalling bikes primarily to move to new trailheads and terrain every so often, or to roll into town for some supplies or a lil’ culture. A SKI trip, not a bike trip… starting and ending right here at our home in Vermont. It would be an epic, human-powered skiing adventure.

For now, here are a few images that might inspire you to get out on your own pedal powered skiing adventures…

Think snow!

Brian and Emily
EmberPhoto.com
Moretown, VT

Emily Johnson and Peter Wadsworth cycle through Vermont's Mad River Valley, en route to Mad River Glen.

Emily and Peter skin up

Emily heads for the hills...

Emily on Mad River Glen's Single Chair

Turner Barbour - a local 7 yr old ripper - in the corn bumps

Andy Weis - coach of the Mad River Glen Freeride Team - shows off a little springtime "splaffy"

Peter on his last climb of the day

About to switch over to skins after a couple miles of hiking.

The approach required some technical skinning up a narrow hiking trail with sometimes marginal cover. Heavier overnight packs multiplied the effort required, but after a couple hours, we leveled off at the outlet of Colchuck Lake.

Camp set up complete, Colchuck Glacier rising above the lake.

Perhaps winter camping is a misnomer when it’s almost mid-May, but the weather and conditions provided the best of spring… deep snow cover and great peak access without frigid mid-winter temperatures. Camp set-up went quickly, with only one piece of gear forgotten (a cooking pot!). Luckily we’d decided to each bring a stove, so with a little more patience all were fed. The day stayed light until nearly 9, and with a little extra insulation we spent most of the evening relaxing under the towering rock faces of Dragontail and Colchuck Peaks.

Skinning across the lake in the morning, Dragontail on the left and Colchuck on the right.

Day broke with blue skies and sunshine high on the peaks early the next morning. After some oatmeal and hot beverages to warm the core, we left our camp and set off skinning across Colchuck Lake for Colchuck Glacier. A hard freeze overnight made for firm climbing up to the col, but light packers and ski crampons made for smooth climbing. The lake fell away back behind us with each step, and anticipation of stunning views back into the Cascades drove us upward.

Gaining ground up to the Col.

Reaching Colchuck Col 2500′ later, we found both the amazing views and cold, gusty winds. Even with the warm sun, it didn’t appear that the snow up high would soften. Having found mostly breakable crust on the climb up, we compared notes on what we’d heard from other parties and elected to climb the bootpack up to Colchuck Peak.

View from the top, Mt Stuart in the foreground.

The remaining climb went quickly, easy steps without any real scrambling required. By the time we reached the top, the winds had slightly subsided, letting us enjoy the summit views for a little longer.

Charlie threading through the rocks off Colchuck Peak.

Lulu carves the crust back down Colchuck Glacier to the lake below.

Rolling back off the upper bench, we found a few pockets of softer snow, but breakable crust would be the dominant condition of the day. It was clear that the snow wouldn’t soften until well out of the wind down low, but that was fine. If the skiing was marginal, the surroundings were anything but.

Elizabeth crosses the lake with the day's peak and chute behind her.

Back on the lake, we refueled and broke down camp in the sunshine. We all savored the relaxation for a few extra minutes, knowing that all that remained now was the long exit with heavy packs. Weighed down by all the gear, the ski out from the lake to the hiking trail was an exercise in controlled descending. Eventually the consistent snow ran out, and we hefted skis on our backs as well for the final push to the car. Kicking off our boots, we relished in the freedom of flip flops and enjoyed a delicious milkshake in town on the way back to Seattle. Fine way to end a fine weekend.

-Graham Gephart

On our third day in the wild, we awake early and gather water from an opening where Kintla Creek spills into Kintla Lake. Our goal for the day is several miles deeper into the park: Upper Kintla Lake.

There isn’t enough snow to ski, so we strap skis to packs and hike. No matter how deep the snow in the surrounding area, a strange snow shadow in this valley perennially limits depths to a few inches. It’s this consistent lack of snow that attracts deer, lots and lots of deer. This veritable venison buffet keeps the wolves here all winter and also explains the grizzlies — no need to hibernate when you can chase wolves off their kills and score free feasts all winter long. So when we find the bottom of this avalanche path packed with delectably skiable snow, it happily waylays us for much of the afternoon.

There are at least 40 deer feeding on the ground vegetation above and around us, while golden eagles soar through the air overhead. The tracks of my turns are visible on the left of this image.

This is where my 10th Mountains really shine. Light and efficient enough to ski the 20-plus valley-bottom miles to reach this spot, they’re still ridiculously fun carving turns down this glorious snowfield. I ski it over and over, whooping and catching air, while Ben and Travis ogle the glaciers and frozen waterfalls of the surrounding mountainscape. It’s the high point of our trip and no one wants to leave.

Eventually reaching Upper Kintla Lake shortly before sunset, we never stop looking for wolves. There tracks are always in view, but the creatures themselves stay out of sight.

Ignoring the impending onset of darkness, we ski farther and farther up the lake. We have no real reason for doing this other than to simply see.

Then we spy something in the middle of the lake-ice. Ben and Travis are nervous about straying too far from shore, so I ski out to investigate, then wave them out to see for themselves.

It’s at once gruesome and thrilling, the skull of a whitetail buck with antlers reaching skyward, its fallen majesty a testament to the dominance of the wolf. I imagine they knew exactly what they were doing, too — by leaving the skull of the deer king here in the dead center of the lake for all to see, they’re leaving no mistake who rules the Kintla Valley.

Though we don’t make it back to the cabin until hours after dark that night, we’re up early the next day, our last in the park. We have a 10-mile ski out with a river crossing ahead of us, and a storm system is looming. As we close up the cabin, Travis hears wolves — swears they’re wolves — in the forest behind us.

The nail-spiked outer door of the cabin is meant to discourage grizzlies from trying to break in. One look at the claw and teeth marks on the timber posts holding up the roof out front and you understand why this isn’t overkill.

We never do actually see the wolves on this trip, though a wildlife biologist who is in a few days before us — one of the valley’s few other human visitors this winter — sees ten howling in the center of the lake under a full moon. Besides some rain and a few moose, our ski out is uneventful.

Until we reach the North Fork of the Flathead River, that is. Fording here will save us almost ten miles of skiing. We have a car parked less than a mile away, so we’re not worried about getting wet. Still, Ben and I use a trick recommended by a friend — trash bags and rubber bands around our legs. The ghetto-waders work perfectly.

Travis on the other hand uses, er, a different strategy…

When we cross the river we leave the park and return to civilization. Or at least to our car, which will lead us down a 40-mile dirt road to civilization. This is not something we relish. We already miss the Kintla Valley and the world of the wolves. We might not have seen them, or the grizzlies, this time, but we know we’ll be back. And when we return, we know the wolves will be waiting.

——————

For the full gallery from Aaron’s trip, please visit his site here.

We set out for a remote corner of Glacier National Park on a sunny late winter morning, GPS and camera in hand, ready to record all of the wild and strange things we could find. Ben and I met here a few winters back working on a forest carnivore study; we spent that winter skiing and tracking together, and no place we explored harbored more odd and grisly findings than the area around Kintla Lake. When the opportunity came to ski back in and survey the area for park biologists, we jumped at the chance. Our friend Travis came along (who’s worked as a fire lookout in a tower on one of the peaks in the background — the same tower as Ed Abbey) and we set out for four days in the wilds to see what we could see.

We ski the sweeping valley-bottom meadows for hours, coming across deer carcasses every few miles. Few people ski into this area, leaving the resident wolf pack with the run of the place. There is also at least one grizzly bear, if not more, here that doesn’t hibernate. We’ve seen its winter tracks before, but found no sign of it on this day.

Travis is part of the new old school. He wears no synthetics and skis in oil-finished tin pants and leather boots. In keeping with the old-school mentality, he also carries a pack the size of a small humpback whale.

We ski along a bench over the North Fork of the Flathead River as the sun set, amid a procession of wolf, moose, and elk tracks. We reach the ranger cabin, our lodging for the night, by headlamp well after dark.

Like many national parks, Glacier has a network of nearly century-old backcountry ranger cabins that are used by rangers, biologists, and others working on wildlife studies. They’re nothing fancy, but they warm up fast and make for ideal rustic accommodations.

Shortly after finding the carcass of a deer that had been eviscerated by a lion, our second day of skiing brings us to the clear waters of Kintla Creek. Our goal for the day is the head of Kintla Lake, still a few miles distant.

The last time we’d skied in to Kintla Lake we arrived to see a pair of wolves running across the lake ice and found a freshly killed deer laying a hundred feet from the front door of the cabin. The wolves howled outside our cabin that night and in the morning the deer carcass was devoured, except for the deer’s head which we found about a mile away. We don’t see wolves on the lake this time, but their tracks are ever-present and bits of deer — legs, hides, ribcages —are always in view as we ski.

We stay quiet and frequently scan ahead with binoculars, hoping for a glimpse of the carnivores we know are watching us. We hear them yip in the lakeside forest more than once, but never catch sight of them.

The sun sets long before we reach the next cabin at the head of Kintla Lake, but twilight hangs on just long enough for us leave the headlamps in the pack. The last time we stayed in this cabin it was surrounded by grizzly tracks. There’s no bear sign this time, just the invisible presence of wolves and the ghostly hooting of owls as we unlock the door and fire up the wood stove for the night.

More to come later in the week…

(Graham’s POV on the last day with the VholdR helmetcam.)

The pace was a little slower, more deliberate, lapping Ruby and Emerald Glades into the afternoon, savoring the turns knowing it might be a while before skiing powder this good again. Some people worked toward the goal of 40,000 feet for the week; others found that last perfect turn to call it a day and relax into the evening.

Powder turns right to the sauna.

The heavy snow finally started to clear, perfectly preserving our last tracks right down to the lodge’s porch. The scotch came out that evening, as did the cribbage, cards, and guitars. There was nothing left to do but relax and revel in the good turns made.

Fredd, Marta, Lulu and Dede with the hut singalong.

In the quiet over Sunday’s breakfast, you could see each person’s mind racing… trying to figure out how stay, when to come back, anything to keep the skiing going. The sun shone brightly, looking deceptive warm. The cat loaded up, a couple people bundled up to cruise out the cat road to the cars, shimmering snow fading with the lost elevation. A week gone by in a heartbeat, perhaps a countdown begun for the return.

Dawn on Sunday

Fredd, Marta, and Tobin ready to rock.

At 8am, the temperature hovered around 5F, and brilliant crystals of powder shimmering and swishing past our skis as we glided down the cat road to another drainage entrance. With gorgeous weather, Evan planned to take the group up into the alpine of Shannon Lake drainage, the shining jewel of VMT’s terrain. After a long traverse and gradual climb through chilly shaded woods, we finally burst out into the sunshine on Shannon Lake.

Snack break in the sun on Shannon Lake.

The lake is spectacular, setting at the base of an enormous series of bowls and towering peaks. The high alpine above tempted us with runs to come, and we soaked it all in during a short break. After the snack, Evan laid down the gauntlet, challenging Charlie to set a perfectly straight skintrack across the lake. It’s a difficult task over the distance, with big benches up high to judge from.

Charlie leads the group out on what Evan called the "3rd straightest skintrack" he'd seen.

With all of the recent snowfall and some building winds, we climbed into the alpine through Shannon Glades, then slowly started to work our way up the undulations of the alpine. One at a time in many spots, the climbing slowed as the wind drove colder than the sun’s rays. The turnaround up high was short, everyone ready to ski after a couple hours on skins.

Lulu climbs up the next pitch, long shadows starting to stretch.

Nothing steep or crazy, just mellow alpine powder with an incredible scene laid out below. The winds gave perfect texture to boot top powder that hung light and dry in the air.

Evan leads out the first line.

One run, another climb, another run, rolling pitches extending endlessly through the alpine, then steepening into the trees, and ending with a slope of pillows out onto the lake.

First tracks down yet another great run.

Smiles plastered big on our faces, we put the skins back on, rejuvenated by the sun and warmth on the lake. With the shadows moving in up high and the winds picking up, two laps up high would be all. But with a skintrack already broken up Shannon Glades, we still had a little time to eek out a few quick laps before losing the daylight.

Charlie, ready for more skiing.

Lulu and Dede about to top out up high.

Back up we went, and eventually the lower alpine turns above Shannon Glades tempted us as well. The extra shot was worth it, and we kept the transitions fast to get in the extra turns. A few die-hards dashed back up for one more lap, while the rest of us enjoyed a leisurely skin back across Shannon Lake as daylight slowly slid away.

Fredd crosses back over Shannon Lake in the late light.

A short skin above the lake put us directly above a final thousand feet of bonus turns through the trees to the cat road. Tired and thoroughly chilled, a quick sled hitch from Dale zipped us right up to the lodge for hot soup and spring rolls. With another solid day under us – 35,000 ft on the week so far – it looked like the final day would bring one more storm session… just more powder to push on for.

(Charlie’s POV on the VholdR helmet cam in the Shannon Lake drainage)

“Thanksgiving” – as we came to call it – started the way all skiers dream, with huge soft flakes pouring from the sky, dulling the daylight coming through the windows. We’d been getting regular evening storms to refresh the snow overnight, a few inches here and there, but it had dumped the night before.  Evan confirmed how sweet the news was over breakfast – 20 inches of new snow, and the temperature hovering around 5F. Blower.

The storm still pounding hard, sign of a good day to come.

From the start, it was clear that it would be a big day. On the skintrack up, the snow quickly piled up on our shoulders as we climbed. It was a day to pack an extra jacket, more gloves, anything you needed to stay out longer. Evan’s dog Benny waded out in front on the skintrack, plowing through up to his chest. Each step of the skis whomphed a little cloud of light powder around you. Expectations were high, and the first run did not let us down.

Charlie blows by in a trail of cold smoke.

We were all stunned after the first run. First and second turn faceshots soon turned into the full white room. The wispy trails of snow obscured anyone watched from above, just a winding worm of snow hanging in the air. The excitement was on, and the only question left was how much could we ski? Tired legs were forgotten as we pushed lap after lap through the trees, ramping up the vert, craving more powder. There wasn’t much to say about each runs… I’ll let the photos and video tell the story:

Evan earning a guide's perks.

Lulu finds the white room as the group watches above.

Another faceshot for Chris.

Post-run evidence of good turns.

Charlie needing a snorkel.

(Charlie carried the VholdR helmet cam all day on Thursday, and caught some good faceshots and follow cam with it.)

Eventually a few people ran out of legs, and the rest ran out of daylight. Evan picked up the pace to squeeze out the last runs, dropping the hammer on the pack. Worn out and weary, we made it back to the lodge with dusk all around us, the hard-chargers earning a respectable 8,000 feet on the day. The collective of die-hard skiers declared it easily all-time, and we reveled in the turns all night.

Thankful for great turns, thankful for Annie's feast.

The “Thanksgiving” declaration stuck on Deep Thursday, particularly with the feast that Annie had prepared (while still getting out for turns with us) – whole turkey, mashed potatoes, squash, gravy… the traditional November holiday fare. The food went straight to replenish exhausted muscles, and that night we all slept soundly on dreams of deep powder.

Looking over at the previous day's Three Doors and upcoming Shannon Lake drainages, shrouded in clouds.

We climbed through familiar terrain, but this time kept gaining the ridgeline to Ruby Peak. Spread out on the horizon through shrouded clouds, we caught glimpses of the runs from the day before, and the tantalizing alpine areas of the Shannon Lake drainage – VMT’s prized terrain. With a break in the clouds, we finally got our bearings on the surroundings, piecing together everywhere we’d skied so far, and making mental notes and tick lists of other terrain.

Chris, Evan, and Ross on the ridge for the second run.

The first run off Ruby could not have been smoother, quickly opening up ridgeline turns into sweeping powder arcs down the bowl. The turns kept coming, finally easing into an evergreen GS that dropped us down on a low logging road. From that point, Evan surveyed the group, and the proposal to explore and check out the Shroom Room met with a resounding yes. We worked our way around the basin, back up a new ridge, and dropped into another line of deep powder and scattered pillows.

Marta gets after some BC fresh.

We bounced down small pillows, little bumps scattered everywhere, when Evan led us through a stand of trees. Opening up below, a few bigger pillows prompted Kodak courage. Everyone pushed themselves a little bigger, with little to fear from soft landings, and Chris and Steven obliged with front flips off the biggest drop. The game had been stepped up, and halfway down Evan pointed over to the next line, a boulder field covered in several meters of snow just waiting for tracks.

Elizabeth heading up for a run through the Shroom Room. Note Ross prepping the giant bad idea in the background.

We’d found the Evan’s secret spot, the Shroom Room, and the conditions couldn’t have been better. The sun finally burst through, and even the normally-ground-bound were ready to play. Good natured ribbing popped up on the skintrack, goading our tail guide Ross into prepping a transition on the biggest boulder we could find.

Karhu's Charlie Lozner bounding down the pillow lines.

The first run through the pillows was surreal, a dream sequence of bouncing from drop to drop down the line. The giant bad idea couldn’t have turned out more fun, with three attempts at showboating that ended with great entertainment – a misty 540 that lost a ski, a 20′ bellyflop, and half a backflip. The size of the zone held lines for everyone, and half the group quickly lapped back up for more while others relaxed in the sunshine waiting for the next show.

(POV video from me and Charlie, down Ruby and into the first run on the Shroom Room, shot with the VholdR helmetcam.)

Eventually the sun dipped lower again, and we began the climb back out of the basin. We could see clouds appearing on the horizon, and knew that the rumored storms were inbound.

Annie climbing back up Ruby Peak as the day gets late.

Graying skies turned tinges of color on the climb back out, but the open slope behind us held too strong a temptation for the group. The exhausted skied back down Ruby to the hut, getting a head start on the sauna, while a handful of us stayed out for an extra lap before we lost the daylight. By the time we finally hit the lodge, we’d achieved new high points in skiing satisfaction, unaware that those levels might be shattered again the next day.

Dede squeezes in one more run off Ruby Peak for the camera before heading home.

Up a new drainage with blue skies and beautiful snow.

A long, gradual climb brought us up to the base of Three Doors, a chuted section of steeps broken by trees and pillow lines. The lines looked tempting above, but before getting ahead of ourselves, we stopped to assess the lurking danger from the high pressure that preceded the recent storms. Evan and tail guide Ross dug a pit while we observed, seeing a clean shear of the most recent snow on buried surface hoar.

Evan and Ross evaluate the snowpack in Three Doors.

With the pit results in mind, Evan kept our lines conservative for the day, keeping us on terrain that had been skied hard during the high pressure and the week since, cutting up some of the surface hoar. Up and onward we went, breaking out into thin trees and finding a scenic transition spot on a perfect bench at the base of the alpine.

Hitting the bench under Caribou Ridge for a snack and transition to the first run.

The first run was like a dream… with the helmet cam rolling, I chased Evan and his dog Benny through a couple pitches of widely-spaced trees before dropping through the open chutes of Three Doors. Just when the powder smiles couldn’t get much wider, Evan led us on a short traverse through a thick stand of trees that opened up over a gleaming field of pillows. With cameras and audience at hand in the ampitheater, everyone searched out a little adrenaline to cap it all off.

(POV footage of my first and second runs, shot on the VholdR helmetcam.)

At the bottom, we ran into VMT owner Dale Caton and our cook, Annie, out for some mid-day runs. With them on the group, we made short work of the skin track lapping back up for more. Cloud cover starting sneaking back in, keeping the untracked snow creamy smooth. Fast and supportive, a quick slash of the tails was all it took to throw up deep powder and snag a faceshot.

Marta cranks into the first turn in Three Doors.

Jason arcs out one of the Doors, powder S-ing over Benny's dotted track.

After 3 laps, it was time to work our way back out of the drainage. A fun lower section gave way to the long traverse, finally dumping us back at the cat road below the hut. With tired legs and hot apps waiting back at the lodge, everyone smiled a little at Evan’s belief that “you shouldn’t end the day climbing,” as he and Dale gave us a quick snowmobile tow back up the road. Not a bad way to cap it all off.