Driving up a snow-covered road, ponderosas encrusted in white, creeks draped in blankets of powder, I wind up the canyon in anticipation of what’s ahead. It’s January fourth, still considered early season for a backcountry ski outing in Colorado’s Front Range—the string of cities at the eastern foot of the Rockies. But it’s snowing now, and that’s a good start. I just hope there’s enough to cover the rocks—the “sharks” as we call them—that lurk dangerously beneath the surface, ready to strike an unsuspecting skier at any time.
I reach the neo-hippie town of Nederland, then point left toward Rollinsville, where a dirt road meanders west. From here, it’s another ten miles up the unplowed road to Moffat Tunnel, where I’ll start my first ski tour of the season. The wind starts to howl and the snow falls sideways, gaining intensity the closer I get. Rollinsville is always windy. It blows all winter and never stops. Fortunately, my tour is largely in the trees. All will be peaceful once I’m sheltered beneath the towering pines. But right now, as I bore my truck through ten inches of wind-drifted snow, the scene looks like a blizzard. Not exactly enticing.
The usual thoughts creep through my mind. What the hell am I doing in this whiteout? When I get to the trailhead, will I even want to get out of the truck? That’s always the worst part.
I reach the old train tunnel at the road’s end and shut off the engine. My aging Tacoma shakes and groans in the blowing snow. Another party of skiers has arrived before me. I watch them struggle to put on ski boots and climbing skins in the sideways wind. Dropping a piece of gear in these conditions could be disastrous. The storm would swallow it in a heartbeat. I guzzle the last of my coffee and bundle up inside the truck with gloves, hat, goggles, neck gator, and a Gore-Tex jacket. Then I step out into the chaos.
Quickly and methodically, I step into my ski boots, click into skis, strap on a pack, and race toward the shelter of the pines. I keep my head down like a praying monk, desperately trying to prevent my hood from blowing off and exposing bare skin. Two minutes go on like this, then four. I glance up, see the trees now taller, wider, closer. I put my head back down and push for another minute before reaching their secret world and slip beneath their branches. There, I stop, drop my hood, and let out a deep sigh of relief. Snow falls gently now through a silent forest. I’ve found my sanctuary in the pines.
Six inches of new snow covers a path where others have skied: two parallel ruts that will lead me west into the James Peak Wilderness. Dime-sized snowflakes drift between the pines as I begin my climb into the winter wonderland. I’ve missed this feeling. This unique sensation of gliding on snow.
For those unfamiliar, backcountry skiing can be seen as a combination of cross-country and downhill skiing. My original gear consisted of long skinny skis that could go up and down moderate hills, combined with leather footwear that resembled hiking boots. As gear improved, I upgraded to shorter, wider skis capable of climbing mountains, plus stiff, plastic boots for maximum control on steep descents. Amazingly, my backcountry gear today is nearly as light as my original setup—yet far more capable, allowing me to explore further, deeper, higher into the mountains. To go uphill, I use “climbing skins” that stick to the bottom of my skis—they’re an old invention, originally using strips of real animal fur to provide snowshoe-like traction on steep climbs. Now skins are synthetic, easily applied and removed from skis depending on your direction of travel. When they’re on, you can glide forward but you’ll be stopped from going backward as each tiny hair raises and catches onto the snow crystals. The first time I tried climbing skins on a slope, the sensation was magic, as though I was rising above the laws of physics.
I ascend the winding ski trail, which is actually nothing more than a hiking trail covered with snow. Moving through the enchanted forest, I wake muscles that haven’t been used since last season. Time to get in shape after the holidays. Too much food, alcohol, no exercise. This happens every December. The month of gluttony. Oh well, back to Mother Nature’s gym. Backcountry skiing is my winter workout program. I can already feel the strain in my legs, the burn in my arms from using my poles. It’s a good thing I’m out early in the season, preparing for our big trip later this month to the San Juan Mountains. My wife and I have spent the past two winters in that steep and rugged mountain range in southwest Colorado, and we’ve only scratched the surface of what its backcountry paradise holds.
For the past two seasons, we’ve house-sat a friend’s cabin tucked deep in the forest. That arrangement ended last year, when she finally moved there for good. Can’t blame her for wanting to reside in the San Juans full time. Once those mountains grab hold of you, they never let go—calling incessantly upon your soul to return. Fortunately, the book business has been good this year, and we’ve reserved our own place for the 2023 season. Things seem to have a way of working out when we follow our passions. We’ve also planned to rent out our condo on a site that caters to travel nurses. These folks need fully-furnished accommodations for three-month stints at a time, and it just so happens our condo is right across the street from the hospital in Boulder. We don’t yet have a renter, but we’re hopeful one will come through and provide us extra income during our winter sojourn.
Over the spring and summer, I started plotting potential ski tours on my topographic maps. The San Juans are Colorado’s largest range, encompassing over 12,000 square miles of mountainous terrain, an area larger than Massachusetts and Rhode Island combined. Unlike this snow-covered hiking trail, the San Juans are open country. Rather than following pre-existing routes, you make your own.
Many think winter closes the wilderness, but really it opens up the backcountry. Snow covers boulder fields, downed trees, rushing creeks, and other obstacles that make cross-country travel difficult or otherwise impassable in summer. Of course, you must be aware of the hazards: avalanches, terrain traps, frostbite, hypothermia, and other dangers. But over the last twenty years, I’ve acquired the skills necessary to travel safely in these winter conditions, or relatively so given snow’s unpredictable nature. I’ve taken avalanche courses, completed winter survival training, and been certified in wilderness first aid. The backcountry isn’t exactly the place inexperienced wanderers should be roaming about, particularly in winter. Necessary precautions must be taken. One should never venture out without planning to be stranded overnight. In my pack, I carry various essentials such as dry clothing, a space blanket, a small shovel which can be used to dig a snow shelter, a lighter, waterproof matches, and a fire starter. As a backup, I also carry a PLB (personal locator beacon) which can send an SOS signal to search and rescue if I’m injured and can’t make it back with my own power. This, however, is a last resort. An insurance policy I hope to never use. There is no substitute for common sense in the backcountry, and I always adhere to rule number one: Tell someone where I’m going and when I’ll return—so they can send help if I don’t make it back.
The trail forks before me, and I take a right. It forks again, and I take a left. Along the way, I pay close attention to unique features and landmarks, how different drainages funnel into one another. I have the luxury of leaving ski tracks in the snow, but these are quickly erased during a storm, especially with winds like this. You can’t rely solely on such tracks to get you back. Inside my parka is a detailed topographic map of the area along with a compass. I’m reluctant to rely on GPS units and fancy cell phone apps, as these gadgets can easily freeze up, malfunction, or loose battery in cold temperatures. Technology can certainly make our lives easier, but to rely on it completely is foolish.
My trail steepens as I climb toward the Continental Divide, the midline of the Rockies, which separates North America’s watersheds. Snowmelt on the west side drains toward the Pacific Ocean. The east side flows toward the Atlantic. This divide may separate our continent’s waterways, but it also brings people together. Each year, hundreds of hikers attempt a 3,100-mile pilgrimage along the Continental Divide National Scenic Trail, from Canada all the way to Mexico.
Today’s ski tour was intended to be a warm-up, but the higher I climb, the deeper and fluffier the snow becomes, enticing me to wander further into the wilderness than I’d planned. The newly fallen snow feels as light as goose feathers, and my skis glide efficiently through the fluff. The only thing that worries me is the return trip, when I’ll point my skis down and have to weave through these tight trees on my steep descent. Being the first outing of the season, I hope my dormant skills will awaken.
In two hours, I reach tree line at 11,000 feet. Leaving the protection of the pines, I glide into open terrain, back into the howling storm. In such whiteout conditions, I can’t see the surrounding terrain, nor establish any possible hazards that could put me in danger. Though I’d like to explore the open bowls ahead, I decide to play it safe and turn back.
Nestled in the trees again, I rip off my climbing skins, fold the sticky glue sides in, and stow them in my pack. Before angling my skis downhill, I take a long swig of water and pray my muscle memory will return for the steep descent. Whoosh—and away we go, squeezing through the trees in what feels like bottomless powder. This feeling, as always, exhilarates beyond belief. I holler, lean in to make my first turn, and it comes naturally, effortlessly, leaving a clean arc in its wake. My rhythm is loose and fluid as I thread another and another and another. Sheets of diamonds spray off the backs of my skis like fairy dust in the wind. Swift as a bounding rabbit, I leap down the slope in great explosions of cold smoke. An uncontrollable grin warms my frozen face, spreading from ear to ear. After too much time spent indoors, my inner child has finally come out to play. Time to fly like a bird. Dance like the wind.
I pause to catch my breath at the edge of a crest in the silence of the pines. I look around at the delicately falling snow, the sparkling trees, the overwhelming peacefulness that blankets the forest. The contrast from movement to stillness creates a sense of anticipation, like Mother Nature is about to divulge some hidden truth. Not unlike when a minister pauses before delivering an important sermon. Such silence is luxurious, where time is halted and a moment seems like an eternity. I drop through the woods like a shadow. Here, but ethereal.