The Ski Journal - Volume 17, Issue 2
THE BEAUTIFUL DETAILS: Only the Necessities in the Alaska Range
Words: Michelle Parker 2023-10-30 08:06:49
Alaskan team portrait after a few too many days on the glacier. Could have been better, but heck, could have been worse too. From left to right: Elena Hight, Rafe Robinson, Michelle Parker and Robin Van Gyn. Photo: Leslie Hittmeier
It was a trophy of a line, a beautiful spine that split into two like a wishbone, with a couple of exposed turns before the exit. Elena Hight and I had been eyeing it since we set foot in the heart of this Alaskan wilderness and today was the day. Setting off to climb directly up this extremely steep face, we’d chosen this route because of its safe approach. We would be on a high point for the entire climb without the overhead hazards of looming ice and unpredictable rockfall. Robin Van Gyn and Shane Treat set off in a different direction, which required tricky navigation with a hanging serac to the climber’s right, cornices and exposure below.
Ours was a striking line and looked to be holding the best snow around. We knew our weather window was short, and it felt like a divide-and-conquer-type of morning.
We started the climb wearing little more than our base layers. It was odd to be climbing in the heat, but we were confident with our ascent, continuing until we hit faceted snow atop unforgiving rock. Our pace slowed, each of us taking at least an hour to make it up the first pitch. We were soaked to the bone. Two steps up and one back. It was the last day of our last trip filming for Arc’Teryx’s Continuum and we wanted this one last shot. Hungry to score before the sun baked the mountains around camp, we ascended into uncertainty.
We were here with only the “necessities”—a couple of baseball mitts, a furry companion, a disco ball, some tents and a stash of food—and the team we built to get the job done.
While I love being able to work from the Sierra surrounding my Lake Tahoe home, there’s only one destination on my mind every single season: Alaska. And I’m not alone. It has a mystical, uncharted allure that skiers and snowboarders the world over can relate to. Over the course of my 20 years of skiing professionally, I’ve been to the Final Frontier a number of times. I’ve failed miserably at getting film-worthy shots, I’ve been taken out by my sluff; I’ve gotten lost in my line. I’ve also learned from each of those experiences, eventually garnering the skill set required to ski Alaskan lines with confidence and precision. At this point in my ongoing development, I seek more from these experiences. This year I wanted to combine all of the skills I had acquired and put them to use without the ease of a helicopter, instead relying on a ski plane to get us in and our own two feet to get us up. Continuum, our human-powered film project, represented a chance for an even greater challenge. Getting dropped off on top is only half (or arguably less) of that challenge, and I was eager to experience the whole thing.
Taking the lead on this expedition—my fifth human-powered trip to Alaska—I was in charge of building my dream team. I landed on Robin Van Gyn and Elena Hight, two talented snowboard athletes and extremely close friends—people I have spent years with in the mountains. I also knew we needed a few of the best cinematographers who can keep it light. I tapped my partner, Aaron Blatt, to be the photographer. Ben Hoiness was our lead guide, and Shane Treat—someone I call upon for all of my big human-powered missions—signed on as our base camp manager. Oh, and we brought Shane’s dog, Ama, for cuddles.
Our scout flight was dismal. Weeks of planning hadn’t prepared us for Alaska’s weird winter and the sorry state of the Alaska Range. Wind-stripped mountains held few spines and lots of rock. Travis Rice had kindly provided the beta for our trip, dropping a few pins on Google Earth, but he couldn’t control the weather. We flew northwest for rumored powder stashes and eventually found an elevated zone off the Dall Glacier. With views of Mt. Russell in the distance, this would be our new home for the foreseeable future.
Approaching from the bottom takes more time, patience, understanding and experience. In other words, it makes you slow down.
As the plane took off, silence took over. We were here with only the “necessities”—a couple of baseball mitts, a furry companion, a disco ball, some tents and a stash of food—and the team we built to get the job done. Despite the ominous flight in, the snow was actually relatively intact and stable. In Alaska, that means a few signs of old avalanches, massive overhead hazards to navigate and mountains to unlock, but it was a promising start. Approaching from the bottom takes more time, patience, understanding and experience. In other words, it makes you slow down.
Move too fast and you’ll notice less—the world loses depth and aspect, and it’s harder to absorb and learn from your surroundings. But moving slowly brings things into focus. Aren’t those the details that make life beautiful? They’re also the things that keep you alive, especially in the high alpine.
A day into the trip, with thought, foresight and intentional steps up the skintrack, we gained elevation through the one route not guarded by giant cornices. This gave us access to prized lines and would occupy us for a couple of days. The whole time I was thinking to myself about how amazing it would be to have an additional 10 feet of snow. Our zone would have been world-class. But alas, we toiled on neighboring peaks only to find pure ice and firm conditions. Still, the main lines were stacked with decent-enough snow, but it was hard to ride gracefully. When you drop into a line with variable conditions, it’s difficult to ski it nonstop with speed. We were making a movie after all, which meant the style with which you ski is crucial to the final product. I don’t prioritize this when hazards loom and I am concerned about my well-being, but it does make me ski faster and more fluidly when I can. This wasn’t one of those times.
We checked off the main face and set our eyes on bigger objectives and more complicated approaches. After a few days of sun and warmth, we were more worried about the above-head hazards. I made the call to get onto the bigger stuff as soon as possible. After that day, it was forecasted to be too warm and too dangerous to try.
Sometimes the mountain doesn’t truly show itself until you are on it.
That’s how Elena and I found ourselves perched in the crosshairs of our dream line, our radio crackling with calls from Robin and Shane, who were just out of sight. Sluff had ripped down the runnels as they had moved onto the face. The mountains were shedding and Robin and Shane turned and bailed back to camp.
Sometimes the mountain doesn’t entirely show itself until you are on it. Reading the signs from a safe place to make those decisions, we regrouped before making a move to the right, a shift that would put us over exposure as the heat of the day approached. A brief, honest discussion between Elena and myself made for an easy decision to turn and point downhill.
Elena strapped in and ski cut the face below. Predictably, a lot of snow moved, uncovering an icy layer beneath. When you are flashing a line, skiing it fast, these small intricacies don’t bother you as much, but when you are descending slowly and carefully, it came seem more dangerous. When you go slow, you notice the texture of the snow surface and the steepness because you have time to think about it. We made it off the face safely and rejoiced in the low-angle powder turns below.
This moment of decision-making and moving intentionally as a team solidified our trust more than years of successfully ridden lines ever could. We laughed our way back to camp and embraced—content with our effort, communication and teamwork. We made it nowhere close to the top, but to say no, and to turn and do so as a group is a beautiful thing—a nice reminder that the mountains call the shots.
Back at camp, a quick weather check confirmed that in the coming days more warmth would blanket the range before a massive storm would wreak havoc on the mountains. With predicted high winds, rain and snow on the way, we packed our bags quickly to catch the last sunny flight back to civilization. We didn’t see the day as a failure, but rather a series of good calls and a safe return.
We gorged on the rest of the food (including a whole pie), and drank all of the spirits to lighten the load. The northern lights danced in the black sky as our disco ball spun and our tent filled with laughter well into the night. While we would have loved to have stayed longer, these mountains wouldn’t be the same if they didn’t leave us wanting more.
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