“Jean Michel Gouadain opening the couloir named ’portillón superior,’ the access gate to the immense glacier of Aneto, under fantastic weather.” Photo: Javier Alonso We know Aneto’s winter summit push requires the perfect combination of weather and luck. Long, open snowfields and exposed glacier offer little contrast when weather moves in, and Lafon recalls rescuing vertigo-strapped mountaineers on a ridgeline and several miles off-course. For a clean, top-to-bottom run, windows are brief, at best. The stars burn overhead as we set a crisp skin track. A wel-come cold pricks our nostrils and the wind that has held us captive for three days has finally exited stage south, buffing out any tracks. The steady climb of our headlamps is the only movement on the mountain, and we make quick time up to the catcher’s mitt surrounding La Renclusa. Alpenglow tickles the mountains across the valley. When the sun finally hits, it reveals a foot-deep white canvas in every direction. Cruising up through a silent sea of wind lips, it’s easy to see the magic that gripped Lafon as a teenager. It is starting to look like we are on our way to a private Spanish powder day in May. With the rest of the La Renclusa crowd finally stirring below us, we navigate a notch in the rock ridgeline, skiing a dogleg chute down to the final glacier. Each turn is fluid and fast, our contrails catching the early morning chill and exploding into thousands of tiny sunlit diamonds. But amid our dream state, reality starts oozing in. First, Alonso’s binding begin malfunctioning, then my skins give way. It’s not enough to derail the day, but enough to slow us down. The late-starting ski-touring crowd is closing in, and the upper-elevation winds have finally decided to kick into gear. It’s the latter that worries us as we make our way across the glacier. The long, steep lines that curve in and out of couloirs and over cliff bands have all the makings of a dorm-room movie poster, but wispy clouds are already collecting at their flanks. David’s weather warning echoes in our heads, and we know Aneto won’t protect our interests much longer. Lungs burn. Faces sting against the wind. We push higher. Gouadain and Alonso scramble over a knife-edge ridge to reach the summit, while the rest of us transition to downhill mode. Those ski lines will haunt our dreams for years to come, but we need to get out of here—now. Within minutes, our world is blinding white, lined by invisible, jagged and unwelcome cliff drops. Our banner day has been reduced to a series of tentative jump-turns. Eventually, we connect with our skin track, racing across the glacier. If we lose the keyhole in the clouds, our problems will be way worse than a couple of missed turns. Despite the growing storm, a lemming line of people is still marching up and into the white abyss. Summit or bust. Barely able to follow the fading skin track, we catch our mark in the nick of time. Climbing through the final rock crux, we pop back into the 1,500-foot bowl emptying out at La Renclusa. The whiteout temporarily blocked by a ridge, we finally get a taste of Aneto’s freeski bounty. One by one, we pin our way through a series of chutes, slashing wide airplane turns into an endless apron. Carrera relishes the speed, a rare chance for him to combine his alpine pedigree with the technicalities of the big mountain. The pitch lessens as La Renclusa comes into view, and for 750 feet we share three languages of hoots and hollers, party shredding May powder in the high Pyrenees. It’s bittersweet. This was the skiing we’d pinned our hopes on, but with storms barreling down on us, our moment was heart-achingly brief. Still, it felt good to score some tactile solace for turning back to ski another day. Finally crashing over the final rock barrier, the storm sweeps down the basin. Grabbing our gear from the hut, we bid farewell to David and his team of mountain sentinels, and push toward our valley reality. Over four days, the Pyrenees’ pinnacle had played the ultimate temptress. In the end, she didn’t give us much, but she gave us enough to start think-ing about next year. After all, those lines aren’t going to ski themselves. Aneto, Spain 051
The Ski Journal Volume 12, Issue 3: Page 51
