Day 1
We arrived at the Philips Bench trailhead on Teton Pass, Wyoming where we would embark on the first day of the expedition deep into the Wyoming backcountry for a 40 mile trek along the Teton Crest Trail. There was time for a quick hug and a sincere “good luck boys” and then we were departing the parking lot and civilization and crossing into the wilderness beyond. My touring partner and the brains of this expedition was my good friend and professional ski guide Garion Wascher, who everyone just calls “G.” An expert in snow science and wise in the ways of ski touring, I left the majority of the planning and logistics to G’s seasoned knowledge of the Tetons. By recent standards, the Tetons were in the midst of an incredible snow season, and I was selfishly looking forward to reconnecting with my long-lost friend over a few days spent on the same skin track.
From Teton Pass we climbed upward through an old growth forest eventually finding a sustainable skinning rhythm. After a few hours of narrowly weaving through the Douglas fir, the dense forest began to unwind to snow-filled meadows. We probed further into the subalpine finally reaching the foot of a soft white hillside that stacked knoll atop knoll all the way to the skyline above. G continued breaking trail while I took the opportunity to capture our progress and the subtleties of this unknown landscape that we found ourselves in.
Slowly, we rounded onto a collection of hills with enough elevation to catch a glimpse of the expansive terrain around us, a perfect juncture to hydrate and for G to consult the map for the next section of climbing ahead of us.
“This is the farthest I’ve ever been out this way” G said, hoisting his 60L pack back onto his shoulders. Even to him, where we were headed had yet to be conquered.
We continued to climb through gentle hillocks adorned with light stands of aspens long since devoid of any vegetation. It had been four hours since we put in when I began to feel the drowning sense of fatigue in my limbs. At increased elevations your body is working twice as hard to regulate itself. Your breathing rate increases, adding a strain on your lungs. Consuming the proper carbohydrates is essential to stave of fatigue and to maintain the energy you need throughout the day. More importantly, I didn’t want G to have to listen to me complaining for the next three days. Without hesitation, I reached into my hip pouch for a snack.
We switch-backed through the trees, and the ridge grew steeper until its vertical drop afforded us an immaculate view of Housetop Mountain and the subpeaks that it connected to. By unspoken consent we both came to a stop. The next part of the expedition took us down a steep tree laden face for 800 feet. We both agreed the descent and snow quality was worthy of a transition and G confirmed what I had been hoping for: it was time to log some turns for the first time on the trip.
We ripped our skins like kids unwrapping presents searching for the best line among the trees. G dropped in first making a few hesitant turns to be sure of the snow’s stability before turning tips and charging in to enjoy a few turns in knee deep cold powder. In the grand scheme of the entire trip, it was a small ski, but just the boost we needed to keep going. It’s important to have fun. Afterward, I had the luxury of drinking a mouthful of crushed nacho cheese Doritos and G, ever the gourmand, dined on a power bar while putting his skins back on.
We were seven hours out and had spent the afternoon breaking trail through the valley floor, cresting the other side of the valley we had skied earlier, and another three-mile trek along a high alpine plateau when we closed in on our planned camp location for night one. The surrounding peaks began casting long shadows across the land and the temperature took on a gnawing chill bolstered by the occasional February wind that swept through the exposed high alpine region. Breaking trail across the final hillside, I spotted an opening at the base of a mountain in the distance that matched the description of our chosen camp – a cozy coupling of trees at a slightly higher elevation that would protect us from wind and in the rare event of an
avalanche.
With promises of a hot meal and not having to stand any longer, I hardly remember the quick journey to the site, meticulously stomping out a level platform, erecting the tent, throwing down our bedrolls, and jumping inside just as the last light of the day disappeared out of sight. There’s hardly any downtime on these types of trips as nearly every precious minute is tied to some task or operation that is crucial to survival. Once inside, we still had to melt snow for tomorrow’s drinking water and to use in our award-winning dehydrated fried rice cuisine.
After feasting, G and I crawled deeper into our sleeping bags and G took the opportunity to comment on my choice of pillow:
“Hey, Mack. You cozy over there?” He prodded making an obvious motion at the fact that I was using my folded-up skins to support my head.
“No,” I replied.
We both busted out laughing before quickly falling asleep.
Day 2
We woke from the best night’s rest one can get while sleeping two inches above a literal sheet of ice. It was as good a day as any to be ski touring; the sun was shining, and the winds howled dull and constant through the high alpine. It took the better part of an hour to break camp and chug as much water as was healthy before we set-off up the gentle shoulder of a nameless mountain.
We weren’t out long when we encountered a dramatic slice of a valley carved-out of a waterway that we would have to have to cross sooner or later. The shallow river proved just frozen enough to allow us to cross without the risk of a serious hazard. Soon enough, though, we had skipped across without much difficulty and were making great time. The fast pace didn’t last for long before we began a wordless back-and-forth punch up a steep gully, the only visible weakness to the Death Canyon Shelf we needed to gain in order to access our first major summit. At last, we spied our route: a striking ridge line that trended up to the top.
This climb was going to require all the gas left in the tank and we still had to navigate our ski down. I dug to the bottom of my food bag for a chocolate bar I had stowed for such an occasion. Feeling somewhat renewed and excited to get climbing, we charged right up the ridge until it became too steep to skin. I pulled out my camera to snap a few shots of G climbing up behind me before loading my own skis onto the pack and deploying the crampons for the most challenging section yet.
The unrelenting wind had carved the inhospitable ridge looming before us into a tight maze of ice and exposed rock. The shrill screech of our crampons against the limestone and decayed ice marked our progress upward and upward still higher just as the compounding exhaustion of touring with a 35lb pack full of everything we would need for four days sapped our strength. But there was no alternative. I managed a few yards more before yielding to exhaustion, punching my head into the crusty snow wall for a breather. When my eyes had adjusted, I noticed clusters of small shells and marine patterns protruding from the rock by the tip of my nose, a fossil – lending to the namesake of the peak I desperately clung to.
Near the top the wall, the angle decreased slightly giving us the momentum we needed to thrust onward to the true summit on Mt. Fossil’s northeast corner and what lay beyond: the great expanse of the Tetons. I take photographs for a living, a lot of photographs. The most challenging aspect of my job is translating the profound feeling of grandeur G and I were drinking into life behind the lens. G and I high fived.
As serene as the view was, we still had to navigate down off the mountain to our next intended camp spot without injury. Now, whenever I have a technical ski section ahead, I feel pretty nervous until I click into the skis. Once the boards are on, I’m transported back to the White Mountains of my childhood where conditions often include bulletproof ice. I drop in first, link a few modest turns on some wind-buffed ice, and hesitantly slide towards the mountain’s eastern ridge searching for any sort of weakness leading down to the face as G and I had planned. G’s experience told him to look for a better entry point.
“This isn’t what I expected,” I said, moving slightly closer to the edge.
“Careful, man,” G warned.
Cornices are extremely dangerous for a number of reasons. Besides the sheer and unexpected drop from a cornice, the mass of built-up ice and snow can easily break-off and trigger an avalanche. Because of the bumper snow year in the Tetons, a massive cornice now guarded our intended ski off the ridge to the face below.
Carefully backing away from the ridge, we agreed on a different plan that had us backtrack down the face slightly and ski cut beneath a massive cliff on the mountain’s south face before joining the southeastern ridge once more only lower down. This maneuver forced us to take a more modest ski off a lower point on the mountainside and added an additional hour to our descent. Happy to be safe and have some open snow ahead, we playfully dropped into the apron of Mt. Fossil.
That night, we once again relied on G’s expertise to pick a camp that would put us in a strategic position for day three. He spotted a 5-star copse of trees and, moving as fast as we could for two people who had been ski touring for eight hours, tramped down a camping platform, erected the tent, and jumped inside to watch the last light of the day bathe the mountains around us in golden light.
Day 3
Our alarms went off at 5AM. At 6AM we woke up again grumbling about which one of us came up with that brilliant idea. Breaking camp is never as easy as setting it up, but we managed to be on the trail within an hour of waking and were greeted by clear skies and strong winds. Still being at higher elevation on the Death Canyon Shelf we needed to descend off of this dominating feature before climbing another pass to find our passage back to civilization.
Our route continued upward in search of a couloir with good enough conditions to ski through. The wind howled down on us as we looked over the edge of a shelf down through a narrow granite shot.
“It’s gotta be that one,” G said, motioning to the one line down with a clear view to the otherside.
“Alright, but you’re going first,” I said, skeptically.
As stable as the conditions had been for us over the past few days, the wind had increased significantly over night, and we noted the possibility of wind loading on the funnel before the couloir itself. G ski cut above the couloir testing the snow before making the descent.
“Stable but punchy,” G relayed through the speaker of my radio, “I’m heading in.”
I watched through the lens of my camera snapping a few photos of him making jump turns until he disappeared from view in the granite gap, and ready to spring into action in case the snow should collapse. Not once during G’s entrance did I breathe. Nothing brings out the camera like the proximity of danger. Minutes went by until I heard the crackling of the radio again.
“It’s still punchy through the couloir but gets way better once you exit!” G said.
I packed my camera away, cinched down the hip strap on my pack, and dropped in. The wind had turned the snow inside the couloir to windboard which is hard enough to ski without a 35lb pack on. It was gnarly going. One by one the jump turns continued until G came into view as I reached the mouth of the granite walls on each side. As G said, the snow consistency suddenly began to get softer. Much softer. Once I was sure the snow in front of me was more approachable, I opened-up and let rip some beautiful carves.
“YOWWWWWWWW!” G was hooting from a rocky outcrop in the middle of the apron.
From there, we dropped in and made some playful turns to the base of the apron. I looked back up hill to admire the masterpiece line we had just skied and, remembering my passion, withdrew my camera to capture G enjoying what would be the major highlight of our trip.
The next stage of our journey took us to distant Hurricane Pass which we needed to enter through if we hoped to ever make it back to civilization. Seven miles of hills and valleys separated us and the pass, which made for a daunting transition back to skinning. Yet, the afterglow of an incredible descent, and with a little “Ramble On” by Led Zeppelin on the playlist that I saved to my phone before leaving cell service, had me ready to sprint the seven miles. As was tradition for any long skin of this trip, we pounded water and forced ourselves to eat whatever power bar seemed most appetizing.
Hours passed as we grew ever closer to the final climb of the day. A series of large switchbacks guarded the top of Hurricane Pass, but those too were soon behind us.
“That’s Schoolroom Glacier!” G shouted, noting the feature to our right with his pole.
Standing atop Hurricane Pass put us directly behind Grand Teton, an area we both had familiarity with. While plotting a descent line, the familiar dinging of a text message notification sprang from my bib pocket followed by endless notifications from the amassed messages I had missed over the last three days without of service. For a moment, I was back on Mt. Fossil humble before the enormity of the Tetons and my own journey.
From our vantage point at Hurricane Pass, G and I dropped in elevation until we reached a peaceful alpine forest within Cascade Canyon. Picking through the bottom of the canyon, we came across a network of frozen and open melt-water streams that we were able to drink from. If you’ve never drunk from a glacial stream, run out and do so immediately.
Having dropped thousands of feet in elevation, the sunlight vanished behind the mountains much sooner than it had during previous days. In the twilight, we once again began the ritual of stomping out a platform and constructing our tent as the third day wound to an end. Inside our remote palace, we celebrated the fortune and success of the past few days by cooking our last three dehydrated meals. Bulging with food, exhausted, and perpetually damp with sweat, we recounted the events of our expedition before eventually falling asleep.
Day 4
The bone chilling cold we experienced in the shade of Grand Teton on the final morning made breaking camp increasingly complicated. My right ski boot was so frozen that I temporarily gave up trying to put it on. But the striking stillness of the canyon and pine trees twinkling with hoarfrost that followed was worth two toes, but I could be talked up to sacrificing three. The cold made minutes feel like agonizing hours as we dramatically decreased in elevation in the widening mouth of the canyon. Suddenly, we glided out of the rigidity of Cascade Canyon and out onto the sunny expanse of frozen Lake Jenny. Stopping to pull my camera out for the last time, I captured G striding from the forest out onto the frozen lake.
It turns out that skinning is quite enjoyable when you have feeling in your limbs. We had reached the other side of the lake when the traces of civilization intruded upon the profound peace negotiated between G, nature, and I. First, we encountered a group of young college students bumbling noisily along the trail in tennis shoes. Next, the trail became a groomed Nordic track that sped our pace faster than any we’d had at any point during our expedition.
Side by side we sped over the snow toward the pick-up point reveling in past four spectacular days spent in the Wyoming backcountry doing what we both loved most in the world: skiing in the mountains among friends.
