Back on the homefront.

Garnet canyon scenery.

At the beginning of July, I took a final trip home to the Tetons before moving to Alaska.  I did some skiing in the Tetons, hung out in the motor-home with my folks and their dogs, and did a long run through the Gros Ventre Wilderness with my brother.   

Middle Teton Glacier, Teton Range, WY (12mi, 6500', 7h):

The Middle Teton glacier.  

Overlooking the Schrundel.  A few minutes later, a large section of the snowfields on the East Face of the Middle Teton would break off and go careening down the runnel and into the bowels of the glacier.

Middle Teton from the Ellinwood Col.  That's the way you would go to get to the top, if that seemed like a good idea at the time.

GFT.

Shoal Creek to Swift Creek traverse, Granite Creek Basin, WY (19mi, 6000',7h):

There was still a bit of snow in the high country on July 5th.

Will slogs along the divide between the Columbia and Colorado basins, with Battleship Mountain behind.

Taking advantage of the short growing season.  Tetons visible in the distant distance.

Waiting for an opportune moment.

Will's sunglasses are reflecting Antoinette Peak.

Black Mountain

Heading down.

Skiing in summer!

The last two months have been very busy.  I've run the Rogue, finished a grip of papers and projects at work, traveled to Idaho, to Washington D.C., to the Bitterroots, and then moved to Fairbanks, Alaska, from which I am currently typing.  This is too much for a single entry, so I'm going to split it into a few.

I'd like to recap some early summer skiing.  A dry spring combined with ample accumulation over the winter yielded a deep snowpack that lasted well into July.  I partook in three summer skiing days of note, two of which I will discuss here.

First, I was lucky enough to join Brian, Leah, and a respectable cadre of fine Missoulian backcountry enthusiasts for the 7th(?) annual Warren Wallowfest in the Anaconda Range (there is no such thing as a Pintler.  Yer either in the Anacondas or the Flint Creeks).  The Anacondas are a beauty, and Warren Peak, though not the highest summit, is anomalously Teton-esque and offers outstanding views and fine almost steep skiing in its northwest couloir.

Jeffrey and Nick crush some June mush, while a secretive marmot looks on.

The approach to Warren Peak is easy and fun and only a little soggy.  A little far I guess.  But it's worth it.
 

Booting up the northwest couloir.

Brian had been ultra training and Nick is just very fast, and they crushed the bootpack up to the top of the couloir, from which the summit is a quick talus hike.

A fine time to check the E-mail.

 We spent some time on the summit, had a quick glance at the hard lines, which were summarily dismissed, then skied back down to the base.  I got to go first which was really fun and only a little slushy.

Gang from nearby.

Gang from a distance.  Clouds are starting to look ominous.

B. Story descends in good style.  Clouds are starting to look genuinely concerning.

As soon as we all made it to the bottom of the couloir, the skies opened up, and in came the most epic thunderstorm I've ever been in.  Frequent lightning nearby had us scrambling for cover under large granite boulders that offered only scant protection from the torrential rainfall.  I though I was going to stay dry, but then the rivulets started creeping around the lip of my hidey-hole, and I learned that my windshell is not water-proof in any meaningful way.  I've never seen hail flow out of a couloir and off a cliff.  It's neat.  It also quashed enthusiasm for another lap.  Thus, we bolted for the exit couloir, and bailed.  The storm did not let up.

A week or so later, I embarked on what I though would be my last ski day of the year.  Casey and I, having been rained out of an ascent of the No Sweat Arete in Mill Creek, decided that we ought to camp and subsequently dawn patrol the incomparable Trapper Peak zone in the southern Bitterroots.  We camped next to the big boulder at the last switchback, and got to skinning at sunrise.  We detoured around the north end of Baker Lake to scramble around on some sunny granite slabs, before reaching Gem Lake, switching from running shoes to skis, and ascending the still frozen sun cups to the Trapper peak ridge.  From there it was a straightforward skin and talus hop to to summit of the highest point in the Bitterroots. 

Harscheisen attack on the Trapper Peak.

The standard entrance to the northeast face was corniced, steep, and scary, so I took a more moderate line in from skier's right.  The snow was very good, as it typically is here. 

Northeast face shredding.

We had intended to climb the Olbu face, but sketchy and tenuous snow fields in all the wrong places dissuaded us.  We decided to ski the Gem Lake couloir instead, which turned out to be steep and engaging.  I forgot to get out my ice axe before the steep bit at the top, and it was sort of scary with just a whippet.  I also got to transition from crampons to snowboard while stemming above a man-eating moat above a 50 degree snowfield, which was a good test of practical acrobatics.  The ski down was very good.  The day was hot and the drive long, but I made it back to Missoula in time for a few hours of work.
 

Gem Lake Couloir, near the end.

  

Scapegoats.

Sometimes, I find, a visit to a good, old fashioned blank spot on the map is in order.  Public and private beta is indispensable, but structured route information (like guidebooks and blogs) often turns into a checklist and can stifle creativity when it comes to selecting a route.  Alternatively, new areas are a shot in the dark, and can often be disappointing at best, heinously uncomfortable at worst.  Thus, a reliance on beta is probably one's best bet when it comes to consistent and high quality skiing (or whatever), but by definition, you're not going to be doing anything new.  Having gone after local classics for much of the spring, Casey Wilcox and I set out to explore a piece of Terra Incognita, at least as far as skiing goes.

Red Mountain, at 9414', is the highest point in the Bob Marshall Complex (higher than the Swan, higher than the front).  It is, however, distinctly more subtle than its slightly lower and better known competitor, Holland Peak; it is not obvious from any highway, and it's a bit further from Missoula.  Access is via the Lander's Fork of the Blackfoot, up a decent dirt road that is drifted over until late in the season.  The terrain is relatively rounded compared to the glacier sculpted rock-and-ice massifs of the Swan or the Rocky Mountain Front, and the country is dry, cold, and mostly burnt from the Canyon Creek Fire, which devastated the Scapegoat 25 years ago.  There aren't many lakes.  It doesn't snow there much compared to the western and northern parts of the Bob, and the westerlies whipping towards the nearby continental quickly blow bare all the ridges and west aspects, leaving the blonde shales and eponymous red quartzites and slates exposed everywhere but the sheltered north and east aspects.  Nobody ever called Red Mountain a crown jewel.

Red Mountain is remote, and sees very little traffic.  As such, it is a playground for grizzlies, who root for tubers on the hillsides; their tracks are abundant and ubiquitous.  Goats also live on the highest reaches of the peak, where the lack of snow makes for easy foraging on the lichens and abundant alpine Forget-Me-Nots, for which this part of the Scapegoat is known.  The skiing is very good.

We left Missoula at 4:45, driving eastward, and keeping pace with cloudy skies and a rapidly departing cold front.  After an hour or so, we turned up the Lander's Fork, and then Copper Creek, where we got our first glimpse of a large couloir off of a subsidiary peak to our objective.  There was a lot of snow in the valley.  There wasn't very much snow on Red Mountain.

After rallying the Toyota over some robustly refrozen drifts, we decided it was probably wise to position the truck such that we would be on the highway side of these when the drifts became not frozen.  Thus, more rallying.  The walk up the road was only a few hundred yards, and then easy walking up a burn covered with corn.  We reached a low point in the ridge above the Copper Camp Snotel quickly.  A strong and icy wind was present at the ridgeline, and we spent a few minutes huddled in council about which direction we were supposed to go and donning layers.  After a false start, we made the right choice, and proceeded northward.

We walked the ridge for a few miles, admiring the flowers, getting blasted by icy wind, and crossing deeply sunken grizzly tracks left by a very large bear on a much warmer day.  The ridge walking was easy (with the exception of a short third class step) and pleasant, and the bowls on leeward aspects were well filled in, though absolutely bulletproof.  The ridge ascends and descends two sub-peaks before reaching the summit of Red Mountain.

Alpine Forget-Me-Not on the ridge below Red Mountain.

By the time we summited, some of the cloud banks were beginning to clear, and the wind becoming less icy.  I investigated a pair of long couloirs on the western side of the peak that I had hoped to ski.  They were snow free, and so we opted against skiing them, settling instead on the 1800' northeast face.  Snow conditions on the ridgetop were still dishearteningly hard, and some waiting seemed like a good idea.  We are both, however, terribly impatient with this kind of thing, and I dropped over the steep cornice.  To my surprise, I found firm but suitably edgeable corn, which steadily improved as I descended this steep and open face.  Despite expectations.  We were bolstered by the unexpected snow quality, and quickly transitioned to crampons for the climb up to Red Mountain's east ridge.

Approaching the summit of the appropriately named peak.

Northeast face of Red Mountain.

It was apparent that conditions were game-on; the refreeze the night before, the countless freeze/thaw cycles, and the low high for the day meant that just about anything was suitable for safe skiing.  As we climbed back up towards Red Mountain, we saw that the next sub-peak to the south (Blonde Mountain?) held another vast northeast face, that rolled from a mellow face onto a big and exposed affair bisected by cliffs, that looked superb.  We quickly walked to the top of the face and dropped in.  The top of the roll-over was spooky and confusing, but Casey quickly found the appropriate chute descending through the cliffs, and we regrouped at a tarn at the bottom of the face.

Run number two was through the cliffs on the left side of the photo.

We didn't have much of a plan from this point, but were quite enthused by the previous run.  As such, we decided to bowl bounce the remainder of the return to the truck.  We reascended the east ridge of Blonde Mountain, and in so doing spied an extremely compelling couloir with at least 1000' of vertical and rock walls dropping from near the ridge, into the basin.  We traversed above cliffs to the entrance of the couloir, where the wind scoured and low angle ridgeline abruptly gave way to cliffs, with this highly aesthetic couloir threading perfectly between.  The couloir was very similar in steepness and character to Greywolf's south couloir, but a bit longer.

Axial Symmetry.

From the bottom of this couloir, we ascended sub-ridges and skied two more bowls and one more short, steep, and spectacular couloir before finally attaining the last ridge whose south face would deliver us back to our vehicle.  The snow had gotten progressively softer at lower elevations and the return to the rig was an enjoyable cruise through an old burn and over snow-bridged creek bottoms full of meltwater.  No bushwhacking, plenty of bear tracks, and we were able to ski to within a few hundred yards of my truck.

Bear tracks.

For the day, we skied right around 10000' of vertical, and done in 11 hours car to car.  I would highly recommend exploring this zone to anyone wishing to explore a beautiful and unique area far from the beaten path.  I am also curious if anyone has skied these lines before and if anything has been named.  If you know, let me know.

As a Scapegoat bonus, on Saturday evening Helena joined Molly and I for Molly's last long run before the Pengelly Double Dip.  We ran to North Fork Falls on the North Fork of the Blackfoot, a round trip of 14 miles.  The falls are formed by a young anticline composed of the same layers that form the summit of Red Mountain pushing up through the softer surroundings.  It's an imposing place during spring runoff, as this pretty big river drops four-hundred feet over half a mile. 

The North Fork of the Blackfoot just below the main pitch of North Fork Falls.

  
            

Harvest Time.

The Garden Wall and its central couloir above Picture Lake on the way to Mountaineer Peak.

Lo, and in the fifth month,
Ullr looked down upon his sycophants,
and saw that they wept.

Glide avalanche remnants accumulate below the Garden Wall.

O, sunburnt children, why do you despair?, he asked.

Point 8893, Glacier Peaks, and McDonald Peak from Mountaineer Peak.

With gnashing of teeth they replied:
Ullr, the Death Star hath stolen thy power,
and turned powder to potatoes,
and wetted our skins.

Mickey Smith near the summit of Point 9066, on the ridge south of Mountaineer Peak.

 

Mickey skis the perfect corn.

 Ullr saw that they spoke truth, and was saddened,
and resolved that he would grant them an artifice of
power to absolve them of their woes.

Casey Wilcox walks across a frozen lake high in the headwaters of Mission Creek's north fork, after a descent of the east face of Point 8893.  Wet slide conditions and poor visibility mandated that we turn around 150' before the summit.

The Sonielem Ridge in clouds looms above Lucifer Lake.

The west face of North Glacier Peak from near the Mission-Ashley Creek divide.

Children, said Ullr, take these golden gears and wind them surely.
Set them to chime at 4 and 30, so that you wake before the sun shall rise,
and make haste to those realms of mine own that remain, 
a hundred chains above the sea or better.  And then be patient,
and wait for the anointed time; not too hard, nor too soft.
And then shall you partake in the harvest of Corn, and the Corn
shall not harvest you.

Looking at rocks is a nice part of springtime.  Mission-Ashley Creek divide.

The 4400' southwest face of the Sheepshead above upper Ashley Lake.

  The sycophants flocked to the hills and skied steeply,
clad in naught but tunic and codpiece.

Lolo Peak, north summit viewed from the south summit.  The Heavenly Twins are visible in every Bitterroot summit photo.

 

Albedo matters.  Carlton Lake.

 And Ullr perched amongst his lofty peaks smiled,
for he saw that it was good. 

Mormon Peak Road is getting alot of traffic these days.

Spingtime for Jumbo and Sentinel, wintertime for Chaffin and (snow)pants.

The last few weeks have been somewhat awkward for the mountains of western Montana; the snowpack and the weather just hasn't been able to make up it's mind about whether it's spring or winter.  Significant snow accumulations and cool temperatures above 6000' have been alternating with short lived bouts of unseasonably warm sunny days, producing some generally funny travel and avalanche conditions.  Thus, I hadn't a successful tour in a few weeks until yesterday, instead exchanging touring for getting my running legs back under me.  The local hills are blooming with the May wildflowers, with the early ones like Shooting Star and Fringecup now yielding to the ubiquitous Arrowleaf Balsamroot and Lupine (and the lovely Dalmatian Toadflax...  a noxious name for a noxious weed).  Nonetheless, with a hard freeze predicted for Sunday night, I sacrificed my weekend to work in order that I might take advantage of the fresh snow, refrozen stability, and bluebird conditions for an attempt on a southern Bitterroot classic, Sugarloaf Peak's north couloir(s).

Casey, Chris, and I met at the Pattee Creek Market parking lot at 4:30 for the longish drive to Chaffin Creek at the end of the Bitterroot, during which I solicited Casey's opinion on whether swimming the Middle Fork of the Flathead in drysuit and PFD would be preferable to lugging a packraft and paddle for this one river crossing during the upcoming Bob Marshall Wilderness Open, in which I intend to participate.  I'm thinking of using the drysuit with puffy layers underneath as a bivy system (with the PFD as part of the pad).  This weighs about as much as a packraft setup and seems more useful, particularly given that there are no other opportunities to use the packraft on my chosen route.  What difficult problems we face here in America.  I still haven't decided.

Chaffin Creek turned out to be closer than anticipated, only a bit over an hour, and we were hiking at first light, anxious to make the 5-6 mile approach quickly.  The hike was standard, but Chaffin is extraordinary amongst Bitterroot canyons.  Good skinning starts around 6000' right now, and we made it to the base of Sugarloaf in a bit under 3 hours, including a creek crossing.   
 

Sugarloaf north aspect.  The couloir that accesses the upper face is the sliver on lookers right at the top of the apron.

We made quick work steep skinning the apron to the base of Sugarloaf's north couloir.  There was a surprise abundance of fresh, dry, and settled powder.  When the going got steep and narrow, we switched to crampons, and securely ascended the 40 degree couloir.  I'd been here once before, but was once again enamored with this steep granite defile.  The walls are shear and it feels like being in some desert slot canyon (with some obvious differences).

Apron skinning.

In the couloir.

The last pitch to access the upper face was steep and icy, and I was glad to have crampons and axe, which allowed us to quad-point this bit easily.  The cornices overhanging the couloir made me glad that we had gotten an early start on this warm day.  The north face, like many such faces in the Bitterroot, is exposed to transversely oriented westerlies that tend to strip the face down to talus or shallow and slabby snow.  As such, we left the planks at the top of the couloir and walked towards the summit, keenly aware of the exposure on this hanging face, which is just steep enough to command attention.  The final pitch to the rocky true summit was more than I felt inclined to tackle, but Casey and Chris made the trip, which was a good photo opportunity for me.  
 

The summit of Sugarloaf Peak.

The south face of the Shard (left) and Tin Cup Peak (right).  The south face of the Shard is as epic as anything I've seen in the Bitterroots, and seems as though it would be a ski mountaineering objective on par with the east faces of El Cap or Sky Pilot.

With the summit bid complete, we skied back down the couloir in good style and major sluff.  The fresh snow, though not slabby, was deep and inclined to move.  It was fun managing these big streams of snow atop a bomber snow pack lower in the column. 

At the bottom of the couloir, we concluded that another run was in order, and we booted another somewhat hidden couloir further to the east on Sugarloaf's craggy north face.  This route steepens to 45 or more degrees before pinching into an alpine climbing affair that may very well offer an alternative and challenging route to attain Sugarloaf's summit.  We stopped where the skiing did, and skied this thousand foot line back to the apron, again producing vigorous and entertaining sluffs.
 

Dropping (with Furberg cameo).

Sluff management in Sugarloaf's hidden couloir.

The day had turned warm so we pointed skis towards home.  The apron back to the creek served up another thousand or so of good quality chalk (though riddled with wet slide ice bombs) back to the Chaffin creek-bottom, where we refilled water and refuelled for the hot and soggy egress.  14 miles and 6000', done in 11 hours car to car.
 

Both couloirs visible.