Good ol' Murph was right: what can go wrong, will go wrong.
After Marc_C split for climbing in B.C. along with Dale and Pat, I checked in with Bob Dangerous. Nope, he had company coming in from Vegas. I checked with gwest. Nope, he couldn't make it. I checked with Ron Cram of skistreak.com fame. Nope, he couldn't make it either.
So it was me, myself and I today, determined to get some September turns logged en route to my attempt at a 12-month ski season. I was exhausted last night, and opted to turn off my alarm and let myself awaken on my own this morning. What happened? Of course, I woke up at noon. So much for a reasonable start during the summer thunderstorm season. No matter, I figured that I'd be on the tram by 2.
So there I was, checking the loading of my pack at 1:35 at home when I felt something wet against my back. Wha? Aw, crap...my hydration bladder was leaking. Crap!! Everything was soaked by 6" of water in the bottom of my pack, including my boot liners. I quickly tossed all but the latter into the clothes dryer, hung the pack outside in the sun, and flew over to REI for a new bladder.
So it wasn't until 2:30 that I pulled into the Snowbird lot and...started searching feverishly for a parking spot. Oktoberfest was in full swing, and cars were parked out to the Little Cottonwood Road. Shuttle buses were running between the lots. Somebody ought to tell the Bird that it's early September. Oktoberfests are supposed to happen in October. You see? There's this little word derivative in the name Oktoberfest...
After being tossed out of two spots by officials I finally settled into my third option. Up the tram, things were finally starting to look right.
Six skiers were lounging at the top station of Little Cloud, and assured me that they'd shaved down all of those horrific sun cups. I pressed on down Road to Provo, where a long-haired Brit named Kyle was plodding back up, skis on his back. It was Kyle's 156th consecutive month on skis, he said, but I question his math a bit because he raved that this was his best September 10th ever. :?:
Arriving at the end of the Road and the start of Mark Malu Fork, I had a choice: take the high road by scrambling up some snow, or take the low road by scrambling down some heinous scree. I first opted for the former, but finding the footing too insecure I then followed the latter. Progress was painfully slow, as the rocks shifted and their sound echoed down through what must have been 8 or 10 feet of ankle-smashing, tibia-cracking talus. I struggled to keep my balance, and progressed only inch by inch.
I eventually reached the hiking trail, which I followed for several switchbacks before striking out west again across...what else? Mondo scree. Unbelievable scree. Scree like I've never crossed before. Again, I struggled, trying to crest the rib between Mark Malu and Pipeline Bowl without losing too much elevation. I finally found a route to do so after a couple of dead ends, and what did I find on the other side? More scree, of course...stretching all the way to the edge of the snow.
I reached the snow in Pipeline Bowl at the ripe ol' hour of 4 p.m. Now, however, I had another situation to contend with: thunder. I'd lost too much time, and cumulonimbus clouds were assembling below in the Salt Lake Valley, and their anvils were pointed directly at me. I had to make a decision: abandon ship and try again tomorrow, or press on past the point of no return. If worse came to worst, I figured, I could high-tail it down to treeline in the Gad Valley. I pressed on.
That made the decision, however, to make only one run. 25 or 30 turns. 25 or 30 glorious, magnificent, horribly sun-cupped (the 6 jokers atop Little Cloud had lied!) turns. But hey, it was September, and here I was skiing on last season's snow, and last season's natural snow at that!
It was rather surreal to be taking off my boots as I could faintly hear the German oompah band playing on the Tram plaza, several miles and several thousand vertical feet below, and with a ridgeline in between no less. It must've been echoing off the canyon walls. I felt like I was living in a Ricola commercial. No time to dally, however, for ominously dark clouds began streaming over American Forks Twin Peaks. I could begin to climb back to Hidden Peak, where I'd be above treeline for the entire duration, or I could hike all the way back to the base, 2500 vertical feet of descent, and back into treeline. I headed down.
The first 20 minutes was back across, what? Say it with me, peeps: more scree! I eased past a tiny pond reflecting the snow above, then headed out to Regulator Johnson, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the t-storm was passing off to my north. By the time I reached the Mid-Gad restaurant, however, the second, more ominous wave of storms had crossed the Oquirrhs and was slamming the Salt Lake Valley en route to my very position. I hurried across the top of Big Emma to the top of Wilbere as best I could, then back to the Tram Plaza via Bass Highway. I barely made it in time, for the lightning show was incredible down canyon, and it was heading straight in my direction.
Lessons learned:
1. Trail shoes just don't cut it around here with all the talus. They simply don't have enough ankle support. I reached into my closet to grab my hiking boots, but opted for the trail shoes instead. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
2. 2,500 vertical feet of downhiking is hell on earth when you're constantly using your muscles to try to stabilize your ankles. It felt like I'd never get there.
3. Before heading out for a hike, don't forget to give those toenails one last clip as short as you can get them. Ouch!! :shock:
I was relieved to make the Tram Plaza before the storm hit. At last, my luck had turned around. Visions of fine German beer at the Oktoberfest tent filled my head. But, Murphy had one last laugh at me today: the beer truck stopped serving 10 minutes before I got there. :evil:
After Marc_C split for climbing in B.C. along with Dale and Pat, I checked in with Bob Dangerous. Nope, he had company coming in from Vegas. I checked with gwest. Nope, he couldn't make it. I checked with Ron Cram of skistreak.com fame. Nope, he couldn't make it either.
So it was me, myself and I today, determined to get some September turns logged en route to my attempt at a 12-month ski season. I was exhausted last night, and opted to turn off my alarm and let myself awaken on my own this morning. What happened? Of course, I woke up at noon. So much for a reasonable start during the summer thunderstorm season. No matter, I figured that I'd be on the tram by 2.
So there I was, checking the loading of my pack at 1:35 at home when I felt something wet against my back. Wha? Aw, crap...my hydration bladder was leaking. Crap!! Everything was soaked by 6" of water in the bottom of my pack, including my boot liners. I quickly tossed all but the latter into the clothes dryer, hung the pack outside in the sun, and flew over to REI for a new bladder.
So it wasn't until 2:30 that I pulled into the Snowbird lot and...started searching feverishly for a parking spot. Oktoberfest was in full swing, and cars were parked out to the Little Cottonwood Road. Shuttle buses were running between the lots. Somebody ought to tell the Bird that it's early September. Oktoberfests are supposed to happen in October. You see? There's this little word derivative in the name Oktoberfest...
After being tossed out of two spots by officials I finally settled into my third option. Up the tram, things were finally starting to look right.
Six skiers were lounging at the top station of Little Cloud, and assured me that they'd shaved down all of those horrific sun cups. I pressed on down Road to Provo, where a long-haired Brit named Kyle was plodding back up, skis on his back. It was Kyle's 156th consecutive month on skis, he said, but I question his math a bit because he raved that this was his best September 10th ever. :?:
Arriving at the end of the Road and the start of Mark Malu Fork, I had a choice: take the high road by scrambling up some snow, or take the low road by scrambling down some heinous scree. I first opted for the former, but finding the footing too insecure I then followed the latter. Progress was painfully slow, as the rocks shifted and their sound echoed down through what must have been 8 or 10 feet of ankle-smashing, tibia-cracking talus. I struggled to keep my balance, and progressed only inch by inch.
I eventually reached the hiking trail, which I followed for several switchbacks before striking out west again across...what else? Mondo scree. Unbelievable scree. Scree like I've never crossed before. Again, I struggled, trying to crest the rib between Mark Malu and Pipeline Bowl without losing too much elevation. I finally found a route to do so after a couple of dead ends, and what did I find on the other side? More scree, of course...stretching all the way to the edge of the snow.
I reached the snow in Pipeline Bowl at the ripe ol' hour of 4 p.m. Now, however, I had another situation to contend with: thunder. I'd lost too much time, and cumulonimbus clouds were assembling below in the Salt Lake Valley, and their anvils were pointed directly at me. I had to make a decision: abandon ship and try again tomorrow, or press on past the point of no return. If worse came to worst, I figured, I could high-tail it down to treeline in the Gad Valley. I pressed on.
That made the decision, however, to make only one run. 25 or 30 turns. 25 or 30 glorious, magnificent, horribly sun-cupped (the 6 jokers atop Little Cloud had lied!) turns. But hey, it was September, and here I was skiing on last season's snow, and last season's natural snow at that!
It was rather surreal to be taking off my boots as I could faintly hear the German oompah band playing on the Tram plaza, several miles and several thousand vertical feet below, and with a ridgeline in between no less. It must've been echoing off the canyon walls. I felt like I was living in a Ricola commercial. No time to dally, however, for ominously dark clouds began streaming over American Forks Twin Peaks. I could begin to climb back to Hidden Peak, where I'd be above treeline for the entire duration, or I could hike all the way back to the base, 2500 vertical feet of descent, and back into treeline. I headed down.
The first 20 minutes was back across, what? Say it with me, peeps: more scree! I eased past a tiny pond reflecting the snow above, then headed out to Regulator Johnson, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the t-storm was passing off to my north. By the time I reached the Mid-Gad restaurant, however, the second, more ominous wave of storms had crossed the Oquirrhs and was slamming the Salt Lake Valley en route to my very position. I hurried across the top of Big Emma to the top of Wilbere as best I could, then back to the Tram Plaza via Bass Highway. I barely made it in time, for the lightning show was incredible down canyon, and it was heading straight in my direction.
Lessons learned:
1. Trail shoes just don't cut it around here with all the talus. They simply don't have enough ankle support. I reached into my closet to grab my hiking boots, but opted for the trail shoes instead. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
2. 2,500 vertical feet of downhiking is hell on earth when you're constantly using your muscles to try to stabilize your ankles. It felt like I'd never get there.
3. Before heading out for a hike, don't forget to give those toenails one last clip as short as you can get them. Ouch!! :shock:
I was relieved to make the Tram Plaza before the storm hit. At last, my luck had turned around. Visions of fine German beer at the Oktoberfest tent filled my head. But, Murphy had one last laugh at me today: the beer truck stopped serving 10 minutes before I got there. :evil:
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. I learned that lesson #3 this weekend after 34 miles in the uintas.