I stomped into my bindings, looped my poles around my wrists, and made one, two, three hop turns before BAM! I'm sliding headfirst down a couloir with my left ski riding down abreast of me. I reach out, grab it and barely arrest with my other ski. I click back in, shake off the snow crystals, and continue shredding down my first run of the season.
The morning of Halloween, a crew of thirty skiers rallied to hike, skin, and ski blade our way up into the bowl of Sacajawea Peak. We hit the base of the bowl and fanned out, smaller groups kicking their way up various couloirs and skinning up snowfields. I and my backcountry buddies of choice picked a line off of Hardscrabble Peak, an aesthetic pair of narrow couloirs that intertwined their way down. As the pitch mellowed out toward the base it turned into a tight luge run that snaked down through the field of rocks, requiring last minute ollies over strips of scree, tranny gaps, and the occasional one ski navigation. Bombing down through the trees below the bowl we stumbled upon some young jibbers in the middle of an impromptu forest rail jam. This species is normally found seshing in urban environments, but with all this climate change they're being forced into high alpine environments. They threw down on the rails while we ate their snacks... As a reformed park rat myself, I assure they didn't care, those kids were busy eating s***!
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