Mt. Moran

1700 Words

I don’t really know how I became friends with Will. He was just one of those people I ran into enough times that we realized we must have similarities to warrant becoming friends, or at least enough to go for a climb. We did some small climbs around Bozeman, including one ascent of Genesis II that ended in some week long frost nip on my left hand. We had continued hanging out, but had always wanted to do something more than a small day of climbing, but alas time marched on and eventually Will had moved away down to Jackson. We had managed to stay in touch, but the burden of a five hour drive kept us apart to no avail. That was until a chance May weekend had cleared, and the stars aligned for a possible ascent of the classic Mt. Moran couloir, an old school mountaineering line we hoped to ski. Minor problems included my snowboarding skills, which suffered inadequacies due to my few months of experience after getting rid of my skis, a time crunch which included driving to Jackson, climbing the peak, getting down the peak, and driving home all without sleep, and of course the omnipotent fear of avalanches and general mountain danger. With these in mind I packed basic snacks, a lunch, my snowboard gear, and a few beers and took off on the drive once I had gotten out of class for the day.

The drive went smoothly, and soon I was nearing Driggs Idaho and enjoying the teeth like mountains off to my left. The grand stood proudly amongst its companions, but of course my eyes focused on my own objective, the solitary Mt. Moran. Blanketed with snow and still rather far away, it was impossible to tell how steep any portion of the mountain would be, and besides, I was only viewing it from the back side, opposite of our desired route. But regardless I continued to bounce my eyes between the ever twisting road and the broad white peak, finally making it into town where Will now lived.

After some weaving and u-turns I finally found Will’s house, a modest spot adorned with bikes, kayaks and other tell-tale signs of mountain-going folk. I approached the house and, after a short knock, met Will in his new home. We got to catching up, enjoyed reminiscing, and began to plan our ascent. I slowly shuffled in gear, and after brief considerations, we paired down what we thought we might want to just what we thought we might need. As neither of us are very gear focused, our considerations included which antique bamboo poles would be best, or such issues as which non-snowboarding boots would be best for me and my boot-less self. I had bought the cheapest board I could find, and to match the frugality of the board I had paired them with my bright yellow ice climbing boots. A choice that Will and I thought was perfect, despite other more enthusiast boarders letting me know I looked like an idiot. My response to that was easy: if the boots were what was making me look foolish my snowboarding skills must be improving fast!

As we finished our packing and preparations, Will remembered he had told a friend who was moving away that we would stop by before leaving to the mountain. With the going away party not starting til ten that night, we were left only an hour or so to sleep, or at least lie horizontal and act like we were sleeping. As the alarm buzzed us out of our hour of silence, we shouldered our packs, grabbed our boards, and headed off into the cold night. After loading what little gear we had packed into the open bed of my truck, we warmed up the car and continued out the few blocks away to the friends’ house.

Shortly after parking, I could hear the low bass of music and the lively chatter of a good time. As the garage side door opened, my eyes were met with a small but jovial crowd and a procession of greetings towards Will. What I had pictured as a small stop on the way to the climb, slowly morphed and progressed into an outing of its own. Over an hour and a half passed by as we chatted, listened to music, and enjoyed the party. As the clock neared midnight, and others had started to head home, we made our goodbyes and got back in the truck. We continued out of the small side streets and turned south onto the two lane highway that headed down towards Jackson.

Snow dusted the dormant fields and the full moon cast a faint shadow on the road from our car. The hour or so drive passed quickly, and with no traffic we were able to buzz through the National Park adjacent road and find our parking spot aside the lake we planned to cross for our approach. We donned our headlamps and loaded a small sled to drag our gear, and began the long and flat skin across the frozen expanse of Jackson Lake.

The monotony of the lake made for a somewhat meditative skin. Miles in every direction stood perfectly still, and despite our constant motion it felt as if we were not walking at all. We could make out the outline of the mountain at the far side of the lake, and our days path appeared in full from our moonlit vantage point. Hours ran by, and soon we found ourselves nearing the opposite edge of the lake, crawling  up the last few feet of steep snow drift that had blown across the tundra. After some brief confusion and map consultation we located a faint skin track, barely breaking through the frozen crust, and continued through the trees towards the toe of the snowfield. As we passed through the tree line, we saw three headlamps above us, slowly zigzagging their way up the upper echelons of the route. Time continued to pass, and soon after the wisps of early morning light began to wake up across the distant horizon. Upon reaching the bottom of the final panhandle, the sun appeared in full and blasted the previously cold and inhospitable terrain in a bath of golden warmth. What was first met with jubilation quickly turned sour, as the sun had added so much new heat that ice patches clinging to the surrounding cliff faces lost their grip. The ever tightening couloir quickly began to echo with the raucous sound of ice and rock peeling off the high alpine faces above us. Soon after, the crew of three buzzed past us, having not made the summit due to the inclement and the ever worsening conditions. I could tell Will was itching for the summit, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I got hurt I would really feel like I had let myself down. It became a classic fork in the road moment, where Icarus would decide how close to the sun he wished to venture. In the end we backed off. We had gotten close enough to taste it.

The descent was wonderful. Good snow, stable conditions, and a beautiful view to tie it all together. I’d say they were some of the best turns of my life. My now sleep deprived body was not in the mood for aggressive slashes nor fast riding. I laid back into the tail of my board and let the mountain dictate my path. We made long sweeping turns up on the banks of the couloir,  followed by small aesthetic “s” curves in the center. For the entirety of the multiple thousands foot descent, we leapfrogged each other seeking safety in small islands outside of possible avalanche paths, which luckily never came. It truly felt as if we were surfing off the top of the world. As we descended further, the snow gracefully transitioned from the high country powder into springlike corn on the lower flanks of the mountain. Few words were exchanged, aside from general exclaims of jubilation.

The inevitable long slog across the lake was delayed by a brief nap in the wooded shoreline opposite the car. After an hour so had disappeared, we once again loaded up our sled and began our return. The cocktail of bright tundra and a sleepless thirty-six hours began to mess with our minds and our conversation and humor inched further into the absurd. Miles crept by all too slowly, and at times it felt as if we were walking backwards. Of course, despite lacking the feeling of progress, we trudged up the final bank with our sled in tow to my truck. One unsuspecting family enjoying the view of the surrounding mountains were the only members of our greeting party, and they seemed to purposefully keep their distance from the  two sunburnt lunatics who had appeared off the far horizon with their ice axes and children’s sled. After short deliberation, we set our sights on a celebratory ice cream back in Jackson Hole, some forty-five minutes away. Despite the turns and twists of the road, Will quickly nodded off, and, despite driving, I soon followed suit. Quickly woken up by a tailing car horn and the jarring vibrations of the roads rumble strip we pulled into a medium sized parking lot overlooking the famed Snake River. Our heavy eyelids overtook our stomach’s ice cream desires, and we found ourselves embarking on the days’ second nap in the front seats of the truck. The clock ticked past ten minutes, and quickly approached an hour in a seemingly teleporting manner. Once again, we straightened up and set our sights on the previously planned but derailed ice cream endeavor.

The ice cream was eaten quickly, the drive back to Will’s house was adorned with fun recollections of the outing, and the Tetons began to file out of the foreground and into the back. We said our goodbyes, and though we knew it would be a while, we hoped to enjoy another outing sometime soon. The returning car ride north was quiet and contemplative. I thought about the final rolling slopes of the mountain and how I’d thought of my younger self, standing up on my sled for an extra thrill at the sledding hill when snow came to town. How far I had made it. No, not the summit, but thats just an excuse to go back.