The Commute

The clouds beginning to open Wednesday night, a sign of the clear weather to come. (97/365)

What am I doing here? Alone. My skis on a sheet of ice that's rippled like sand on a beach, but solid, slick and peppered with boulders, sloping away in front of me, disappearing as it rolls over the lip of Tuckerman's Ravine, the sun behind me getting low, casting my long shadow over the edge, into the abyss. 

The weather had been up and down all week. Fog, blowing snow and high winds, the elements bottled us into Madison Col and wouldn't let us out. We hunkered down and worked, logging 35 hours in three days. Thursday morning, getaway day, the end of our shift. We'd work until lunch, pack our bags and head home. As the sun came up it was clear, this day would not be like the others. The lid had lifted. Cloudless skies and snow covered mountains, blue on white, squinting in the glare at the peaks above and valleys below, the pull was irresistible. Adventure. 

Madison hut under clear blue skies Thursday morning (98/365)

The idea had been discussed. A traverse of the Northern Presidential Range to Mt. Washington and then a ski run down to Pinkham. Up and out of Madison Col, along Mt. Adams to Thunderstorm Junction, around Sam Adams and over Adams 5 to Edmands Col, up the snowfields onto Mt. Jefferson, around the summit cone to Monticello's Lawn, down into Sphynx Col, skirt the summit of Mt. Clay and then up, across the cog railroad tracks and the home stretch to the summit of Mt. Washington. Strap on your skis, point them off the summit, carve some turns to the top of Tuckerman's Ravine, drop in and hold on, ski it to the floor of the ravine, hit the Sherburne trail and ski your way home, a 4,200 vertical foot ski-run home to Pinkham Notch. Work week over. 

By our 10 a.m. coffee break I was committed. The others were wavering, but I was in. I called the front desk at Pinkham and got the avalanche report for Tuckerman's: moderate danger, natural avalanches unlikely, human triggered possible, Left Gully and Hilman's Highway were the safest routes down.  Later, from the top of Tucks, I could see Left Gully and Hillman's, both untracked and filled with snow. They didn't look good. 

Leaving the hut Thursday.

Still surveying my route, a gust of wind blew from the west, hitting my back and sending a river of snow racing along the ice, hovering just off the ground, moving like water and pouring into the ravine. Was there a reason no one had skied the Hillmans or the left Gully while the entire right side of the ravine, to my left, was tracked with ski turns? I trusted my instincts and ignored the report I had gotten earlier in the day, opting to ski the rightside of the Ravine. 

My legs long since exhausted and my pack yanking at my shoulders, I unweight my edges, allowing my skis to cut a traverse to my left and slightly downhill towards the darkness of Tucks. They chattered as I dug my edges in, avoiding a premature slide over the edge, hunting for a safe place to drop in and commit to a route.

That morning I had finished up some work and ate lunch before heading out the door. Ryan, the caretaker at Gray Knob had hiked over to say hello and decided to hike along with me for the stretch to Edmands Col, where he'd have to peel off and head back to his hut. I had my usual load of pack-out gear, clothes, my book, my camera, with additional water, an ice ax, avalanche shovel, ski googles, and extra clothes added on for the bonus trip. Plus, my skies lashed to the side with compression straps and my boots clipped into the bindings. I realized only later that my pack weighed a ton, but throwing it on my back under the blue sky, sucking in the easy-breathing mountain air, I didn't notice. 

Taking a break at Thunderstorm Junction

After leaving Ryan in Edmands Col I began to feel the work of the trek for the first time. My pack began to weigh down my shoulders, heat was building in my quads, and fire had been lit in my calves, burning as I kicked the toe points of my crampons into the steep slope, climbing up and out of the Col. I could see a black dot on skis traversing Sam Adams towards Edmands, following my route. I figured it was Tristan or Tom who were both supposed to be catching me by Washington and joining me for the ski, but from that point on I never saw anyone else. I was alone. 

Walking alone from Jefferson, around Clay to the summit cone of Washignton, I kept checking the ridge behind me, looking for Tom and Tristan. I wanted them to catch me. That was the plan. I didn't want to ski Tucks alone, but by the looks of it, I wasn't going to have a choice. As I trudged up Washington, I began to get the feeling of the surreal. The window blew uphill from behind, throwing up ground blizzards of snow against the blue sky. I'd kick in my toes and work my way up, then stop, taking quick breaks, leaning on my ski poles, catching my breath, and still checking the ridge behind me for signs of company. Still no one. 

I didn't stay on the summit for long, just enough to enjoy having it to myself—a rarity. I was wet from sweat and the wind was starting to give me a chill as it blew chunks of ice from the summit towers. It was beautiful weather for Mt. Washington, but I still didn't feel comfortable , given the solitude, time of day,  my level of exhaustion and what still lay ahead. I hiked off the summit enough to find shelter from the wind, took off my pack on an icy slope and untied my hiking boots. It was time to change into my ski gear. 

My feet had swollen from the long hike, and it took me over a 20 minutes to get my ski boots on, each one taking a combination of prying, yanking and, on the icey slop, standing and stomping. They're old boots from high school, and are tough to get on in a ski lodge, let alone at 6000' on an icy slop in 40 mph winds and blowing snow. I managed, then repacked my bag, slung it onto my back and stepped into my bindings. Down. Off the summit and to the rim of Tucks where the real fun was to begin. 

Once skiing, the planks on my feet didn't want to turn. I had to fight my body and pack through each move. I wasn't even in the Ravine and I was already survival skiing. It wasn't pretty. I was nervous. Get down. Get home.  

I cut to the right of the ravine, over the rippled ice, into the shadows and over the edge. I made a long traverse over the steepest pitch, knowing full well I'd eventually have to point my skis downhill, make turns—ski. 

The snow was awful. It had warmed in the afternoon sun, but now, at 6 p.m. it was in the shadows and frozen solid into deep, rugged granular. It was like skiing on a combination of big rocks and sand, both of which grabbed your skis, not wanting to let them turn. It was the worst snow I'd ever skied, on a slope that felt vertical, with blocks of crusted snow cascading down the ravine as I jumped from turn to turn. I made it. The floor of the ravine. My legs wanted to explode. I wanted to be done. I hit the drainage and joined the Sherburne trail. The home stretch to Pinkham. I made it. 

I don't remember much else from the day, I had hit a drunken form of exhaustion I didn't expect. Tristan was waiting in the Pinkham parking lot. He had bailed on the traverse shortly after leaving the hut. Tom had continued on, but we both presumed he bailed as well somewhere along the way. 

Matt gave me a ride from Pinkham to my truck and I drove the two hours home to North Yarmouth where Stacey was waiting. Honey I'm home. Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a bitch.