Half Daze of Glory.

Sometimes, you might imagine that you don't have enough time to go skiing.  'I have to go to work because I already used up all my vacation time going to Moab,' you might say, and this may in fact be true.  But couldn't you find the time for a little half day of skiing?  Yes, you will have to wake up early, and probably drive too fast on dirt roads.  It's fine.  It's worth it.

Murphy Peak - South Face, 5000', 7h.
With friend Perry in town, I was not able to withstand the draw of a day of skiing in the Snowbowl backcountry, especially with the ski resort now closed.  We met at 6 at the last pullout, and started skinning up Paradise (legally of course).  This went quickly as always, and we were soon skiing across Burgundy Ridge, then ascending the south ridge of Murphy Peak.  We acquired the summit at 8:30.  This was good, because the hot sun was already starting to generate point releases on the cliff bands, and the proper runs off of Murphy were very likely next.

Getting weird, early AM, Murphy summit.

After some summit headstands with the Missions providing a suitable backdrop, we skied the south face of Murphy, in good conditions, with the exception of icy point release remnants towards the bottom.  A quick schuss had us at the top of Jenny Bowl, which was terrible, then to the top of the Hourglass Chute in the closed cliff area at Snowbowl.  It's unfortunate that it's closed, because it's the best in-bounds run around.  Back at the car at 1, back at the office at 1:30.  Half Day!     

Greywolf South Couloir. 5000', 6h.
With friends in town once again and myself obliged to drive to Idaho that evening, we opted once again for the half day tour.  Greywolf's south couloir is perfect for such a venture, especially now that P-5000 has melted out, meaning that you can drive there directly from Arlee, skipping the lengthy diversion through St. Ignatius necessary earlier in the year.  Casey, myself, and Mr. Burger left Missoula at six, and were skinning by 7:30 (we didn't yet know the shortcut was snow-free).  We were quite thankful for the climber's trail, and it's in good enough shape right now that utilizing it saves alot of time. 

We made reasonably quick work of the approach to the Grizzly Lake basin, though we took a fairly inefficient high route trying to avoid exposure to the avalanche prone sidehill immediately before attaining the upper basin.  As soon as we started skinning across Grizzly Lake, it was apparent that new snow had formed a deep-ish wind slab that would have to be monitored closely as we ascended towards the south couloir. 

While the apron was a little spooky, once we skinned into the more protected couloir, we were happy to find that the wind slab had dissipated into settled powder (though still a bit punchy in spots).  We skinned to the obvious safe zone, then transitioned to booting.  The snow was deep and the walking tough, yet we had only a few hundred feet to go, and were soon climbing through the magnificent cornices guarding the divide between the south couloir and Grey Wolf's craggy western aspect.    
 

The top of the south.

I hate going first on steep runs, because I'm not very brave.  But with Casey taking photos, and Burger insistent that it was improper for him to precede me, I was left with no alternatives.  It was great fortune to find the south couloir in good condition in April, and the steep turns off the headwall were fantastic.  In fact, the skiing all the way back to Grizzly Lake, 1500' below was of good quality, excluding the occasional point release ice chunk bomb lurking here and there.   
 

Burgermeister ripping full tele turns down the south couloir. 

Wilcox on the mellow apron above Grizzly Lake.

Lakefront reminiscence.

 The ski down through the forest was uneventful (as ever), through good corn at the top, and catchy slop at the bottom.  We barely got lost, and made it back to the rig by 2.  Beta from a moderately sketchy guy at the trailhead prompted us to try the return via P-5000, and it went easily, and made for a quick drive home.  Though not a true half day, this tour certainly could be given faster travel conditions, an earlier start, and the knowledge that P-5000 is open (and a less casual travel strategy) (and better fitness). 

Sheepshead and McDonald, in the usual fashion.

There's a billboard outside the Good Food Store, advertising some sort of banking service with a local flair.  Maybe a credit union.  You know, the type with the radio ads where they talk about how they (somehow) bank better because the people that work there also live in the community.  In general, I find this kind of rhetoric dubious: banks largely operate the same, and the prices for loans and interest and so forth are governed by policies coming out of the Federal Reserve Bank.  But this bank I find more convincing.  And why?  Because their billboard has an honest-to-goodness photograph of the ski tour that I went on Sunday before last!

I imagine many Missoula skiers already know what I'm talking about.  The billboard clearly shows the north face of the Sheepshead, as well as the northwest face of McDonald Peak, third and first in elevation amongst Missions summits, respectively.  I've skied the northwest face of McDonald before (twice in fact), but its other equally photogenic aspects were unknown to me.  Simultaneously, the enormous southwest face of the Sheepshead has been beckoning for some time.  Thus, our goal was straightforward: climb the southwest face of the Sheepshead, and ski it if it was in condition, then climb the south face of McDonald and ski either that or the east face.  The opportunities in this zone are endless, and I think it's good to remain flexible.  If the southwest face of the Sheepshead didn't go, then we could employ our billboard beta and traverse the ridge illustrated in that beautiful display of local advertising integrity.

We left Missoula at 3, in order to catch south aspects before they were turned to mush by the strong sun predicted for the day (is it an alpine start if you aren't sleeping in a tent?).  The Ashley Lakes road was quite bad, but the disgruntled Toyota Cyclops was up to the challenge (this is its reason for existence after all).  We left the truck at 4:30 and 4300', booting up through skiffs of fresh snow along the ridge, postholing through drifts, and generally not quite finding an optimal travel method.  Nonetheless, we were near 7000' and traversing the pleasantly moderate lower ridges of the Sheepshead, when dawn broke at six. 

Our first objective reared up before us ominously.  I generally prefer couloirs to faces; this may be purely psychological, but I am intimidated by all that snow, and the lack of an escape onto rock in the event of instability.  The southwest side of Sheepshead is both couloir and face: a large moderate and open bowl ending in terminal cliffs encompasses the lower two-thirds of the face, that funnels into a series of steep, rime encrusted, couloirs until a few hundred feet before the summit, then opens again onto another moderate hanging face.  This was mostly visible from the approach ridge, and the route was apparent.  We needed to cut off the ridge onto the face, traversing perhaps a quarter mile of the lower face to its east end, at which point we would ascend directly through the summit couloir (one of many possible couloirs).  After traversing on ski crampons for a ways, we encountered a steep and corniced gully which was more secure on foot, and switched to boot crampons.  I was pleased to use, for the first time, the combination of whippet and ice axe.  Having the utility of a pole and piolet shaft, as well as two picks, is ideal.  The traverse across the face went easily, and the base layer of snow was unquestionably solid.  Overlying this were isolated but deep and spooky wind drifts.  Small potatoes, but the consequences of being transported over the terminal cliffs at the bottom of the face were certainly present in my mind.  I was relieved when we reached the base of the ascent couloir, and started ascending directly, each crampon step achieving quality purchase in the strongly refrozen corn beneath the fresh snow.

Casey Wilcox ascends the upper southwest face of the Sheepshead.

We ascended reasonably quickly and topped out on the Sheepshead just after 9AM.  We had had the good fortune of spying the exit gully for the face on the traverse; wet slides had scoured it clean, and there was no obvious way through the cliff band.  As such, we decided to traverse directly to McDonald along the Sheepshead's east ridge and face.  The wind was quite strong on the ridgetop and the exposure on either side of the knife-edge ridge was extraordinary. 

Atop the Sheepshead with the northwest face of McDonald behind.

Descending the east ridge of the Sheepshead.  To the lookers left is the entirety of the Sheepshead's north face (visible on billboard).  To the right is a less impressive though still spooky cliff band.  Photo Credit: Casey Wilcox.

The east ridge opens onto a lovely, rocky face that drops for a bit over a 1000' onto the classic northwest face of McDonald.  The northwest face is a gem: moderate, remote, alpine.  We'd been here twice before, and we made a hard push with ski crampons over fresh windslabs and rime ice to McDonald's summit at 9820'.  We lingered for a moment, and then decided to try out the east face, which sees very few ski descents (I would guess fewer than one per year).  I foolishly attempted to cut across the upper part of the south face on my snowboard, and triggered a localized but deep wind slab at my feet that ran all the way to the valley.  Sufficiently chastened, I unbuckled and hiked a few feet back up to the ridgeline and walked until the aspect changed.  From here we saw the break in the cornices that Brian Story (presumably) used to access the north face on his epic first descent last spring.  Scary stuff.

The east face is moderate, never much steeper than 32 or so degrees, and drops between 2000' and 3000' to a series of lakes, depending on your route.  Much of McDonald had been wind-hammered, and we expecting more or less the same on this weather-exposed face.  Upon dropping off the McDonald summit plateau however, I was delighted to find boot top powder on top of bomber corn.  Somehow, the vagaries of micro-topography had conspired to protect this line, and whooped for sheer joy (I never whoop) while riding my best line of the year.

The upper east face.  Much longer than it looks here (1400').

 I waited for Casey on a bench halfway down the face (he also whooped uncharacteristically), then we proceeded the remaining 1000' to an unnamed lake just below Icefloe Lake.  The day had warmed up, and we sat around on the lake eating lunch and soaking in the remoteness and late morning sunshine.  This area is closed most of the summer; it's in the grizzly bear conservation zone, so human visitation is prohibited after July 15 (when there is still snow blocking any reasonable approach).  If it weren't, it would still see little traffic because there is no trail here.  It's a long haul from anywhere on skis. 

Couloirs dropping south from McDonald south.

Pt. Charles and Middle Glacier Peak from the Ashley/Post Creek divide.

Having accomplished our objectives for the day, we now had to get back to the truck.  In between stood a pass, several lakes, numerous cliff bands, and at least a little isothermal wallowing.  We pushed hard through the rapidly slushifying snow to the divide between Post Creek and Ashley Creek, which is also the bottom of McDonald's south face. 

Skinning towards the pass.

Divide, with the south face of McDonald.  The fresh looking debris is the slide that I had kicked off earlier in the day.

From the pass it is a straightforward and fun descent over several miles to just above Ashley Creek.  The many unnamed peaks of the area were in full effect, and it was quite enjoyable to cruise down the frozen glacial valley between these monoliths.

North Glacier Peak.

Unnamed Peak.

A cliff band guards upper Ashley Creek from Ashley Lakes.  It is not naively obvious how to get around it, but fortunately, Casey had been this way before from below, and knew the way around via a sneak ramp on the south side of the lake.  Skinning across the lake, we got an excellent view up at the face that we had ascended early that morning.  It is impossible to get a sense of scale from the bottom.

Southwest face of the Sheepshead, later in the day.

From here, the technicalities ended, and it was simply a slog through isothermal snow, crossing failing snow bridges and split-skiing down willow-saturated hillsides, on the lookout for grizzly bears and trying not to ruin my skins.  Eventually, the snow gave way, and we booted up and out of the Ashley Lakes basin to regain our approach ridge, and then a simple (though brushy) descent had us back at the truck, dry socks, potato chips, and cider. 

Overall, around 8500' of climbing for the day over 14 miles, done in a bit over 11 hours car to car.  Certainly one of the best long tours in the Missoula area.

Rooting around, Pt.3: Real Rooting.

February and March were remarkable months for accumulation in the Bitterroot Mountains and the SnoTel sites in the range are reading somewhere on the order of 170% of normal for the year.  Twin Lakes at least has more snow than the 2010-2011 winter.  As such, the snowboarding in the Bitterroots has been exceptionally good, and I spent many days there in March and early April.  Two of these tours were of particularly high quality.

First, Mickey and I skied the southeast face of Hidden Lake Peak via the East East Mystery Chute off of Gash Point.

In the East East.

Skinning from the end of the plowing on the Gash Point access road, we summited Gash in the usual fashion a bit over 2h30m into the day.  The snow quality was quite good off the north face of Gash, and we enjoyed high quality powder all the way to the shoulder separating the lower north face from the Mystery Chutes to the west.  Rather than climb one of the chutelets to access the main chutes, we rolled over a small ridge into a steep and dirty couloir that goes all the way into Sweathouse.  While not as elegant or long as the other chutes, this one offers easy access, and a more walled in, couloir type feel.  It had slid, and the snow was firm.  This may have been a first descent of the line.

From Sweathouse, we skinned up-canyon for a few hundred yards before booting and harscheisening up to the Glen Lakes ridge, which we followed back to Hidden Lake Peak.  

O Heavenly Twins.

The summit block was quite exposed and challenging to access, so we contented ourselves with the skier's summit, before making the 2500' cruise back to the bottom of Sweathouse on perfect corn.

Skier's summit of Hidden Lake Peak.

Skinning up the North Face of Gash was surprisingly technical via our route, with cliffs and steep sections to traverse and climb.  Also, back in the shade with wet skins, I experienced some truly epic glop, and was surprisingly pained by the time we returned to the Gash approach ridge.  The egress to the truck was quick as always, despite the road skin.

The next week, Casey and I set out with the objective of snowboarding the rarely (if ever) skied north face of Big St. Joe.  I had wanted to summit this peak in the winter for some time, and with trail conditions in good shape up Bass Creek, this was an ideal time.

We set out early, and made the journey to the base of the classic Pinball Wizard Gully in 1h45m.  This was fortunate, because the day was sunny and the steep and slabby boot up to St. Joe's southeast ridge and face would have been quite sketchy in warm conditions.  It was clear that the mountains were in a wet slide cycle, and Pinball Wizard had ripped recently, leaving wet slide debris strewn about its colluvial fan.  Once on the face, the going was easy, and we made good time up to the 9600' summit.

Big Joe, SE face.

Summit plateau.

The summit plateau was mostly scoured, except for a few wind drifted pockets and a dusting of fresh snow.  St. Joe is much higher than everything around it, and this is typical, as is obvious looking at it from every other summit in the area.  Owing to its relatively lofty status, St. Joe also offers tremendous views.

Lappi Peak, Heavenly Twins, St. Mary, Gash Point, Sky Pilot, Hidden Lake Peak, and countless visible to the south from St. Joe.

The north face of St. Joe was scoured for the first several hundred vertical feet.  The pockets that were skiable were wind slabby and ended on talus piles.  As such, we walked down the rocks until good safe snow was found, and then had a few hundred feet of quite firm riding.  At a certain elevation however, the surrounding walls offered protection, and the snow transitioned to perfect moderate powder for the next 2000' into the head of Sweeney Creek.  We had considered attempting the Pyramid Buttes, at whose foot the north face of St. Joe deposits one at, but with the strong sun and recent wet slide activity, we opted to wait for another day.
 

Pyramid Buttes.

Endless switchbacks to the Sweeney-Bass divide.

A typical Bitterroot contour put us in the basin below the east face of St. Joe.  From here it was several thousand feet of glop-laden, steep, sparsely tree'd skinning to regain the ridge and the escape back to the rig.  The climb was slow and even a little unpleasant as we battled fatigue, glop, and heavy snow before topping out immediately above Pinball Wizard.  Having never descended that gully before, I was surprised to find it exceedingly moderate for most of its length, very likely never exceeding 30 degrees in the gully bottom.  Despite the gully bottom being casual, it is the funnel for all manner of distasteful things, as evidenced by the avalanche debris at its base, and the 4 foot deep, sheer sided gouge that had been bulldozed by a large wet slide the previous day.  These conditions made for difficult travel, and I was glad to be on a snowboard rather than skis, as I always feel like they are a bit more robust to these kinds of icy and choppy conditions.

Casey rides the dozer track at the bottom of Pinball Wizard.

The escape down Bass Creek was as fun as ever, with good coverage almost all the way back to the trailhead.  It's always amazing how fast those six miles go.

Rooting around, Pt. 2: Philosophical differences in the Swan Range.

This was a good year for hut trips, and for the third (or maybe fourth) of the season, I went to Yurtski in the Southern Swans.  What to say about this zone...  the terrain off in the distance is inspiring, there's some pretty fun powder skiing, the runs are short, the bigger stuff gets hammered by the sun. 

The snowmobile tow in went off without a hitch, except for when my tow rope snapped, and my 'bile driver didn't turn around for the next five miles.  Fortunately, we weren't last in line, and as such managed to tow behind the next one.  With five of us, that poor machine was taxed.

Trash-kilts.

This year, a significant amount of accumulation had occurred, just after a period of high pressure had left an insidious sun crust on south aspects.  As such, conditions were spicy, in precisely the way that Dudley from WCMAC had described in the week's advisory.  The first thing I did upon arriving at Yurtski (after shoveling and drinking some cider), was to skin up a ridge and remotely trigger a large slab avalanche on a south aspect.  No shooting cracks near me, just a big whoomph, and the slope 100 feet away failed big.  North aspects were much better, with no problematic weak layer present, and I resolved to ski north aspects for a few days.  The snow was better there anyway.

Unfortunately, some members of our rather large group did not feel the same way about south aspects, and after one low angle south east facing run, decided that steep south aspects were no longer suspect, and promptly got slid by a slope with a similar aspect and steepness to that which I had remotely triggered two hours previously.  Apparently, the victim managed to hold onto a small tree, and thus avoided being swept into the larger trees at the base of the slope.  Gear loss was limited to goggles.  I wasn't there at the time, having elected to ski some fantastic steep trees on the other side of the ridge.  It seemed a nerve-wracking experience for all involved.      

Near the bottom of the slide path a few minutes before it occurred.

We skied north aspects the remainder of the day, as well as much of the next day.  On the dusky return, some of our group decided to again ski a steep south aspect.  I elected to ski the trees again, not comfortable with only allowing the obvious south aspect weak layer 24 hours to bond.  Nothing slid, and members of our group took this as a sign that south aspects were now good to go, and proceeded the next day to ski big south faces with abandon.     
 

A well worn skin track.

Crafter of the track.

 I (and others) decided that the snow was still probably safer and more powdery on north faces, and skied these the next day too, including the fun and wild north face of Morrell Mountain.  The weather was glorious, and we were treated to good views of the Missions and the Scapegoat. 

The Missions.

The Scapegoat.

With the snow heating up and becoming gloppy, it was time for the long descent and road traverse back to the trucks.  Not wanting to ruin my nice new hot wax, I refused to kick wax my snowboard, and did most of the six flat miles with full skins.  Not the most efficient tactic, I think, but not too bad either.   

Rooting around in the deep, deep snow. Pt. 1: Sawteeth.

February, March, and the beginning of April have been all-time in the mountains of western Montana.  Storm after storm dropped copious amounts of high quality snow in all of the regional ranges, and we are now positioned for a long and lucrative spring skiing season, as well as what is sure to be an ample runoff.  Excellent news for everything except for trail running, which is yet confined to the low elevation town trails (and will be for some time, of course).  I feel as though I've taken pretty good advantage of all this snow, and would like to outline a few of the best ski tours that I've been privileged to partake in since my last posting, with stellar conditions and even better company.

Bench Hut:
Molly and I were fortunate to be invited by our good friends Casey and Helena to spend 5 days in the Sawteeth of Central Idaho at the Bench Hut (operated by Sun Valley Trekking, LLC).  The Bench Hut sits on a high shelf overlooking Redfish Lake, in the basin of the epic Mt. Heyburn, with its classic splitter couloir.  Despite the ruggedness of much of the terrain, the lower angle hippie-pow is endless, and there is something for everyone in this zone.  This was ideal, as it was Molly's first time backcountry skiing (with the objective of skiing downhill, that is).  Also, the two feet of snow that had fallen recently had made for somewhat nervous avalanche considerations, and being able to travel safe routes through beautiful country made the trip.

We toured in the undulating six mile and 1000' approach on a lovely clear morning.  Whoomphing snow was ubiquitous.

Skin track and the Grand Mogul (no moguls allowed).

 We skied a lap on the slopes above the outhouse (the crapper slope), and had a party, then went skiing the next day.  Part of the crew wanted to look at skiing something steeper, but I just wanted to cruise around in the sunshine and look at mountains.  I also took almost all of the ladies with me!

Heyburn above Lake Two.

My crew.

We decided to check out some lower angle terrain on the opposite side of the basin.  More whoomphing and a slab remotely triggered by me on a small convexity solidified our understanding that the snow was quite unstable.  Thus glades and trees were the order of the day.  We slogged through the warming snow to the divide between the Heyburn Lakes basin and the Fishhook Creek basin to the north.  Views were astounding.  The Sawteeth are quite different from our local mountains, and it all felt very Alpine.  This was also the dropping point for the Gunbarrel Couloir, which looked very appealing, but probably to steep and dangerous for the snow conditions.
 

Molly practicing kick turns.

We ripped this nice glade.

From the Fishhook Creek divide.

The Gunbarrel Couloir.

Selfies.

Molly and I toured back to the hut after glade skiing and set what was apparently a really nice skin track, because everyone independently mentioned as such over the next few days.  The snow was also stabilizing quickly with the sunshine and warmth.

Next morning, we skied some fun powder laps on the terrain near the cabin, then Casey and I set off for a longer tour up to the base of Heyburn (which was windy and nasty), and then to the summit of Fishhook Point.  The weather was deteriorating, but we still managed several long runs off of Fishhook point.  I also crashed into a tree pretty hard.

Near Fishhook Point AKA Dave Dog Peak.

Roots.

A cloudy Fishhook summit view.

Casey about to rip, with an evening view of the White Clouds.

Overnight, a ton of heavy and wet snow fell, increasing avalanche danger again to rather high levels.  I played quite conservatively this day, mostly touring around with Molly on the local slopes, before running off to meet up with Casey for a couple of descents in the glades across the valley.  One member of our crew triggered a slide on the new snow.

Even more snow fell the next night, and with conditions as they were, and a long drive back to Missoula slated for the day, we opted to retreat.

We ran into a group of Ketchum-ites on their way in.  I volunteered some of our snowpack observations.  Their leader responded by lecturing me with the previous day's advisory, noting where our observations were incorrect when they did not agree with the statements of the advisory.  This kind of fallacious reasoning drives me mad; I will take locally pertinent amateur observations over the extrapolations of experts over a massive area any day.  It's the kind of flawed logic that also drives people to dig a pit in one spot and declare a mountain range safe, while ignoring the weather, the wind, the aspect, the snow depth, observations of natural activity, and all other sources of information that allow us to reduce our degree of uncertainty about the stability of a slope.  In my view, many backcountry travellers (particularly ones without a great deal of experience) view this information hierarchically, with a list in order of descending worth going something like: Advisory, snow pit, natural activity, everything else that's too complicated to think about.  This is wrong because the first of these is too general, the second too precise, and the third not always present even in dangerous conditions, as well as being geographically variable.  Advisories, pits, and natural activity are excellent tools, but only when combined with hypotheses formed from looking at local meteorological conditions and history affecting the formation and metamorphosis of the snowpack.  It's the scientific method: formulate a hypothesis based on general observations, then begin active testing to determine if your hypothesis is correct.  And always trust your own feelers.