MILE 6,725; JUNE 17; GRANITE PEAK, MT; 12,808 FEET 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. LEFT • Drew Petersen harvests June corn on the descent of Gannett Peak, WY, the most-anticipated, hardest, and most remote peak on the list. Photo: Adam Clark ABOVE • Alpine-start mornings mean brutal wake-up times, but the sunrise views make up for the misery. Drew Petersen works his way up Boundary Peak, NV, with the Great Basin of Nevada lit up far below. Photo: Adam Clark MILE 8,024; JUNE 25; MOUNT HOOD, OR; 11,250 FEET 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. I am here. And I am O.K. Atop the American West 077
The Ski Journal Volume Eleven, Issue Two: Page 77
