TOP TO BOTTOM Third night, happy to be at camp before dark, enjoying hot tea, a nice sunset and a great adventure close to home. On day three, we toured up from the top of Alta’s Supreme lift in powder and raging wind, then skied the backside of Devil’s Castle in warm temps and corn snow. THAT NIGHT AT the Alta patrol shack, with its benches, heat and stove, felt like luxury accommodations. We drank water without having to melt snow, dried our skins and damp gear and, instead of dehydrated meals, ate fresh food with beer and cookies for dessert. We discarded anything we didn’t need. What we left behind could easily be skied down to the road, and with unexpected fatigue already on day two, every gram of excess weight was worth shedding. I even ditched my watch and small deodorant. Lani got rid of the team tooth-paste. That night in the warmth of the hut, sleep came easily. I awoke with a pounding headache and shaking chills. Lani had been up most of the night with active bowels—the result of going from a mostly vegetarian diet to eating a hardy pot roast for dinner. We moved slower that morning—maybe it was the comforts of a warm hut causing us to slow down to sit and enjoy our coffee, or maybe it was because we were both distracted by physiological distress. But as we topped out on East Castle, the warm light and sparkling, wind-whipped snow helped us pop back to life, suddenly chatty as we looked out over the waking canyon. Technically, the WURL continues on the ridge through both Alta Ski Area and Snowbird. Both ski areas had granted us passage through their terrain as long as we were beyond their boundaries before they opened. Tired, and opting to avoid any unnecessary rush, we skied south around the resorts and up Mary Ellen Gulch, eventually reconnecting with the ridge. Both Adam and I were familiar with most of the trip’s terrain—until that day. Adam had never skied or hiked this zone, and I had never even looked at it, always gazing toward bigger peaks. This sliver of the Wasatch, which sits literally on the corner of the map, is hard to access without traveling through one of the resorts or driving two hours from the city to approach from the small town of Alpine. However, on our unique path, we were conveniently already done with the approach, and only needed to make it to our final stashed camp. From there, we had the whole third day to wander our way through this new zone. Off the ridge we skied frozen corn, but as we dropped in elevation, the snow transformed into creamy turns. We raced through the aspens, one after another, our tracks carving in and out of the shadows. With a beating sun and blue sky, we wove our way over a saddle and up the valley, and as morning turned into afternoon, we found our way back to the ridge. From the barren summit of the American Fork Twin Peaks we stared into Snowbird, bustling with activity and noise. With just a step back into the meadow, we were alone again, the high alpine skyline cutting us off from the crowds below. TWO DAYS PRIOR , standing on Twin Peaks and drawing our route, we had worried we might be in over our heads. But our confidence grew with each summit. We had peeled back new layers of a canyon that I assumed had few surprises left, and, as we ripped skins for our final descent back to camp, the uncertainty had faded, replaced with renewed motivation. The plan had been to finish the traverse skiing the northeast face of Lone Peak. Steep and covered in rocks and cliffs, the face juts abruptly into the sky, with indiscernible shadows and ramps. It sometimes doesn’t even look skiable. However, in good snow years like 2020, a chute drops from the notched summit. While it ends in a cliff, it is skiable by navigating hard skier’s right at the bottom. An exposed and classic Wasatch line, with a long approach and serious consequence, it is one of the golden carrots of the range. Tempting, technical and daunting. But on our last day, the decision was easy. With poor visibility and an oncoming storm, paired with fatigue, we headed down Bells Canyon toward the safety of Salt Lake. We’d stood atop 14 summits, skiing 37 miles, and 17,500 vertical feet. Still, we weren’t quite ready to reenter the world. So, in between snippets of reminiscences, we ignored the world below for just a little while longer. Wurl 065
The Ski Journal Volume 14, Issue 3: Page 65
