Sawtooth Range
“Heads up! Heads up!” I yell as I brace myself for impact. The notoriously unpredictable mountain wind suddenly picks up, and shifts, sending a massive spindrift cascading off the towering couloir walls and straight towards our group. We all stuff our ice axes into the disturbingly soft snow, and lower our heads. The cold, white river suddenly hit us, flowing through our arms, and packing snow into the holes in our helmets. The roaring is overwhelming, and we can do nothing but focus on staying put and letting it pass. Cold hands grip the axe shafts, stuck in place.
It’s over as soon as it had started. Picking our heads up, I run a quick check to see if everyone is ok and accounted for. Travis. Liam. Steve. Chapman. Nash. Everyone is safe, and on high alert.
We quickly begin our conversation, weighing the options. Do we try to transition now, even though the couloir is currently 55+ degrees and about 200 cm wide? Or do we continue on to the top (which is approximately 200 vertical feet ahead), transition out of the spindrift's potential flight path, and drop one at a time? The consensus is to keep moving, so a fresh trailbreaker takes the lead in order to keep the pace, and we continue on.
We swim our way through the steep and unbelievably deep snow, occasionally using our chins to punch a bit more of the white wall out of the way. After what seems like thousands of feet, we spot the top of the line. It looks like that wind has taken a toll on the saddle as well, depositing a good amount of wind loading in our potential transition zone. We stop, and prepare to begin our descent. In position to go first, Travis carefully removes his skis from his pack, strips his crampons off his boots and opts for another layer. Cursing himself for not throwing leashes on his skis, Chapman helps him navigate his boots into the tiny pins. In order to be completely ready in case of an emergency, I quickly repeat the process, and transition before he starts skiing.
Facing the wall on skier’s right, Travis side-slips into the chute, completely committing. As we suspect, the freshly deposited snow instantly releases, rocketing down the couloir, and leaving us with a nice, firm, safe(ish) top section. I nervously laugh, and let out a fart to release the tension. Continuing down, Trav slips, and throws in the occasional spicy jump turn, carrying him out of our view. Still in contact via radio, he skis out of the narrow part, into the apron and out of danger. My turn.
Keeping my head on a swivel for more spindrift, I slip through the crux. My heart rate intensifies, and I can hear myself breathing like a horse. Each jump turn feels like an olympic caliber move. I eventually get through the choke and get to open it up. My legs are burning pushing my small skis through the deep snow, and I feel the lactic acid building. Eventually reaching Trav, we both continue all the way out and to safety. We were soon joined by Liam and Steve, while Chapman waited to take up the rear with the radio. He leaves it on so that we can hear everything that happens. We hear him make it through the choke and he starts to turn a bit more freely. The mood instantly changes, and we hear an “oh fuck” ping through the open radio line. That familiar rumbling of spindrift met our ears, and we were left in a moment of uncertainty as Chap fought through the loose snow. Instinctively we all throw our skins back on and start our way back to the couloir. We suddenly hear him come back over the radio. Audibly shaken, but unharmed, he gathers himself, and escapes from the couloir. I take my first breath in what felt like ages, and watch him make turns towards us.
We all group up, hug each other, and take off towards our home for the week; a yurt with a woodburning hot tub deep in the Sawtooth mountains. Struggling to see through the thickening storm, my mind wanders. I start to dream about my warm sleeping bag and whiskey. Lots of whiskey.
