The Ski Journal • Volume Eleven, Issue Two • Eleven States, Eleven Summits Atop the American West

The compass reads west. I have the cruise control set on 80, the empty road ahead serving as a perfectly straight gun barrel for my Toyota Tundra, shooting through the emptiness of the Great Basin of Nevada. On the horizon, the sun is nearly setting over what is the largest mountain range I have seen all day. Beyond those jagged, gargantuan silhouettes ahead are what I expect to be another 5,000-odd miles of road, trail, skin track, boot packs and enticing ski descents, a spectrum stretching from below sea level to the highest point in the contiguous United States.

My quest is vast, but simple: I am off to ski the highest peak in every state in the American West, 11 peaks in total. There is something intrinsically independent about these mountains, an attraction that drew pioneers, cowboys, woodsmen and, more recently, skiers and mountaineers from around the globe. It is the same urge around which I established my own direction in life.

I am pursuing this adventure because these mountains are all in close proximity to home. Some are near to my heart, and others far from what I can imagine. This is the world into which I’ll be spending the next month—or however long this journey takes.

There are no signs of human travel on the ridgeline, even when we catch stretches of the summer trail, winding through the sagebrush in between snow patches—just paw prints, probably coyote, and us. On our drive here, the access road had no indications of use, just old mining structures from a time gone by.

If it weren’t for Boundary Peak’s claim to fame as the highest point in Nevada, few, if any, people would come to climb it. My ski partner, Adam Clark, and I fall into that faction. Neither of us have ever skied in Nevada, despite it being the most mountainous state in the contiguous United States. We top out after a few hours of boot packing along the summit ridge. Adam and I share a high five and a beer, enjoying the view of couloirs and untouched peaks in the rest of the White Mountains, a range that sits on the western border of Nevada. We clear off the USGS summit marker, caked by windblown snow on the summit rocks.

Before edging out to the top of our line on the north face of the mountain, I take a moment to look back to the west. The border of California is only 300 yards away, and in the distance are the famous Sierra Nevada mountains, the next stop on this long, long mission.

The view is spectacular, but such grandeur doesn’t bring them any closer, so we point our eyes and tips downward, schussing our way toward the truck parked a few thousand feet below.

The drop from the summit is mesmerizing, some 2,000 feet of nothing to our campsite on Iceberg Lake. More so than other summits, Whitney feels like the top of the world, as if every other peak, valley and lake in the vicinity are meant to put its jagged granite towers and height on display. It is, after all, the highest point in the contiguous United States, and the highest I’ve ever climbed. The top turns are rhythmic, down smooth, wind-buffed silk and past the line of climbers headed upward. We work to the right and onto an adjacent ramp, where we’re greeted with cold, wind-wrinkled powder.

I burrow my feet into the sand, feeling the warmth envelop my toes, a welcome change from cold ski boots and crampons. We are below sea level, wearing board shorts, and sipping cold beers on the sand dunes in Death Valley National Park. The same sun we watched rise from 14,000 feet this morning sets to the west, erupting in pink pastel swirls. There will be more road and another peak tomorrow, but as dusk descends we both drift off to sleep, right there on the dunes.

I have to check the map, just to make sure I am looking the right direction. Yes, that is indeed the Grand Canyon in the distance, just a line in the earth from here. The desert is all consuming; no matter the direction I look, there is not another mountain in sight.

The line below us, however, is fully visible, and we drop, floating our way toward empty sands and sweeping dunes.

Rather than using the shelter of the rocks, I sit facing the wind. This view is too good to pass up. Across the way is Taos Ski Valley, where I remember sitting atop Kachina Peak six years ago, looking this way and marveling at these mountains. Even then, I had wondered what it would be like to stand upon this spot, above everything else. Mostly, I had wondered what it be would like to ski.

It’s as good as I imagined—sort of. The snow is dubious, but the sunset and flood of nostalgia make up for the lack of powder.

My alarm beeps at 4:45 a.m. Again. I am exhausted, but—despite the gas station taquito and hot dog boiling in my stomach—I feel as alive as ever. We’re at the base of Mount Elbert, 39 miles south of where I grew up outside of Silverthorne.

My older brother Grant, my original ski partner, is with me for the day. Atop the summit, we re-create pictures from the last time we were up here, when Grant and I made the hike in the summer at ages 9 and 7, respectively. We laugh, at each other and at ourselves, as only brothers can. We select one of the Box Creek couloirs, emptying into a bowl on the east side of the mountain. I ski first, utilizing the wind-deposited snow to lessen the severity of the refrozen ice underneath. From below, I watch my older brother, whom I chased around the mountain and tried to emulate my entire childhood, make his own tracks down the chute.

Each wave of snow, carried by wind gusts upward of 50 miles per hour, erupts into spirals, shining like diamonds as the morning sun pierces through. It is beautiful, as is every view in these mountains. The Lost River Range attracts as much traffic as it has beta—which, in the winter, is almost none. Compared to the journey’s previous peaks, we are sailing into uncharted waters.

As we start up the summit ridge, the wind begins to dissipate, lessening worries of wind loading. We still ski onto the west face with caution, opting for a gully with adequate safe zones. Each turn gets better, giving us more confidence in the snowpack. Before long, it is time to open it up. We arc GS turns through eight inches of fresh, wind-deposited powder. Adam says it may have been the best run of his season. It was undoubtedly one of mine too.

One foot in front of the other; the same technique gets us up each of these peaks. I close my eyes for relief from the sun. When I open them, I realize I may have just fallen asleep, but evidently, I kept moving, as I’m 500 yards farther along.

The Uinta Mountains are east of Salt Lake City, my home for the past four years. While I have spent plenty of time in the Wasatch, this is my first time skiing in the Uintas. Four friends skin beside me, laughing as delirium sets in on the seemingly endless approach, which in the end totals nearly 28 miles roundtrip.

From the top, there are no visible signs of civilization, no roads, no towns—just mountains I have yet to ski. I cover my face with a bandanna. The slight breeze feels great across my now-bare feet, and the sun warms my tired legs. I drift to sleep, like my compatriots. Whenever we awake, it will be time to ski and finish the slog.

I lean back against a cold granite boulder. My back still hurts. The 50-pound pack I have carried all day to our campsite here at Titcomb Lakes doesn’t help. The peaks around me are gargantuan, rocketing skyward like the fingers of a god. Seven months ago, when I first came up with this quest, it was Gannett Peak that stood out as potentially the hardest. The Wind River Range is already remote, and the required 50-mile round trip was as foreboding as the size of the peaks.

It seems crazy—even for my often excessively ambitious self—that this is the place where I’m restarting my journey. I don’t feel ready; mentally, emotionally, physically, logistically. But I don’t think I will ever be. It is time to continue into the mountains, doing the one thing that has always brought me peace: Skiing.

The alarm rings at 1 a.m. Adam and I don’t say much. We just put on skins and start walking, our headlamps unnecessary thanks to the nearly full moon. As we crest Bonney Pass, the first hints of pink light up the snowfield just below the stout pyramid of the summit.

We climb, and all the dangers surrounding me—including every rock—become frighteningly obvious. I am scared.

Atop the summit are some of the best views I have ever seen, mountains so beautiful and so empty I can barely begin to wrap my mind around them. The weight of being here dawns on me. It is a great day to be alive.

The snow turns to perfect corn under the spring sun, and, for a fleeting moment in each turn, all feels right again. My back doesn’t hurt, I feel the speed and freedom of sliding on snow, and my mind stops racing. I smile.

The grizzly bear paw prints appear on the trail less than 10 minutes from the truck. This is the first time I’ve ever carried bear spray to go skiing. The Beartooth Mountains, home of Granite Peak, extend out of Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming and into Montana, and they deserve their name.

Granite is the last remaining peak on the list, and after two days of crossing streams and alpine lakes, it finally comes into view. The heaping tooth of dark rock holds true to its name. Yet, even in the middle of June, snow is still clinging to its craggy heights. Our intended route seems uncertain, so instead we opt to climb a couloir on the left side of the south face, hoping it will lead us to the summit.

It won’t. The ridge at the top of the couloir is impassable without protection and a rope, and it is too late to try our hand at a different approach. The mountain has made the decision for us.

The corn is still fun, becoming warmer toward the valley floor. We sit down on our packs, eat cheese and crackers, and pass around the beer I had carried with the intent of drinking on the summit. Thunderous noise rolls up the valley toward us, likely from a wet slide miles away. Today is a success, another day of traveling safely through beautiful mountains. This journey, this list of peaks, and this lifestyle has never been—and hopefully will never be—about summits. Wisdom can be found in those clichés, if you listen.

There is not a cloud, even a wisp of white in the sky. It is as blue as the ocean, pure, clean and beautiful. The horizon blends into a shade of indigo, revealing no distinct edge to the world. To my right is the south face of Mount Hood, which I have just scaled. To my left is the north face, and views of Mounts Adams, Rainier and Saint Helens. In front of me, the peak rolls away into an empty abyss, the Newton-Clark Headwall, where my accident occurred a mere 46 days ago.

I take the last sip of my beer, and start along the ridgeline toward the top of my line. I point toward the west; it is the direction, the feeling, the idea that gave birth to this entire journey. I click into my skis and drop in, starting down 5,000 vertical feet of perfect summer corn.

The Ski Journal - Volume Eleven, Issue Two

Eleven States, Eleven Summits Atop the American West

Issue List