Spring Ski Season Opener: Mount Daly

The majority of ski areas have closed and most people have hung up the skis and are riding bikes and thinking of summer. But not me. I love the spring ski season and it only just got started. For my first outing of the spring ski season and backcountry trip since the accident, I was fortunate to be accompanied by three great friends on a peak I have skied three times before. Mount Daly in the Elk Mountains is one of my favorites and was perfect to test my mojo in the backcountry.

A pre-dawn start and several miles of skinning brought us to the base of Daly just as the sun was touching its south face.

 Krissy Steele and Twyla Gingrich skin up towards the ridge in the center of the south face (above) and bootpack their way onto the summit with the Treasure Mountain massif as the backdrop (below). 

Stunning summit views put a big smile on my face. From left to right the most prominent peaks are Capitol, Snowmass and the Maroon Bells. Just to the left of Capitol is the other Mount Daly - there are two in the Elk Mountains. The other Mount Daly is still on my list to do. (Photo by Greg Tibboel)

The ski down reaffirmed my love for backcountry skiing. It is what I do.

 (Photo by Greg Tibboel)

We timed are descent perfectly with crisp conditions off the summit and perfect corn in the middle. Krissy Steele opens up at the bottom - our line behind. 

Lower down the recent dust deposits in the snowpack became more evident as each turn exposed the dirty layer. Greg Tibboel whips caramel swirls with a backdrop of brown mountains :(

 The dirty snow is not good for the spring ski season as it makes the skiing challenging and melts the snow faster. We were lucky in this case as it had snowed a few inches the day previous and so Daly was, for the most part, freshened up and only the lower part of the descent was snirty.

Because of the early morning start the 3,800 feet and 9 miles was packed into a morning. We were back down in time for a cold one at lunch - it was a perfect spring ski season opener.

Garfield Grunt

Given my mountain travel plans for the late spring and summer, all entailing significant amounts of elevation gain, I have come to the conclusion that early morning runs in the rolling terrain of the Lunch Loops and weekend warrior type excursions will not suffice. My training regime must be stepped up a notch. So after work today I headed to the 'best-bang-for-the-buck' in the Grand Valley, namely Mount Garfield.

Mount Garfield is accessed from the Town of Palisade over which it stands sentinel. Surrounded by blossoming orchards and vineyards the approach road is quite pastoral and bucolic. 

But any serene thoughts of an evening stroll are cut short at the honest sign marking the trailhead. 

2,000 feet in two miles means only one thing - steep! A brief 100 yards of  'warm-up' does not even attempt to disguise the fact that overall it's a killer and especially if running is the plan. For me 'run' is found more frequently in the word grunt of which I did plenty.

Here and there are sections were the trail flattens out which serve more as an opportunity to catch one's breath rather than picking up the pace. But for the most part it is like climbing a stairs (actually worse) and in some places the use of hands is beneficial.

The views on top are fantastic with the San Juans being the furthest I could see on a somewhat hazy evening.

Running down is more accurately described as semi-controlled careening. Luckily the trail is in great shape right now and I did not bust my butt once - quite an achievement.   

Although I barely made it to the top in the time it takes the racehorses of the Garfield Grumble 'Extreme' Mountain Race to both 'summit and plummet' , it is indeed a good workout for a carthorse like me. I'll be back for more. If anyone is interested in the Garfield Grumble it's coming up in a couple of weeks. Info here. Maybe I'll get crazy and show up.

Winter’s End

Officially Spring began more than two weeks ago but judging by the current wintery weather both in the Grand Valley and up in the mountains the message hasn’t quite got through yet. But I’m not complaining as I’m sure I will have barely hung up the skis than it will be hotter than Hades and we’ll all be reminiscing about our cool, wet spring.

One of the best things about spring in Western Colorado is the multi sport days that can be had. Take, for instance, this past Sunday. I awoke to read the snow report of 6 inches of fresh at Aspen Highlands. Whatever is at the snow stake usually means double up in the Bowl, especially if there are westerly winds which there were. The Easter bunny delivered indeed. So I hopped around the Bowl on my own version of an egg hunt, collecting face shots in knee deep powder and getting my mojo back.

First run we hit up the G zones where the snow was super light. Chad decided to board and so I delighted in following him and his plume of blower pow. It was so much fun we couldn't stop to take any pics. Second run we entered the White Kitchen where we still found plenty of untracked. Here at the top, the 3,000 foot descent ahead:

 
 After two runs, totaling 6,000 feet, it was lunch time and the strong spring sunshine was whipping the powder into mashers (as in mashed potatoes). So off we went for the second sport of the day – fly fishing on the Roaring Fork. As the spring run-off hasn’t started yet the waters are crystal clear and make for excellent fishing while the banks are relatively free of snow.

 
With the ski area visible from the river’s edge I basked in the sunshine while Chad tried to repeat his previous days very successful fishing expedition where he caught a 22” Brown. Today the fish were not so willing though he did catch a smaller but pretty Rainbow. 

I'm really looking forwards to this spring and enjoying a number of different activities. I'm trying to mix it up and branch out from my total fixation with skiing this year. Hmmm. We'll see how long that lasts.

The Things I Carried

Unless you have been living under a rock, or preferably on a tropical beach vacation, you will have heard the news - along with my ski partner and friend Seth Anderson, I was involved in an avalanche incident.

A ski descent of the Grand Mesa’s Thunderbird and Snake couloirs was a dream Seth has harbored for a long time. He had thought about it for many years. This winter, with above average snowfall on the Mesa and below average temperatures in the Grand Valley, there existed a rare window of opportunity to ski the line, most likely for the first descent. The terrain is rugged and remote but would provide us with more than 4,500 feet of skiing above the town of Palisade. When Seth suggested the idea I was psyched to join him sharing, as he described, “an indomitable thirst for intriguing and hard-won ski routes”.

Over the past week I have tried to write this story many times. It has not come easy. Like my backcountry ski pack sitting in the corner of the garage waiting to be cleaned out and replenished, I have struggled to address it. At first the white noise in my head, the jumble of images and emotions, prevented any clarity of thought. As the fog started to lift I couldn’t think which one of the many stories to write.  It could be a story of one man’s dream cruelly dashed. A story of the magical mountains – how they give so much and can take so quickly. A story of how the best laid plans can go awry. A story of adventure, a brush with death and life-saving rescue.  In fact it could be any of these stories for they are all real and they all happened. But then I realized my story is about the things I carried.

The vision of my ski partner disappearing into a maelstrom of snow was one I had imagined many times before.  Over the past 17 years I have read about avalanches, how they form, how to detect them, how to avoid them. I have practiced avalanche searches, attended various trainings and prepared the necessary rescue equipment every time I have ventured into the snowy backcountry.  I regularly carry the possibility and consequences of an avalanche in my mind. 

In the midst of our descent of the Thunderbird, the omnipresence of avalanches finally morphed into harsh reality.  As the snow crumpled beneath him Seth was quickly out of sight, the vacuum he left behind was instantly flooded with a wave of shock and loneliness. The sound of rumbling snow was replaced with the roar of fear in my ears.  I was almost overcome with disbelief. This was finally happening to me. For a brief moment, time stood still.

I snapped to. With shaking hands made only of thumbs I reached under my coat and turned my beacon to search. One small green light was flashing as it received the signal emitting from Seth’s own beacon somewhere in the trees below.  I immediately jumped into the bowl and started to ski down where the avalanche had run.

I started shouting “Seth, Seth”.

Nothing.

I made a few more turns. Stopped.

“Seth” I yelled.

Silence. Only ragged breathing coursing through my body and heart beats pounding in my head.

I skied into the narrow snake couloir which was lined on either side with dense timber. Here the snow was stripped from the surface and my skis grated and jerked over rocks.

“Ann” I heard a yell from down low.

“Seth” I screamed. I could not believe it. He was alive.

“Down here” he yelled again.

The couloir was now backed up with debris and combined with my legs of jello, became an unskiable jumble of soft blocks of snow. I wrenched off my skis and stumbled and lurched downwards. I followed Seth’s shouts and shortly found him twenty feet off to the side in the trees.

“Oh my God Seth, are you ok?” He was lying on the surface of the snow, face bruised and bleeding, already on his phone with 911. Shaking with relief, I took the phone from him and started speaking to dispatch.

“Is this Ann?”

“Yes”

The connection was breaking up. The line went dead. Shit.

I took my phone I carried in my pocket and dialed.

“911”. Relief.

“What injuries? Where are you?” I looked at Seth who could hear the questions.

“Left femur, right tib-fib broken” he said. Stomach in knots, I repeated his words.

I put my phone on speaker, down in the snow, and applied my ten fumbling thumbs to my GPS and calculated our location. I gave the coordinates to dispatch. Twice. To make sure it was right. There was no other way to describe where we were, no nearby trails to pinpoint, the Thunderbird and Snake only legend to us skiers and the long gone Ute Indians.

“Hang in there with me, Ann. We’re getting you help”.  The roar in my head quieted. I became calm and focused.

As the wheels of rescue started to turn 5,000 feet in the valley below, I directed my attention to Seth whose legs needed to be straightened and elevated. With the shovel from my pack I quickly built a horizontal platform in the snow for him to lie on.

The hours wore on becoming a blur of conversations with 911, then Rondo at Powderhorn Ski Patrol and St. Mary’s Hospital. Simultaneously I did what I could to make Seth more comfortable: insulating him from the snow with a bivy sack and my pack, covering his body with all my spare clothes, packing and unpacking his legs with snow to reduce swelling, giving him (ineffective) pain medication and trying to keep his spirits up. Despite being strong and an excellent patient, Seth could not hide the extent of his pain. He was seriously hurt.

Finally we heard the ‘whoomp, whoomp’ of the St. Mary’s Flight for Life helicopter as it made a beeline for us.  I started to prep the immediate surrounding area, packing down snow so the rescue crews would have a solid surface on which to work. The late afternoon sun was strong, thankfully keeping Seth warm, but it also softened the snow making travel difficult.

As the first rescuer reached us, the weight I carried lifted slightly from my shoulders, the compression in my chest and head eased a little. I tidied the area around me. The things I carried in my pack either deployed or no longer needed now that Search and Rescue were on the scene.

Several hours later I walked across the helipad atop St. Mary’s Hospital still carrying my pack and watched Seth disappear into the care of medical experts.

And there ended the longest, most intense, emotionally and mentally draining afternoon of my life. It is an experience I will carry with me always.

Now it is time for me to turn to my pack. Replenish it with those important items I have carried for years and never used until now. It’s a heavy pack to carry but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I may need it again.

Chuting the Turkey

The final day of my trip to Jackson Hole we decided to go chute us some turkey! The Turkey Chute that is. Accurately described by Tom Turiano in his quintessential guide to "Teton Skiing" as a superb, carving gully plunging into the south fork of Avalanche Canyon", this beautiful north facing couloir has been on my repeat list since I first skied it over 13 years ago. Always game for adventure Jack Brauer signed on to ride this great line with me.

After the hot and sunny 4.5 mile, 3,000+ foot climb from the Taggart Lake trailhead in Grand Teton National Park we reached the summit of 25 Short, named for its elevation of 9,975 feet. The views are incredible in every direction but especially of Buck Mountain standing sentinel at the head of Avalanche Canyon, in which we would shortly be: 

After a quick break we were ready to launch into this awesome 2,000 foot chute. Here I am at the top looking forward to a good serving of turkey!

Although the couloir was somewhat tracked up there was plenty of powder to play in along the sides and Jack ripped it up.

At the bottom of the chute we took a long traverse out of Avalanche Canyon and across Taggert Lake with the Grand Teton and its lofty neighbors as the perfect backdrop.

After three big days in the backcountry and one inbounds, I definately feel like I've been rode hard and put up wet.

But maximizing my time in such an awesome place is the only way to go. Thanks Jackson Hole for being so much fun and Jack for joining me on these recent adventures. Jack has some really great shots over on his blog which better capture this final day.