Here We Are Nowhere

Submitted by: James on: 14 September 2010 - 04:39pm

In the game of ski mountaineering, doubt is part of the game. Weather and snow conditions count for everything, whether you're trying to find pow or nail a spring corn descent. As we inch closer to winter (this past week saw snow coat peaks throughout many parts of the West), here's a story from Jeff down in Jackson, WY, about the game many of us play, and how questions about achieving the day's goal can make nailing it that much sweeter.

“Are we even on the South Teton?”

It was a legitimate question. Five of us had climbed the south fork of Garnet Canyon to summit the South and ski into Avalanche Canyon. I was attempting the Southeast Couloir with two others, a long precipitous hourglass that pinches to a sliver before opening its walls far below. Our two friends would descend the broad, concaved southeast face, meeting below at the confluence. We endured the wind, but the visibility was taking its toll.

Earlier that year I had the privilege of backcountry skiing for a week with veteran alpinist Dave Nettle, whose enthusiasm and reason could propel any group into success in the mountains. One of his mountain adages stuck with me, “Don’t turn back because of weather; make the weather turn you back.” It was little obtuse, but I think I understood his meaning. The wind sucked; there was no getting around it. But it didn’t shut us down. Garnet Canyon is a funnel, and the gusts nearly prevailed. We believed that if we got out of the gut, and onto the ridge, the wind would subside.

Indeed it did, but the fog came. Clouds closed in, obscuring any landmarks that could provide our location. We agreed that going up was better than descending back into the wind-scraped scree fields. Why not continue? We knew we were on or near the summit, although skiing off a peak into one of the most challenging descents in the Teton Range wasn’t very alluring. Did we miss the summit and top out on some neighboring spire? Was that even possible? I’ve heard stories of ski guides heading south from the Jackson Hole Mountain Resort in a whiteout and upon traversing back inbounds, passed through the entire ski area, finding themselves two canyons to the north, never believing they’d reached the resort.

“Let’s dust off the rocks and see if we can find the U.S. registry marker.” Five men ditched their packs and spread apart, each brushing snow off what they thought was the highest point on the chunk of rocks.

“Got something,” I said, pointing to the naked bolt rising from the boulder.”

“What the hell is that?” said one of them.

“I think it’s where the marker was.”

Looking north we could see the Grand and the Middle, but to the south, there was nothing, the guts of a milk jug. Despite the fog, only a hint of breeze presented itself. We could wait this out. Donning down jackets, we ate food and transitioned for the downhill. Forty minutes passed before our position became clear.

Back at the trailhead we could still make out our tracks, especially the two down the southeast face. At any point we could’ve turned around and had a different story to tell at the bar. Instead, I’ll have something to tell Dave Nettle the next time I see him.