Optimizing positional skiing. Photo: Sam Chaneles
January high pressure and snow stability opens up some options for some North Cascade denizens.
It’s 5:30 a.m., and I can’t lay awake in the mid any longer. A fitful night disrupted by periodic and frightful gazes at my watch has expired. I wiggle in my sleeping bag, gathering the various clothes and batteries stuffed about. Trying not to wake Lane and Nick, I slide over the semi-deflated sleeping pad that’s teased me the last three nights. I grab a foam pad and sleeping bag and head outside, waiting for the day to start. Winter camping seems to be a teeter-totter of suffering and joy. At this moment, I’m on the totter, wishing I’d checked if my inflatable pad was fully functional before leaving home.
It’s not all misery, though. We’re perched in the North Cascades eyeing miles of peaks, some of which have seen few people in wintertime.
We are motivated by the extended high pressure to explore the North Cascades. Call it positional skiing, not conditional skiing. We set out with 4 days of food and less of a plan than typical. “Objective skiing” often has a line or path in mind that anchors your trip. This time, we lacked the normal structure. This wasn’t a traverse. This wasn’t a pure basecamp. This wasn’t a smash-and-grab. Well, what was it then?
A mid with a view. Photo: Sam Chaneles
We gaze across a broad glacial cirque at our potential objective for the day: the northern glacial ramp on Formidable. It looks mellow enough. An hour later, our sense of scale recalibrates. The scale feels pretty Alaskan. We climb the ramp, impressed with each hundred-foot contour gained, feeling more real than we imagined—in a good way. We grab lunch atop the ramp, stare at the mountainscape, and discuss our positions for the descent from a snow perspective. Variable pockets of chalk, powder, windboard, and some scrapy ice follow. Positional skiing.
By the time we’re at Spider-Formidable Col it’s noon-thirty. We don’t want to return to camp super early, we’re too stoked. We check out a southern aspect, assessing if the January corn is ripe. Nope. Back to polar aspects. Lane’s been investigating a way back towards camp that would be more interesting and creative than our simple ascent route. He toggles Global Imagery and MapBuilder Topo, confident there’s a sneak-around the glacial moraine that looks kinda blah. I follow, somewhat cluelessly, as Lane leads the way. Our plan’s lack of clarity would normally drive me nuts. Lane pushes into the void, onto a shaded snowfield on the northern slopes below Spider Mountain. What are we doing?
We turn the corner after “Lane’s Traverse” and sight our way back into the valley on a lovely, firm couloir. Positional skiing.
High traversing. Finding a path. Photo: Sam Chaneles
A kiss of January alpine sun. Photo: Sam Chaneles
We’re cooking dinner, evaluating our wealth in food and fuel. On night one, you always feel food rich; on night two, not so much. Our two 8 oz isobutane fuel canisters hiss quietly on the stove as we melt snow for water.
As the night rolls on, I crawl around my inflatable pad searching for the criminal and teasing micro-hole. I swear, I can hear it, I know I can. I FIND IT! I f***ing find it! I grab duct tape, patch it as best I can, and leave it for a while. I might have found it, but it’s not fixed.
On day three, our morning routine was more dialed. We’re up and out of camp quickly heading toward our zone for the day. We stare at the proud North Face of Spider, guarded by water ice and huge bergschrunds; its steep ski lines aren’t quite in yet. We remark on how much climate change has changed some of these lines since Sky Sjue and the like skied them nearly 10 years prior.
We make our way up into the January sun, more confident in winter corn. Our sights focused on the aspects we think will have corn-like skiing. We turn the corner and gaze up at the somewhat unknown southeastern reaches of Spider. We know little about them, little more than some Global Imagery, slope angle shading, and MapBuilder Topo. (Is it obvious that we’re Caltopo nerds yet?)
We don crampons and begin booting up, expecting a firm booter. Instead, we find ankle-deep postholing through a solar crust down to preserved facets. January, not April. It doesn’t matter, though, as we look out at the southern reaches of the Ptarmigan Traverse. Dome Peak and the Le Conte massif are all within a gaze.
Thinking we can fit in a lap of Plan B Couloir, we pick up camp in a hurry. We drop our overnight gear atop the summit plateau of Hurry-Up and drop in. The turns are wetter, sluffier than we expect. We start a mini waterfall of wet sluff down the line. There goes our booter.
Atop Hurry-Up, we settle in for the night. We tag the summit, head back to our flat spot, and dig out our mid. We’re only 600 feet higher than last night’s camp but it feels colder. Maybe it’s the lack of hot tea; maybe I under-packed on puffy clothes. Maybe I’m just soft.
By 8 p.m. I can’t stay warm any longer, but there’s still water melting to be done. Lane and Nick sit outside on foam pads as I retreat to the mid. The long night begins. Due to our position, the sun won’t rise until 6:30, maybe 7. I’m too cold to wait outside and banter.
With an open mind and some will, mid-winter high pressure opens up a playground. Photo: Sam Chaneles
The sun finally rises. Our day begins. I breathe a sigh of relief. Movement is in sight. Movement towards the sun and skiing and the day.
Skiing down the S-Glacier with overnight packs is quite the wake-up—an overcompensation for the lack of instant coffee. We find a flat spot clear from most overhead hazards to dig a hole and dump overnight gear as we prepare for the day’s exploration.
Where are we going?
Lane spotted a ramp system on Pelton Peak that drew our eyes. The first steps up the knee-deep breaker-mank bootpack suck stoke out of me. I’m a zombie this morning; we all play the game of chicken, not wanting to be the least stoked person in the group. I set the booter for a hundred feet or so before I’m wiped. I relent. Lane rockets up ahead, bringing the energy up with him. Nick and I follow in his wake.
Catching a January tan on the ascent—bring the sunscreen. Photo: Sam Chaneles
Two hundred feet from the top, we posthole to our hips. The snow is wet, the rocks moaty. Nick is in the lead, postholing between boot tops and hips. I’m third in line, struggling behind Lane, falling through a hole to my waist at one point.
We’re pretty impressed by how far this line has gone. Lane’s vision pays off; it’s clear it’ll go to the top. But the uncertainty around where these holes in the rocks are is enough to make a flip. We dig out platforms, click into skis, and ski down. There’s a few shots I really want to get. I ski ahead, radio to Nick and Lane, “Ski down the ridgeline.” The snow might not be the best, but it’s positional skiing.
It’s been a great three days, and we don’t want to end on a sour note. The conditions don’t look great, though. But it’s barely 10:30 a.m., and we’re reluctant to head back. There’s one more couloir to check out.
A thousand feet later, we’re at the constriction of the couloir proper and the snow is hard—not just firm windboard, but more three-dimensional melt-freeze hard. It’s a beautiful line, plumb and steep and in a crazy setting. Something about the line is calling for a little more respect, though. There’s no question we can get up and down; we packed two tools each, and we haven’t used them all trip. Call it couloir-fatigue—this line isn’t calling like the others.
As we crest our last climb on the way out, we stare at the more familiar terrain near Cascade Pass. There’s hardly a soul around. It’s a Wednesday and a storm is coming, bringing winter back with it. We’re all a bit haggard, tired and thirsty, and ready to raid a gas station mini-mart.
