Skiing Dude, February 18, 2021

Thirty-six inches of new snow at 7,212 feet. Deep and slow trail-breaking after the first mile where the snowshoers quit. It came all at once so there is little support. I worked all day and headed up late afternoon to clear my mind and, if lucky, maybe make a few few turns in all that new snow. I knew I’d be pressed for time, but not concerned, I carry a headlamp, or so I thought. When I topped-out at sunset, I search my pack for the lamp, digging through every pocket, corner and loose gear, that headlamp was nowhere to be found. I was freezing and my mind was torched after working all day. Now, after breaking trail up the mountain, I am not feeling too strong, mentally of physically. I quickly transition to ski and start down. The mountain is not steep and the snow was deep, so any turning almost stops me in my tracks. Straight-lining was the trick, with a few turns thrown in here and there when the angle allowed.

The trail is a roller-coaster with several short climbing sections while descending. It was late, the sun was setting, I was tired and freezing, without a headlamp, so feeling hurried at those “ups” I chose not to re-skin, instead side-stepping or hearing-boning the way up. That was a mistake, the snow too deep and me too spent. Not sure why, maybe it was because I was so cold, but I felt some panic welling up in my gut. What? Me panic? I’ve never felt panicky while back-country skiing. I’ve done this for decades, skiing until dark and reveling in a nighttime descent down a snowy trail, they were always joyful adventures. 

I have loved being alone at night on a dark trail, stopping, shutting-off the headlamp, listening to the nighttime quiet of the forest. I have heard Great Horned Owls calling, Coyotes yapping and howling on a distant ridge, and the moon-shadows of Aspen on the snow is a masterpiece of art. I am not the most religious person, I attend regularly to please my family, but I rarely feel the spirit like those proclaiming all around me. I often wonder why I can’t find it? If I’ve ever been touched by the presence of God, it is when I stop and listen on a cold, silent night in a winter forest. Just watch and listen, I am filled with peace.

Later at home, after much thought, I surmise that the panic was an accumulation of the stress and anxiety over the last year. Like many, I’ve had big changes in my life this year. On top of the pandemic, I lose a job, found a new job, and three weeks in I am sent home due to Covid. Learning a new job while working from home has been tough. Even larger are the worries for my family. Nothing comes easy but watching the struggles of my Kids and Grandkids is much tougher than learning a new job at home, alone. If anything, I worry more now about my Grandkids than I ever did for my own Kids when they were young. I always thought that life would be carefree and fancy-free when my kids were finally gone, that life would be absent of worry, instead the worries are compounded. 

So there I am, trying to sidestep up 100 vertical feet through 20 inches of soft snow. It takes four or five stomps to get enough support to move up just one step. I keep thinking, “just put on your damn skins!” but I don’t, and my back, chest and head are sweating profusely while my fingers and toes are totally numb. When I finally top the first hill and can glide down my skinner, the feel of the cold breeze on my wet chest and face is like getting hit by a truck, instant cold with profuse shivers. I imagine this must be what it was like jumping off the deck of Titanic into the North Sea. A short descent leads to another 100 foot rise and I repeat the panicky, sidestepping through deep, deep snow. When I finally top the last hill, I’m relieved knowing that it’s all down-hill to my truck, but, on the last steep pitch, while carving turns and getting face-shots in the powder, my right ski-tip catches unseen brush hidden under the snow, and my momentum sends me face first into the powder, like a lawn dart. I’m face down in soft snow, head down slope and my skis tangled in brush above me so tightly that I can't move my legs. I can’t breath in the soft snow. Attempting a pushup to get air, my arms can’t lift my body because there is no solid base below. Now the panic really sets in. I can’t breath and I can’t move my legs. I can’t rise above the surface and I am sucking in Utah’s famous powder. I am  thrashing about and I am suffocating. As I panic and flounder in the soft snow, luck finds me and one ski breaks free just enough that I can roll a quarter turn, allowing me to reach back and unclip that ski. With a bit more thrashing I’m free. 

A sudden rush of relief almost makes me cry. Sitting in that deep, soft snow, I am suddenly calmed. A deep, powerful sense of peace fills me, so I just sit, watch and listen. A soft breeze pushes new snow through the Gamble Oak, the last golden rays of twilight are disappearing to the west, stars begin shining through the clouds, and the snow around me sparkles. I am struck with the thought, in times of stress only a higher power can bring peace. Today it was real.     

 

 

Foothill Lunch-Runs, January and February, 2021

January 25, 2021: Dude Peak

Lost my hat on the up, found it on the down.

Pyramid Peak, January 29, 2021

Trail up the ridge from North Canyon.

OK, it’s really Cave Peak, but I’ve only known it as Pyramid. In the late 1970’s and early 1980’s, I skied that cliffy face a number of times, one time setting off a wet slide that I rode about 50 feet to the bottom. 

Proof: Skiing in jeans on Pyramid Peak, early 1980’s. Note the presence of hair, and ski leashes (if you have to ask, you’re too young). 

The Chute, steeper than it looks here, but good to get the heart pumping.

      

It's a suggestion not a rule. At least I haven’t been arrested, so far. The private property crossing is short, extending from the gate to where the ridge disappears in the upper right of the photo. 

What happens if you get caught.

Dude Peak, February 8, 2021 

My Dad’s 98th Birthday today. He’s been gone now for almost 17 years, but I still miss him and wish I could ask him the meaning of life.  

Grant M. Reeder (left), Sidney Australia harbor in 1945, on the deck of the USS Blower, a submarine on which my Dad was the Electrician’s Mate or “Sparky” in Naval slang. My Dad’s Navy service while in Australia resulted in finding an Australian wife, my mother, and hence my Dad’s military service, and World War II, are strangely reasons for my existence. 

The submariners in the South Pacific during World War II had a casualty rate of greater than 50%, their necks always on the chopping block, preserving with their lives the freedoms Americans take for granted today.

The depraved, ignorant, reprobate, assholes who stormed the U.S. Capital on January 6th were - and are - shitting on the face of real patriots like my Dad. 

Dad, standing, middle.

Grant M. Reeder, February 8, 1923 - February 25, 2004. 

He was healthy until almost the day he died. He climbed the Grand Teton with me at age 76, using his 30-year-old army surplus pack, wearing Levi’s and, for warmth, a $2-dollar windbreaker purchased at Penny’s. At the trail-head while loading up, a couple of young, smart-ass climbers with sparkling new gear were making fun of his ancient gear, then they started up the trail at a feverish rate. We started up about 20 minutes later. Two miles up the trail my Dad passed those smart-asses as they were bent over puking. They weren’t laughing now. My 76-year old Dad motored by, relaxed and fluid in his stride, at a moderate but sustainable pace. The idea of intelligent pacing was lost on those young, smart-ass climbers. Later, in his late 70’s, while serving an LDS mission with my Mom in Boliva, on a day off they took a bus up into the Andes to the highest ski area on earth, its base at 17,000 feet. It was summer so there was little snow even at 17,000 feet. My Dad could see the upper-terminal of the ski lift, another 1,000 vertical feet higher, so he set off hiking up the mountain, only so he could to stand on top of an 18,000 foot peak. Later that day he wrote me an email, a novelty to him, and told me something was wrong with his heart and lungs, “I couldn’t get enough air and I felt dizzy.” Me, “Dad, you’re 78 years old and you’re hiking to 18,000 feet.” My Dad was a smart man, he never stopped studying the mysteries of life, and, a physician, he knew the human body.  Sometimes though, he was absolutely clueless! 

Shortly after returning from their mission he forgot the way home from the local grocery, a drive he had done a million times over the 45 years they lived there. A short time later he was diagnosed with an aggressive, terminal brain tumor (Glioblastoma) which he chose not to treat, and he died three months later. 

The day of his funeral there was an intense, cold blizzard and by the time we went to the cemetery for internment, there was 12-inches of fresh snow on the ground, and it was still snowing hard. He would have loved it. If he had lived he would have been hiking up the mountain above his home wearing that $2-dollar, Penny’s windbreaker. He left on his terms.

Pachyderm Pk - 1/4 mi E of Dude

Looks like a Wooly Mammoth, the peak, not my legs . . . 

Thinkers wear pants.

Pachyderm Peak, or Maybe Wooly Peak? Elevation 7,101 feet.

City Creek Cirque as seen from Pachyderm. I nominate Jonah Reeder for the first cliff drop.

Dude Peak, March 1, 2021

Almost enough to ski (see next post but from February 18).

Elitists! Some of us work (tracks in Rectangle Bowl and Mark’s Ghost).

Bountiful Ridge - Almost . . Big Collapse . . Turned Tail and Ran, January 24, 2021

Ten inches over night and five the day before, all on top of a foot of rotten snow. Trail-breaking was tough, sometimes supported by a very thin crust ten inches down, then the crust collapses and I sank to the ground. Back and forth, breaking trail through boot-top snow to suddenly dropping to the ground and it’s over the knee. 

Although we finally got a big storm, over 20 inches at Alta, there was still thin cover above Bountiful, tons of brush, too many downed trees from last year’s wind event, unsupportable base. It all added up to   tough trail breaking, but it’s skiing and despite the challenge I love being alone in the woods, breaking trail and feeling the storm all around. My daily life is a constant plowing of the fields at the dictates of others. This brings me back to what I feel in my soul, which is impossible to put into words, but I feel something deeply when I get up onto a snowy mountain. The issues of life fade, if only for a few hours, I hear my own thoughts without interruption, and I go home refreshed. 

It is such a gift to get this right out my back door (almost), but today was a risky day, stability-wise. The Utah Avalanche Forecast Center rated stability at moderate to considerable, so I was approaching with caution. As I was skinning I kept hearing collapsing but I wasn’t worried because I was on low-angle terrain. My approach was under the under the alpha angle. Yes, the snow was collapsing, but my route up the old short-cut of North Canyon wasn’t steep enough to slide, plus tons of brush still exposed. Route selection is a hot issue. Many folks disregard it as stupid, but people die due to poor route-finding. It' a skill very much taken for granted. If one selects a smart route for a skin track one can go out on days with bad instabilities, just stay out of the line of fire. 

Hearing a collapse grabs your attention and heightens the focus, but today there was another issue: every time I heard a collapse I’d sink to the ground within a second or two, then difficulty of breaking-trail increased by a large factor. I continued up but as the angle increased above Rudy’s Flat, I worried about approaching the Alpha Angle. Skinning up lower Rectangle Bowl I heard one of the loudest collapses I’ve ever experienced while BC skiing, and I was immediately enveloped in a cloud of snow.  Thinking it was an avalanche, instantly terrorized, but luckily it was just the snow shaken out of the nearby trees. With that my day was done. Too risky to ski my intended destination today so I turned for home. 

Rudy’s Flat now has 20 inches (11 inches last week) and there is 40 inches in Rectangle Bowl. We still need a lot of snow to cover the brush and rocks, and make this place skiable, like four storms just like this last one.

Huge Douglas Fir, make that two, maybe a hundred years old, went down during the huge wind of last fall. The cave under the root-ball was high enough for me to stand.

 

Snow stake way too visible. 

The little things bring joy. 

Waaaaa! The Mountain Mahogany still not covered (bush not the tree).

Drifting near Rudy’s Flat. This was the first time in WAY too long that I broke trail to Rudy’s Flat. I was nice to see no signs of others. 

Interesting danglers, like Christmas ornaments.

21 inches at Rudy’s Flat. Not great for January 24th, but it’s 10 inches more than January 15th.

Still too brushy.

38 inches in lower Rectangle Bowl. I measured this depth just before I heard and saw the huge collapse which enveloped me briefly in a cloud of snow shaken from the trees. This was in a spot where I was approaching the Alpha Angle and possible buried if the snow slid from way above. That said, based on the thin cover before this storm, still a lot of brush anchoring the snow (see next photo) and the light density snow of the storm, I felt confident down on these flatter hills. There was rotten snow on the ground but no running surface for the new snow to slide on, like a hard sun crust, with tons of brush still exposed, so the collapsing I was hearing was the old and new snow compressing as my skis cut through. If there had been a bit more snow covering the brush, with a hard crust below the new snow, and if the new snow was more dense, I may have been in big trouble.  

This is the view up the summer trail to Bountiful Ridge, just where the slope starts to steepen. Still way too brushy for great skiing.

Sun was setting as I was exiting North Canyon. Due to the thick brush, I skied down the North Canyon Trail instead of down one of the short-cuts. The bush-whack was bad enough while skinning up, it would have been hell skiing down when adding speed to the equation.