Mountain memories

Lake George Glacier Skiing - March 2026

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Fri, 22 May 2026 01:51:19 +0000

A couple days of skiing long runs of thousands of feet of powder above the Lake George Glacier started as what looked to be a day of getting shut down in the Western Chugach:

Our mountains (and souls) had been through several rough weeks of cruddy weather and wind when late March finally brought a period of sun. With a rare forecast for sun and calm in the Prince William Sound, we pointed for the long aesthetic runs dropping from the Meares Glacier plateau to the toe of the Yale that we skied years ago.

Photo: John Hermus

The zone was as dramatically beautiful as always, but the snow was dust on crust. John:

After a lap we jumped back into the expensive old piles of metal and avgas and pointed towards the Eagle Glacier. From the air above the Eagle it was clear the snow was likely wind affected here too, so we turned east again to check out a cool skintrack zigzagging up from the Lake George Glacier.

It was afternoon by the time we were parked next to Chris and Jon and were climbing their beautiful skinner - thanks a lot guys. The sense of scale was warped around this huge coastal glacier, and what looked like a quick lap turned out to be 3,000 feet of vert - it reminded me a lot of the east face of Twin Peaks in terms of pitch, length, and consistency minus the messed up terrain trap at the bottom. Trish and Shira:

The long lap to the bottom was hundreds of turns through smooth, shallow, old pow capped with glittering surface hoar crystals and finished at the bottom with a serving of steep turns down a convex pitch that rolled over to the glacier.

Photo: John Hermus

Trish, Shira, and Dan had to head back for a house shopping, but John and I couldn't resist another long lap. Now all alone in this huge zone, John and I enjoyed the peace and atmosphere of the land of ice as we climbed to the top.

Photo: John Hermus

For the second lap, we tried out a different descent. It was just as lovely like the first one.

Photo: John Hermus

The next day, Nyssa and I couldn't wait to go back. Coasting to a stop, there were already seven or eight planes parked on the glacier - the secret was out. Sarah, Chris, and Shasta were taking a break between laps and came over to say hi then Peter joined us and we all started up together. I don't get to see any of these awesome folks enough, and was really stoked to skin with them for a bit.

We decided to space out the groups by checking out the northernmost skinner. As we climbed, we saw Dana and Adam arrive on the glacier below. The lap was a bit more rolling than the others and it was fun to slash the drifted terrain as we skied endless turns to the huge river of ice below. Peter:

Then we met up with Adam for seconds, this time checking out the southernmost of the three skinners that Chris and company had put in. Although maybe not quite as steep, this lap was longest of the three with aesthetic turns adjacent to the crevasses and blocks tumbling down from a big feeder glacier.

With the glorious sun leaving us on the shaded east face, we went up for one last long lap down the middle of the face.

Knowing that with the strengthening spring sun, this face would cooked for the year, we watched Ken and his family ski their run, then joined what was now 80 tracks on the face.

I wonder if we will ever ski this particular face again - with the infinite options to explore around the Lake George Glacier alone, I feel lucky to have skied two days here. Adam:

Meares Peninsula Skiing

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Tue, 19 May 2026 20:00:00 +0000

Updated in 2026 to include more sunny March days on this incredible peninsula of ice ringed by emerald waters.
On a Wednesday night in late March of 2022 I was lounging at home reading the weather, playing with the cats, and wishing I were skiing the next day when I got a text from Dana wondering if I could ski. My initial response was something like: "no thanks, I should be a good little corporate drone and go to work". Then I thought: Wait. WAIT. WWWWWAIT. Why would I put bloodthirsty corporate interests busy lining their own pockets ahead of a beautiful day in our unparalleled mountains with old friends?

The next morning, I called in sick with a bad case of powder fever, and headed for the icy tarmac of Merrill Field curious what we'd find in a rarely visited and unique zone. I found Dana preflighting his PA-12 in the numbing cold air of first light, then squirmed into the backseat of the taildragger. Feeling basically like Top Gun, I felt Dana push the throttle forward and the plane easily lift away from Anchorage.

Looking to be made of little model houses, our city disappeared behind as we climbed east towards endless wilderness. Following Ship Creek into the morning sun, we looked for the wandering tracks of the big brown bears hungry after their long winter night and ready to fill their bellies with a moose breakfast. To our right, the curved couloirs of Temptation grew from the hoar frost of the valley bottom to snake up the north face. As we approached Crow Pass and the maritime zone, the mountains continued to grow around us. To the left was the jagged south face of Organ. Some lucky and determined skiers have skied east from its summit. I'd like to join those ranks.

There's so much country back here; it was like a giant slideshow as one mountain would slip away to reveal another behind it. As the slide of memories that is Bird Peak's steep and angular north face passed us, it revealed the shaded aquamarine jewel of Magpie.

Next up was the rimed summit of Raggedtop. There is so much to explore in our promised land that obvious options can fall out of mind for years - that's been the case for this Girdwood classic for me. Just visible on the right is the pass that we've used to avoid the avalanche and alder hazards of lower California Creek and access Fishs Breath famous southeast face and less known but equally dramatic north couloir. It would be cool to link up these two iconic peaks in one ski tour.

Farther east, glaciers fed by the wet storms of the Gulf of Alaska started to grow under us. We noted shadowed crowns and jumbled blocky debris of many recent avalanches spread across the rolling terrain of the glaciers and knew we'd have to be wary of this hazard.

The shiny tin roof of Rosie's Roost is visible on the wind swept moraine bottom center:

Cresting the divide into the Prince William Sound, we entered another world. It feels like the Girdwood and Portage valleys get a lot of precipitation, but its nothing compared to the the mountains on the western side of the Sound. Like a giant catchers mitt, these piles of snow and ice are the first barrier wringing moisture out of the huge storms of the Pacific as collide they crash into Southcentral Alaska.

The sense of scale here was impossible to understand. With eyes calibrated for the 10-foot tall snow pillows we find in our usual zones, I looked down realizing I needed to rescale those to 30 feet. We circled possible ski terrain, and with this frame of reference thrown out the window my brain struggled to grasp that we were looking at laps that would drop 3,000 vertical feet to the Yale Glacier.

Dana found Jeff, Jeebs and the tracks of Cubbie the Supercub, and flared into a soft landing of fresh overnight snowfall on the Meares Glacier.

I tried to be helpful while Dana prepped to leave his plane for the day, but mostly just found myself gaping at the infinite snow of this temperate northern rainforest. Then, framed by the sapphire blue waters of college fjord, we chased Jeebs up the skintrack.

We followed Jeebs to our drop-in point on the summit of a nunatak. Below us, the Yale Glacier spilled into College Fjord before joining the wide waters of Port Wells beyond. The first pitch was easterly and solar and sported one of those challenging breakable suncrusts that makes even the best skiers look like beginners. Well, except for Dana who made it look easy.

With this crusty data point for sunny eastly aspects, we altered our course hoping to find better snow in the shade. Jeff tipped into the north facing ramps below us - much better:

Remembering the telltale signs of all those avalanches around Girdwood, we leap-frogged from one safe spot to the next as we skied towards the Yale. Stopping to take it all in, we heard the sudden thunder of two F22s as they skimmed over the ridgeline, slid sideways in banked turns, and circled us. Close enough to see the pilots looking out of their cockpits, if I hadn't before, now I really felt like I was in Top Gun.

Jeff thought maybe this sudden government surveillance was his buddy "Torch" from Elmendorf and wondered if every night is date night at La Casa de Torch? Dana:

We continued to descend until we bottomed out on the Yale Glacier itself; there we put on more sunscreen and refueled in a futile attempt to keep up with Jeebs. Standing in the bottom of this gorge carved by the great river of ice, we were dwarfed by everything around us.

Then it was time to climb back out of the gorge for more.

Flowing through, over, and around the bulbous glaciated terrain, the second lap was just as gluttonous as the first.

Jeebs:

Thankful for Jeebs' hard work breaking trail through the new snow, the climb out of the abyss was faster the second time around. I was reminded of a strategy my friend Dave Bourassa uses on particularly deep days in his secret zone in Routt County - ski a half lap first - then your thrashed legs are never have to break a full lap back out of bottomless paradise.

Stuck on repeat, we ripped our skins, picked a new line, and binged on a third lap. Jeff says these feel like heliskiing laps. I've never been heliskiing, if its like this I think I might like it!

Jeebs:

9,000 vertical feet over three laps is not a normal day for me, and I was again flabbergasted by the inconceivable scale of it all as we climbed for the last time back to the runway on the Meares.

With the evening light saturating the never-ending snow and teetering blue seracs of the Dora Keen Mountains it was time to return to Dana and Jeff's planes for the flight home.

Lifting off the Meares Glacier, we skimmed between mountains made of precariously stacked piles of shear rock, fathoms of snow, and Walmart-sized blocks of ice.

Then, excited to see what views, mountains, and memories the flight home would bring, we turned into the setting sun and towards Anchorage. Leaving behind the emerald waters of the PWS, we crossed the divide to where storms drain to the Cook Inlet. There were a few in particular that I was excited to examine, like the holy cross couloir of Bounty:

The ground dropped away below us as we slipped over Benign Peak and into Peter's Creek. Dana banked his plane and we stared dumbstruck at the 3,000 foot vertical west face drenched in a purple glow.

At this moment Dane was clinging somewhere on the inky north face of Benign on his way to a sunset lap of the Malignant Couloir. Dane told me he wouldn't recommend this route to "anyone he likes".

Moving on from Benign, we passed Mount Rumble like a solitary rock giant cleaving Peters Creek in half. Then, with the shadows starting to climb its flanks, we mindsurfed the spines of Peters Peak's southwest face.

Continuing towards home, we contoured around the north faces of East Killiak and its bigger, badder sister, West Killiak. There a several good options to get up and down this behemoth.

Leaving Peters Creek behind, we looked for a line down the windswept northeast face of Yukla. Another one that's still on my list - gosh that list never gets shorter.

Before I was ready to be done studying it, Yukla was gone and the ground was suddenly dropping 6,000 feet to Eagle River valley. Crossing above the frosty valley floor stuck in months of winter deep-freeze, we moved on to more leviathans. Polar Bear:

Next up, with its hanging summit spine, was Eagle Peak draped in alpenglow.

Then, with our minds trying to rolodex a day of mountains crammed through our retinas as if by firehose, we glided over the last peaks and back to our frontier city home.

March 2026 Update:
In the spring of 2026, we were lucky to return to the fat snowpack and sparkling emerald waters of the Meares Peninsula several times. February in Southcentral Alaska brought a month of evil drought and unforgiving winds that transformed our mountains into wastelands of crusts and sastrugi. All the ski addicts were searching for snow that was pleasant or, at a minimum, less hazardous for skiing.

Looking at the weather models, we began to think there might be an area of sheltered terrain in the northwestern Prince William Sound that had escaped some of the wind. With the days getting a littler longer and warmer in February, we flew east out of Anchorage. Once across the huge blue channel of Port Wells, we looked down at the snow surface under us. Emanating from the high Chugach, the higher elevation north end of the Meares Peninsula was clearly wrecked by the cold northerly outflow winds. As we worked our way south and down in elevation, we began to find snow that was at least smooth looking. Finding a sunny spot on a small glacier above Coghill Lake, we plopped down into the beautiful snow globe.

The snow seemed promising enough to try to ski.

After a few laps of poking around in powder randomly mixed with various forms of grabby breakable crust, we called it a day glad to have our ACLs intact.

Peter and I still thought there was soft snow somewhere out there on that magical peninsula of snow and ice, and wanted to keep looking. A week later, with retuned mental numerical models about where the soft snow was hiding, we went looking for mid-elevation, dead-end basins surrounded by higher terrain. At the head of the Unakwik Inlet, we found just such an amphitheater under Mount Grosvorn.

Photo: John Hermus

With the advancing tidewater front of the namesake Meares Glacier below us, John and I started with a soft lap down our pocket glacier.

Happy with what we found, we climbed and skied several small shady chutes reminiscent of the lower northern chutes of Cornbiscuit.

Photo: John Hermus

Photo: John Hermus

Photo: John Hermus

Photo: John Hermus

Stoked to have found not only seemingly stable, but also soft snow, we soaked in the evening sun before circling the terminus of the Meares Glacier on the way home. I have always wanted to see the terminus of the Meares and was blown away to see it actively bulldozing over trees as it advances forward.

The Meares is advancing despite and due to climate change. It is shaped like a vertical lollipop with most of its mass of ice at high elevations and just a little tongue draining down to the ocean. The world is getting warmer, but its also getting wetter. So much more snow is falling in the Meares' upper elevation accumulation zone that its offsetting the increased melt in its lower elevation drain pipe. Almost all glaciers on Earth are retreating; we were thunderstruck to look through this portal of what the world might have looked like going into the last ice age.

Photo: John Hermus

Photo: John Hermus

After several more weeks of bad weather and conditions, late March finally brought a period of sun to our mountains. We were ready to quest for more soft snow in this pocket of the PWS. First, we tried the long rolling runs I had skied years ago with Dana and Jeff.

Photo: John Hermus

The zone was as dramatically beautiful as always, but the snow was dust on crust. John:

Photo: John Hermus

We retreated to scavenging long laps of powder skiing above the Lake George Glacier in a zone that Chris and Jon had found. Trish and Shira:

Photo: John Hermus

But, it seemed like the lower elevation southern tip of the Meares was holding protected snow again, so Neil and I went back to find it.

Hoping to connect with Tony and his crew at Tatooine, we landed next to their camp and followed their tracks. They led us into glorious north facing runs of bowls, chutes, fins, and mini-spines covered in smooth old pow.

Spooning Tony's tracks, we lapped this awesome shady face before finishing the day with a sunny western lap above the icebergs calving from the terminus of the Yale Glacier.

Now, knowing what kind of goodies were hiding out there, Nyssa, Garth, Miles, Brady and I decided to check out Jonah Bay next. Garth and Miles:

From last month's parking lot above Coghill, we skied a quick pow lap while we waited for Brady to catch up, then dropped south into the Jonah Bay drainage and a rolly-polly corn lap.

Next up was a mellow easterly run of shallow pow, followed by a longer iteration of the same run past a cool lobe of blue ice and deeper towards the bay. Nyssa:

Nyssa:

Skiing sheltered pow past seracs was fun, and we were hungry for more, so skinned towards a longer, steeper, northerly run through another face of ice.

Garth:

Miles:

Garth:

Chris and Justin had skied several runs over here a few days ago. I wished we had more time to follow all of their tracks, but it was time to head towards one last party lap back to the parking lot.

Photo: Miles Knotek

Prince William Sound Picture Project

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Tue, 06 Jan 2026 06:30:00 +0000

I spent the summer of 2013 working on a fishery research vessel in Alaska's Prince William Sound. This was a truly formulative experience that changed me forever and bound the PWS to my soul. Over the years there have been so many beautiful moments that stood out from a larger story or adventure. After a decade hiatus, I've continued updating this post with images from these beautiful moments.

Hunting 2025

All year every year I look forward to deer hunting in the Sound. I'm not really sure why. Maybe because it has some of those same factors I love about backcountry skiing: anticipation, adaption in the moment, understanding the landscape (and the animals), shared experiences, and of course, some excitement. Its also special to me because some of my first memories in AK that I hold so dear were formed here.

So, it's particularly special to have a chance to go out for the opener. Abe hopped in and we flew over the glittering water set with emerald island gemstones to meet Adam on the outside.

We surfed the little rollers coming off the Gulf then hiked up top to hunt.

Early in the season the deer aren't used to hunters and are out doing their thing. Its magical to see them in a world seemingly untouched by people.

Satisfied with our harvest, we skipped over to Cordova to see Toni, Drew, and Wade. I met these folks soon after I arrived in Alaska. These days I'm lucky to see them once a year, and each time is meaningful to me. We hiked, swam, and explored the barrier islands before flying through puffy clouds and past new peaks back to the city.

Later in August, Brady and I had time to squeeze in a day hunt together. It was really hot for the north Gulf Coast (maybe 60 degrees) and the deer and humans were cooking. The animals were hiding from the heat and I wished we were too. With heavy packs, we stumbled back to the beach for a sunset trip home.

In September, between work, the typical severe wet and windy coastal Alaska weather with clouds to the deck, and flight training, we managed to rip out for a couple more day trips. Upon arriving in what sitka blacktail deer hunters call the "alpine", Austin immediately found the buck of the day.

I futilely continued my program of passing on nice meat bucks in the search for a chewy old bruiser hiding in the bushes. Eventually I settled for a young buck that definitely tasted better anyways.

Another day, Sable, John, and I waited for the Anchorage fog to lift, then sprinted to Merrill, to the beach, and to the mountaintops. We had salt rings under our eyes and cramps in our legs when we started glassing. With our 360 degree view it was so cool to watch the animals come out to graze, go back to nap, do a little headbutting, curl up like cats, care for their young, and repeat. We eventually settled on a group of bucks, then from a high perch watched as John executed a great stalk thru bumpy terrain ground down by prehistoric ice sheets.

Photo: Sable Z.

Photo: Sable Z.

In November, it was finally the rut, cold, icy, and foggy in town, and with outflow winds raging over the mountains. We climbed to smooth air at 11,000 feet where we looked down at plumes of snow howling off our peaks. Past the funnels of cold air, we glided to the outside where nine foot rollers were breaking on the frozen beach.

Photo: Brady D.

It was crunchy in the muskeg, and per usual the deer were leery about noise, but some bucks still couldn't resist. It was fun to listen to them come crashing to the call, watch paired does with bucks in tow, then let them pass until we finally waited for the right one to come sneaking in.

A couple weeks later, Sable, John, Dan and I shoveled the boat out of the snow in town, survived the slippery highway, and pulled up to the icy ramp at sunrise. There we found a few hardos trying to get up the courage to ice skate their expensive trucks, trailers, and boats into the ocean. Sliding backwards down the steep and shiny pavement, I was again reminded that we still need to buy chains. Thank little jeezy for the gravel we tossed on the ramp. The trip was a wild mix of heavy snow, heavy hail, heavy rain, and beams of sun thru it all.

The recent rain on snow brought loud walking and few deer. Somehow we managed to call in a dog-sized buck, with a rack from a whitetail. The little thing stunk of rut and looked sort of like a donkey with its preposterously large rack.

Photo: Sable Z.

As is usually the case, it was so hard to drag ourselves away from this uniquely incredible place and head home to the city we love.

Photo: Sable Z.

Skiing 2025
When we're lucky, we get out to the PWS for one ski trip each spring. Skiing in the sparkling blue waters of the Sound is funny: its beautiful, magical, a lot of work, kind of stressful, and the skiing is usually objectively bad. In early May, the weather and our schedules lined up for our annual trip. On Friday and fresh off of Augustine, I snuck out a day ahead of Nyssa, Erin, Tom, and Jimbo and went prospecting for snow. After dropping the shrimp pots on a ledge in Cochrane, I anchored at the mouth of Three Finger Bay, and paddled the dingy to shore.
Tying the raft up in the snow above the high tide line, I skinned into the rainforest. Following an easy ridge through the mossy trees, I was soon looking down on the little boat resting in the impossibly blue water of Cochrane Bay.

Up near treeline, I found five feet of dense maritime mozzarella cheese.

Skiing the settled isothermal snow was actually pretty good up here, and I had a fun time skiing a bunch of mellow southerly, westerly, and northwesterly laps off the high point while listening to my book on tape.

To the south, past the end of Cochrane Bay, I admired the fun terrain draining from Cochrane Thumb that has been on my hit list for years and continues to be.

With the shadows getting longer and my appetite for views and overcooked corn satisfied, one last climb brought me back to the top. In the calm evening, I slarved towards the salt water where mountains reflected off the glass of the bay. At the head of Three Finger, Shrode Lake was still covered in feet of snow.

On the beach, I loaded my skis, boots, and pack into the raft and paddled back towards the boat which was framed by Mount Gilbert rising above Harriman Fjord.

I pulled the shrimp pots to find a small haul then motored for what I hoped would be more productive shrimping in Port Wells. After dropping the pots on a moraine, I took in the infinite and indescribable hues of glowing gold, pink, purple, and peach alpenglow on the peaks of the Chugach, then anchored in Hobo Bay for the night.

Next morning brought another day of bluebird skies, calm winds, and flat seas. After pulling the pots, it was time to cruise over to Whittier to pick up the team. Already waiting at fuel dock with coffee, they hopped on, and we were underway again. We dropped the pots on another moraine, and then anchored up on the east side of Blackstone for another day of skiing.

For the first lap, we started up a southwest facing ridge overlooking the Ripon Glacier. With the strong spring sun bouncing off the reflective snow, the heat felt almost overwhelming despite air temps in the low 40s. We Alaskans are not used to much sun.

At the top, overlooking the Tebenkof Glacier to the east and the tidewater glaciers of Blackstone to the southwest, we ripped our skins and flipped it for the descent. I thought back on an incredible weekend with Nyssa on the glaciers above Blackstone five years ago, and an equally beautiful but far more faffy weekend trying to ski Tebenkof Peak last spring.

The warm sun melted the snow just as much as it had melted us, and we lurched our way back down the sticky snow towards the water. One of these years, but not this one, I will remember to put the right wax on my skis in the spring. Nyssa and Tom:

We found Erin and Jimbo playing on the beach, traded out mom for dad, and went looking for more shaded snow. The quest for a more northerly aspect started with a technical crawl up steep and melting rainforest and bushes.

Out of the jungle, we looked for the balance between steep enough to ski, but not steep enough to shed bulging and dripping cornice bombs.

Here, where the snow had not been baking in direct sunlight all day, we found awesome, deep, surfy corn. It made fun "slueshhhhhing" noises as our skis cut through it.

Erin:

The hard girls were satisfied with one lap of this questionable skiing, but I was stoked on it and headed back up for another. In the bay below, the water was turning a saturated deep blue with the lowering sun.

I ripped through the slushy glades then stopped to look back at this fun tree zone. I can't wait to come back here!

But before anything else, I had to finish the questionable task of descending steep jungle, moss, bushes, rock, and a bit of decomposing snow to the beach. So very typical of PWS adventure skiing:

Down on the spit, the fam had been beachcombing and were ready for din din.

We ate dinner under the magnificent north face of Isthmus as it glowed in rose light. Then we pulled and reset the shrimp pots before crawling in for the night.

On Sunday we decided to try the steep north face rising above Surprise Cove. I'd skied this line in 2024 with Brittany and Frank, and remembered it as a good one with easy access and a fast route into the alpine. However, the approach wasn't as easy or fast with a lot less snow at sea level this year.

Done crawling thru the detritus of the avy runout, we were quickly reminded why this is such a great ski spot: nearly unparalleled views of Port Wells stretching from beyond Marcus Baker on the west and past the Yale Glacier and the Dora Keens to the east.

We knew it had been warm last night and weren't sure what kind of snow we would find. Dropping in, we found unfrozen and very poorly attached snow. The melting goo was easily detached from the hillside as our passing skis cut thru it and rapidly gained mass and momentum entraining more snow and accelerating down the hill.

One lap of that mess was enough for the day.

Done with the snow, we were back to the regularly scheduled programming of descending steep mossy jungle to the beach.

Back at sea level, we ate lunch in a beautiful sunny meadow before celebrating Mother's day with a dip in Logging Camp bay.

Hunting 2024

Every year I look forward to Sitka blacktail deer hunting season just about as much as anything else. As soon as the season opened and the weather allowed, I dropped everything to get out there. From the beach I walked through the forest fringe to the meadows behind. There, I found western toads at the northwestern edge of their range.

As soon as I arrived in what Southeast Alaskans call the "alpine", deer trails appeared around me. Deer are not native to Prince William Sound. In 1916, the Cordova Chamber of Commerce had eight black-tailed deer captured near Sitka and transplanted to Hawkins and Hinchinbrook Islands. Sixteen more deer were transplanted over the following eight years. These stocky jungle creatures have since dispersed throughout the PWS. Fishery biologist J.D. Solf stated that he had seen deer or their tracks in nearly every major drainage of the Sound at one time or another.

I hunted until dark then crawled into my tent in the alpine. In the night I woke to what sounded like breathing outside my tent. You're dreaming I told myself, and rolled over. At first light I looked out my tent to see a coastal brown bear ambling towards the tent. Montague Island has a brown bear density ranging from 4–18 bears per 100 square kilometers. In comparison, Hinchinbrook, Kodiak, and the Alaska Peninsula which have brown bear densities greater than 18 bears per 100 square kilometers. When I saw three more bears from camp, I packed up my tent and left.

During a rare spell of high pressure in October, we camped up high for a few days. With a strong pressure gradient between cold high pressure over the interior and a warm low pressure spinning in the Gulf of Alaska, gap winds channeled by the mountains, passes, and channels of PWS kissed us with cold air whenever we left the shelter of local terrain.

The moon was waxing to full when we arrived. We could see pretty well by moonlight and I'm sure the deer could see even better. As each day passed the deer were less and less active, occasionally crawling out of their beds to stretch, yawn, and nibble. Maybe they were too busy partying all night to show themselves during the day, but who knows?

In late November we landed on the outside of Hinchinbrook. As we prepared to touch down on the beach, snoozing seals scurried for the water while fat otters rolled around lazily in the sand. In the woods we found fresh rubs, the smell of the rut in the air, and bucks running to the call.

It was still early enough when we were done hunting to skip over to Cordova for a sunset ice skate on Eyak Lake. Situated between the PWS, the Copper River Delta, and the Gulf of AK, the lake provides cornerstone habitat for ten fish species. Homeland to the Eyak people, this area has been a cultural crossroads for thousands of years for the Eyak, Chugach-Alutiiq, Tlingit, and Ahtna peoples.

2013
Looking north from Esther Rock, the entrance to College Fjord, Port Wells, is visible in the distance. Esther Rock means different things to different people. For the commercial fishermen, it is often the boundary of one of the salmon fisheries in the Sound. For others, it is a floating "internet cafe" of the Sound.

Glaciers are essentially mass balance problems - they transport snow and ice from higher elevations to lower elevations where it can melt. These Passage Canal glaciers extends over such a short elevation range; I love how even this minuscule change in elevation and distance is enough to produce ice dynamics. They are also rapidly disappearing.

Some people call those who live in Whittier WhitIdiots, those who live there part time are Half-Wits. But, how much of a dimwit can you be if you to choose live in a place that is not only so beautiful, but also has skiing 12 months of the year?

Located between Cordova and Montague Island, Hawkins Island guards the Sound from the Gulf of Alaska. I took this picture of the fog spilling over the Heney Range from the Gulf as we drove north past Hawkins Island.

If it had internet, Culross Cove would be our Captain's favorite anchorage in the Prince William Sound. With blue skies and temperatures in the seventies, we hiked to the top of Culross Island, complete with views of Culross Cove and the Chugach.

Just outside of Cordova, we watched these commercial fishing tenders float in and out of the fog of Orca Inlet as they waited for the next fishing period to open.

Waiting to head out to the Sound the next morning, we anchored in Orca Inlet, just offshore of Cordova. Bathed in Alpenglow, Mount Heney clashed with the industrial waterfront of Cordova.

After work one evening, we went kayaking from our anchorage in Eleanor Island's northwest bay. The days are starting to get noticeably shorter, and with the shorter days come seemingly endless and beautiful sunsets over the Sound.

I took this picture in the spring, but just stumbled across it this morning. Taken from our back deck, low fog hangs over Lake Eyak just after the ice finally broke up on the lake.

Driving out to the Alaganik Slough for a walk on a gray day, we saw these trumpeter swans. The swans, which can apparently fly at altitudes of 8 km, spend winter on the ponds, bogs and lakes of the Copper River Delta.

Each spring, millions of western sandpipers stop at the Copper River Delta to refuel on the journey north to their breeding grounds in Western Alaska. In May we went out to Hartney Bay to watch them as they trickled in.

Our captain Matt refers to the Prince William Sound as the wild west - On our way back from a day in the field we stopped by to pick up the shrimp pots we had dropped the other day. When we pulled them up we found they had been raided and thrown back into the water in a big knot. Rachel checking out the "wild west" of Port Fidalgo:

After heavy rain throughout the morning, the sky cleared delivering a beautiful sunset as we finished dinner in Port Fidalgo.

Dan and I went fishing for Dolly Varden Char up Ibeck Creek one evening last week. As we fished the marine layer rolled in and out of the Scott River valley.

Hoping to get a bird's eye view of the Sheridan Glacier, we hiked into the alpine on a July weekend. The marine layer limited the visibility to 1,000 meters, but it brought the color out of this dew-soaked wooly lousewort.

At 10:30 PM we watched the sun creep towards the horizon through the relic piles of the defunct Orca Cannery.

Our roommate Megan had the great idea of taking a couple canoes out to Sheridan Glacier's terminal lake. As we started the one mile portage it was raining lightly, by the time we left the lake a dense fog shrouded the ice.

Driving north out of Cordova, we watched these bald eagles fighting over fish in nearly perfect overcast light.

Headed back to Cordova, 40 knot winds slowed us as this bowpicker passed:

On our way back to the vessel after a day in the field, we stopped to refill our ice supply with blocks of glacial ice calved from the Chenega Glacier:

Moonrise over our anchorage for the night. I wish I could remember where this was.

This pod of Dall's porpoise surfed on our bow-wake for an hour as we headed across the Sound:

Looking back at our landing craft as we left Cordova behind:

More to come!

McCarthy to Skolai Backpack - August 2025

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Sat, 29 Nov 2025 14:09:00 +0000

Back in August, Nyssa and I did a memorable four-day backpacking trip through the raw terrain of the Wrangell Mountains. Our route started in McCarthy and ended with a pickup at Skolai Pass, where Wrangell Mountain Air whisked us out in their impressive Cessna 185. Between those bookends was hard mountain travel through miles of freshly deglaciated terrain where the ground was shifting talus, loose moraines, and crumbling ice.

Our long weekend started slowly on Thursday with yummy breakfast burritos at the Potato before Kelly zipped us up to Kennicott with his ATV. In Kennicott we chatted with Elizabeth and Austin before heading up the sunny trail in the interior heat. I was quickly sweating and glad for my stylish zip-off pants.

Past the fork between the Kennicott and Root glaciers, we skidded, slipped, and slid off the trail and down the moraine, strapped on our microspikes, and stepped onto the Root. Impossibly large, Staircase Icefall loomed out of the clouds above us.

At our turn east towards the pass to McCarthy Creek, we scrambled up the dirty lateral moraine and left the Root behind. Perched on top of the moraine, we paused to sit for lunch looking down on the ice of the Root, melted down 100 feet from its height 50 years ago.

On the hillside next to us, an oblivious grizzly was also lunching, but with a main course of blueberry ground squirrel. Done with lunch, we climbed steep fingers of tundra draped in afternoon sun to the pass to McCarthy Creek.

From there, we scree-skied down toward what was left of the McCarthy Creek Glacier.

Down in the valley, we intersected with the steep crumbling lateral moraines that were all that was left from where the glacier had once been.

The inside of the moraine was too steep and unstable to descend comfortably or even safely, and we walked down-valley past the crumbling rock windrow to get to the heart of the canyon. The drainage was choked with house-sized boulders where McCarthy Creek had eroded through the smaller material of the moraine, leaving just the giants behind.

With the evening shadows getting longer over the high peaks, we started up the last climb of the day. Here we found smooth fossils polished by the creek pouring down bedrock slides. Many peaks here are built from the volcanic arc that rose from the ancient ocean - it's mind boggling to see pieces of these prehistoric sea beds clinging to the shoulders of shield volcanoes. In fact, Mount Wrangell itself is still an active volcano, steaming in the thin air of the chilly elevations.

The sun was setting over the huge peaks by the time we finished climbing up the glacier and stepped out onto the pass to the West Fork.

To the southeast, the glaciated hulks of the University Peaks caught fire in the last golden rays of the day.

Descending from the pass was a headache - we worked our way down steep snow and ice, around cliffs, and over exposed loose rock until we were off the headwall and into the hanging bowl.

Setting up camp in the fading light in the only dry and flat spot in the basin, we watched a group of climbers zigzag slowly upwards for over an hour through the cliffs and crevasses as the last light evaporated into blackness. Watching the dots of their headlamps finally crest the ridge and disappear on the other side, we felt bad for them knowing there was likely nowhere even remotely acceptable to camp for several hours on the other side. Wrangell–St. Elias National Park is bigger than Switzerland, but has fewer than 100 miles of maintained trails meaning this group would be choosing between ice, rock, or brush in the dark.

We woke on Friday to find another beautiful bluebird day which we hoped would bring us down to and across the West Fork Glacier, over Pass 6420, and to the Regal Glacier. Mountain goats watched us suspiciously as we dropped towards the West Fork. Starfishing down a steep gully, our final descent of the lateral moraine was nasty. There are ways through, but I think more guaranteed options are further up the glacier.

On the ice, the glacier was not as flat as we'd hoped it might be, but instead staircases of endless slippery ridges, valleys, and meltwater streams. Looking up, the glacier’s icefall was magnificent, a frozen explosion of seracs. I felt like this was the tour of Regal Mountain, just like it would seem for most of this trip.

Sheep and glittering quartz crystals led the climb toward 6420 Pass. Glaciers here have retreated miles since their Little Ice Age maximum in the 1800s. These valleys that now look like giant piles of rocks were buried in hundreds of feet of ice just 150 years ago.

The glacier here is nearly gone—just lingering scraps clinging to the valley floor.

From the pass, Frederika Mountain towered above shimmering aquamarine pools of meltwater. They looked deceptively warm and inviting for a quick swim.

The descent on the far side was steep and sketchy: cliffs, old ice, and neve. Below, a series of waterfalls sliced through sedimentary layers, leaving caves and alcoves that we carefully traversed above and past.

Friday night finds us looking for a campsite in the brush, cobbles, and boulders of the old lateral moraine of the Regal. It takes us awhile to find a sort of flat and sort of smooth spot, and we’re tired and hungry when we set up camp and crawl in for the night.

Saturday’s itinerary is to cross the Regal Glacier, cross the Rohn Glacier, climb up and over the pass to the Frederika Glacier, then descend the Frederika. The day begins with the descent down the big marbles of the moraine to the Regal.

On the Regal, crevasses and spines of ice force endless zigzags around the chasms in the ice.

At the confluence between the two rivers of ice, a fast and surprisingly efficient traverse through the icy moraine lands us on the Rohn Glacier. The Rohn drains off Regal Mountain (13,845 ft), one of the highest peaks in the Wrangells. Nearby Mount Blackburn, at 16,390 ft, is the second-highest volcano in North America. The Rohn is smoother for a while and making some easier and faster miles is nice.

The easy travel comes to a sudden screeching halt when the time comes to get off the Rohn. Between us and the hillside, is a 40-foot tall overhanging wall of ice covered in a jumble of rocks from kitty litter to boulders - all of which are poorly attached. Getting off is brutal, we treadmill back and forth and up and down through unstable moraine, collapsing holes, overhung ice until we find a non-vertical egress. Like last time, it is more mellow up-glacier.

It’s a relief to be off the Rohn and climbing above the ice. We follow ridges of rock that connect to meadows of tundra. Under our feet, the ground sparkles with geodes - what a magical place.

At the pass, a small patch of glacier clings stubbornly to life. We’re hungry, but the cold wind up here bites and we have miles to make, so we take in the recently deglaciated exposed Martian landscape and start our decent down the cold ice towards the Frederika.

After descending enough to escape the icy cold of the pass, we stop for a snack. Sitting on blocky rocks between a steep tumbling creek and the gray ice of the glacier, our eyes catch the flash of a vein of pyrite. We admire the crystalline fools gold then keep going.

Reaching the edge of the Frederika, we find another geologic miracle: a recently drained glacier outburst lake. Dammed by ice of the Frederika, the empty lake is a perfect tub of fine silt, stranded icebergs marooned across the floor like broken ships. For someone whose every day is dominated by protecting civilization against these cataclysmic features, just stumbling across one by accident is an extraordinary treat for me.

Outburst floods from these glacier dammed lakes — or “jökulhlaups” — can release the equivalent of months or even years of river flow in a matter of hours. They reshape valleys, strand icebergs, flood communities, and leave behind eerie, bathtub-like basins just like the one we stumbled into.

Eventually Nyssa drags me away from sciencing, and we hop up onto the Frederika. The glacier surface is smooth and we cruise down the glacier. Miles of fast walking in Kahtoolas on the hard ice chews up our feet - it comes as a relief when we reach the toe of the Frederika, slide off the ice, and rip off the microspikes.

The day’s final challenge is the chaos of navigating the terminal moraine to camp on the far side of the proglacial lake. Tucked behind willows and an old ridge of moraine, we’re protected from the katabatic winds rushing down the glacier, the spot is an awesome place to crawl in for the night.

On Sunday morning we wake with just seven miles standing between us and our flight back from Skolai Pass. The first mile rolls quickly by as we connect old gravel bars before we disappear into the second mile of tangled willow bushwhacks and moraine.

Then we leave the valley bottom behind and the terrain gradually opens from trip lines of willow to tundra. Here, fall colors are catching fire with yellows and reds stitched to the slopes. At first faint, a growing trail carries us above the brush and to sweeping views of the Seven Sisters.

A couple more miles and Skolai Pass spreads in front of us. Skolai has been a travel corridor for thousands of years. Ahtna and Upper Tanana Athabascans used it for hunting and trade, crossing between the Copper River Basin and the Yukon. Today it’s still one of the most accessible gateways into the park - if bushwhacking or bushplanes are accessible.

At Skolai, the wind is flowing through the valley from the west while clouds stream off the peaks.

In the cool mountain air, we wait for the pickup. My feet and brain feel pretty destroyed from miles upon miles of exposure, moraine, and nasty glacier. I’m happy to read and listen to the wind until the buzz of Wrangell Mountain Air’s 185 cuts through the silence.

When the bush plane gently touches down on the tundra strip, we toss in our backpacks, crawl in after them, then roar back into the air behind the powerful motor. Gliding back to McCarthy thru one of Alaska’s wildest ranges, we pass goats and sheep teetering on cliff faces, waterfalls carving into mountainsides, and the boiling gray of huge glacial rivers.

This is a trip I won’t forget any time soon and is deserving of a spot on the Best Of List.

Crater Peak Ski - 7.4.2025

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Mon, 27 Oct 2025 02:49:00 +0000

Under the threat of supposedly imminent eruption, Mount Spurr has been on the minds of most Anchoraginos this year. While an eruption never happened, it did point the eye of Sauron at what to do with the stratovolcano dominating the south end of the Tordillos.

Eventually, I realized that Crater Peak in summer corn could be a perfect way of avoiding the avalanche hazard created by 5,000 vertical feet of angle of repose slopes covered in terrain traps and sitting on the edge of a giant wind tunnel. The next step was waiting for the Crater Strip to melt out, the wind to let off, and the sun to come out. Somehow, all those things lined up on July 4th instead of 10 years from now as they so often do.

Landing on the strip involved clearing a hill on short final with a gusting a crosswind, little trees growing up into the strip, then a quick transition to an uphill landing. It was a perfect summer morning when we left the strip behind and hiked through soft, smooth tundra towards Crater Peak.

Walking through beautiful lupine meadows on the low flanks of the peak, the first thing I noticed and what kept coming back to me throughout the day was the scale of this place. I couldn't get over just how big all the peaks, ridges, glaciers, and gorges were. Here we were looking straight up 5,000 feet at a peak that was not only several thousand feet shorter than its neighbors, but also surrounded on three sides by huge glaciers draining off these high peaks.

At first, travel on the tundra was fast and easy, but as we gained elevation and the pitch of the mountain ramped up, we left the vegetation behind to be replaced by loose ash. The steepening ash was a treadmill where one step forward meant 0.999 steps sliding back down. It was time to switch to booting up the snow - I'm not sure how realistic it would be to climb Crater in late summer when the seasonal snow gluing everything in place is melted out.

Booting on the snow was the right decision, and we quickly gained elevation while the huge lava flows and the Chakachatna River Valley shrank below us.

Nearing the summit, we crossed over the starting zones of one of the massive ravines draining the entire vertical elevation of the peak. Feeling the tickle of thousands upon thousands upon thousands of feet of empty space below, I was again reminded of the crazy scale of this place, and really glad to be standing on summer snow instead of whatever forms of sketchy windboard and unpleasant sastrugi inhabit this place all winter.

Past the huge ravines draining the south side, the climb mellowed out as we neared the summit of wind scoured lava.

The summit was awesome. Just to the north, the top of Spurr was hidden by the cap of a lenticular cloud as the glaciated peak caught the upper level winds streaming over the spine of the Alaska Range. Just out of reach, huge seracs and crevasses spilled down out of these clouds.

The rivers of ice then flowed past and under us into rapids of frozen water making icefalls draining the peaks.

To the south, we looked past our crumbling caldera of ash, across the Chakachatna River, down the gray waters of the Cook Inlet stretching to Kodiak and the Alaska Peninsula, and into the craggy peaks of the Neacolas.

We would have loved to peer into Crater Peak's summit pit, but it was well guarded by teetering giant overhanging and dripping cornices. Having flown over recently, we knew the crater was frozen and not a hot tub like its been in the past. Thanks for Billy Finley for resurrecting memories, pictures, and words from those times, included in the next three pictures, below. Our friend Ben Americus says that day was the pinnacle of his dad's life. I can see why.

John Crater Collection

John Crater Collection

It was fun to imagine what it must have been like then and dream about that volcanic spa returning sometime in the future - fingers crossed. I could have stayed on the top forever taking in the world of giants and crumbling rock and ice around us.

We knocked snow and ash out of our bindings and boots, clipped in, and slid off the summit. These upper turns weren't even summer snow yet, just quality corn more like what we used to ski in Colorado in April and May. What a difference going 1,500 miles north makes. Nyssa:

These first turns were so cool. As the angle of the slope increased with each turn, the snow dropped away below us, making the Kidazgeni Glacier's jumbled chunks of ice the horizon line just ahead of our skis.

Photo: Nyssa Landres

As the terrain steepened over the edge and out of sight towards the Kidazgeni, we traversed from the east slopes of the peak to the south side.

With this change in aspect and drop in elevation, the snow transitioned to the compact summer snow you'd expect to find in July. It was still smooth and fast, and we relished the chance to be surrounded by glaciers and gorges without having to deal with the hazards that usually come with them.

Lower down, the snow turned sticky goo clinging to our P-Tex bases, and we lurched our way down the last 500 vertical feet of snow to summer.

With our skis back on our packs and the snow above us, we savored this incredible experience in this unparalleled place. The lenticular clouds clung to the peaks as winds continued to rage on the summits. We stopped to rinse off and feel alive in a refreshing waterfall tumbling from overhanging columnar basalt. Then, we bounced down the soft summer tundra towards the strip with jumbled masses of ice flowing down the mountainsides just a half mile away.

This is an all-time day that I'll remember forever; hopefully we get to come back sometime. Maybe if we're really lucky there will be hot springs to swim in too.

Augustine Volcano Skiing and Hiking - 2025

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Mon, 06 Oct 2025 23:09:00 +0000

Rising from the wind whipped seas of the southern Cook Inlet, Augustine Volcano has been on my list since soon after I moved to Alaska over a decade ago. Finally this spring, Dmitry and I had what we needed to make it happen.

From Anchorage, we lifted west into the air, crossed the Knik Arm, then flew south along the west side of the Cook Inlet. We passed through the peaks of Tuxedni, Chinitina, and Iliamna, then at Ursus Cove climbed above glide slope for the crossing to the stratovolcano island.

The west beach was covered with fat otters and eagles, and it took a couple low passes to convince the wildlife to share the beach with us. We tied down to dead-manned driftwood, strapped our skis on our packs, and stepped into a grassy landscape reminiscent of the Aleutian Islands. The initial slopes of the cone are mild, and it was several miles before we gained enough elevation to leave the lava behind and reach snow.

Off the loose debris flows and onto the compact maritime snow, the slopes of the lava dome began to increase and we climbed faster. Behind Dmitry is Mount Douglas - Tony has fond memories and good stories from a ski trip down there. Hopefully someday I will get to check it out!

Climbing higher on the peak, we wrapped onto the northwest ridge to reach the summit dome.

On the summit dome, with more and more stream vents appearing around us, it became clear we were on an active volcano.

Past more vents and we were on the warty and rimed summit. We skinned past steaming holes in the snow that disappeared into the earth as we explored. I've heard stories of people falling into these volcanic crevasses - after having been here in the summer and winter I think this fall hazard is absolutely real and to be taken seriously.

I particularly liked a line of vents along an exposed ridge on the south side of the peak. We listened to the air whooshing out of these holes big enough to stick a hand into if they hadn't been pouring out hot steam.

Dmitry with a fist sized vent in the foreground and the Kenai Peninsula in the background.

Satisfied with our explorations of the volcanic activity up top, we ate lunch, and strapped our boards on for the descent.

Rolling over the edge of the bowling ball, we found a rimey chute dropping southwest from the summit. Depending on snow and wind conditions, I think there are probably nice lines off all aspects of Augustine.

We chased after each other down the carveable corn snow as the terrain transitioned from the steep summit dome to tentacles of snow fingering down the lower mountain.

At about 1,000 feet, we ran out of snow, sat down to put our running shoes on, reminisced about this crazy place, then started the easy descent back to the salt water.

Back on the beach, we drooled over the panoramic views sweeping from our little volcano to the giants of the Neacola and Chigmit Mountains to the west.

In late September, Tom, Nyssa, and I went back for a summer ascent of Augustine. Again, we followed the west side of the Cook Inlet south; and just like last time, waited until the distance from mainland to island was the smallest before crossing the intimidating open water.

On the west beach, again there were plump otters and lazy eagles who were more interested in lounging than moving. We waded through the tall grass of the dunes then crossed the lagoon towards the bands of alders that stood between us and the lava flows. There is a break in the alders that makes for a route with just a few minutes of bushwhacking.

Despite the calendar being the end of September, there were still salmon swirling in the creek when we scampered across the shallow fresh water and through the alders. The incised drainage gullies of the lower mountain were no longer filled with snow and we peered into these surprisingly deep crumbling features as we worked our way up. Leaving the protection of the vegetation behind, we hid behind a blob of lava tossed from the volcano while winds pouring down the inlet buffeted our snack break.

Passing porous and bubbly rocks colored in oranges, reds, yellows, and chemical green, the mountain seemed even more volcanic and alive without snow.

It also felt steeper. Around 3,500 feet we reached a steep headwall of loose ash that we carefully ascended as pieces of it came off in our hands and under our feet. I found descending this feature to be pretty tedious too.

On top, and no longer hiding in huge drifts of winter snow, the summit had so many cool features to explore. We soaked in steam vents, crawled into craters, and peered into the depths of the earth. It was a whole new experience from May, and an equally awesome adventure.

We poked around the nooks and crannies of the summit until the shadows began to lengthen, then jogged down the loose ash and debris towards the sea.

Back on the beach, as so often happens in magically beautiful and otherworldly places like this, it was hard to turn north for Anchorage and leave this special island behind.

Jack River Packraft - June 2016

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Wed, 10 Sep 2025 06:00:00 +0000

Updated in 2025 include another great day on this gem of a river.
For my birthday last year we mountain biked for two hours, then ran six miles barefoot on the beach, then went climbing, then did a class III float, and finished with a sunset hike. This year, after throwing around a few equally unreasonable ideas we settled on the Jack River over Caribou Pass as a logistically feasible combination of birthday fun.

Starting along the Parks Highway 3.6 miles south of Cantwell, we followed an ATV/bear/moose trail across the flats and were soon gaining elevation.

ATV trails are an interesting contradiction for non-motorized users: they leave eroded scars on the landscape, but without them, vegetated trail-less areas would be nearly impenetrable. Perhaps they are the true multi-use trail? Andalyn is probably debating this conundrum here:

At 3,000 feet we began to sidehill and wrapped SE into a valley towards the pass to the Middle Fork Chulitna drainage. As sidehilling goes it was quite pleasant.

After about one mile of that sidehill ankle training, the alders along the creek thinned, and we dropped down to follow gravel bars along the water.

By early afternoon gravel bars transitioned to easy tundra walking complete with a few caribou, sheep, and ptarmigan.

Reaching the pass, Caribou Lakes and a beautiful panoramic carved by glaciers came into view. This would be a gorgeous campsite. To the left and right of Andrew (in red) several old terminal moraines are visible and marked by horizontal drifts of snow.

Following the contours we dropped down towards Caribou Lakes and the Chulitna drainage. Here there was a new kind of wildlife hazard: baby ptarmigan hiding in the grass. So cute, so invisible, and so helpless.

Hopefully the great ptarmigan god will forgive me for the one I accidentally stepped on. The valley floor was dominated by huge alluvial outwash fans whose well drained gravels were generally a dry and easy surface to walk on.

Dry is a relative term:

Photo: Justin Wholey

Dodging the baby ptarmigan that were waiting to ambush us at every moment we reached the lakes by early evening.

The second lake had all sorts of nice, dry, flat campsites on the old lateral moraines overlooking the lake. As we ate dinner, the evening sun lit up the peaks. The Jack River is immediately in front of these peaks.

In the morning, we woke up to the patter of rain on our tents, cooked breakfast in Justin's circus tent, and started the short hike to the river.

Walking thru dense alders next to the lake, we reached an area that smelled distinctly like a dead animal. As we thrashed loudly forward, a wolf shot out of the bushes 10 feet away from me. Running effortlessly over the tussocked landscape it was a gray blurr - what an animal, and what a great way to start my birthday! At the river we blew up our boats on a gravel bar complete with alarmingly large bear tracks.

Then we were onto the river and entering a spectacular canyon!

The water was fast, continuous, and exciting! Perhaps at lower levels its different, but we found several fun Class 3+ sections. By the end of the day we had all gone swimming. I don't have many pictures cause I was generally just trying to hold on, but it looked like this:

Two hours into the float, Andalyn's boat decided to rip and quickly deflate. Attempting to patch it in the ongoing heavy rain was a challenging team building excercise, but thanks to Justin's patch kit it seemed to work. As the East Fork of the Jack joined us, the river's character became calmer; the views remained incredible.

At the lower canyon several of us portaged the main rapid. Justin successfully ran it, while I flipped, but was able to jump back in my boat in the big pool below.

Justin in the lower canyon.

Andalyn's boat took the opportunity to deflate again. We tried a few more patches, but with the ongoing rain it was so wet and already 6 PM.

So, we packed up Andalyn's raft, she jumped in my boat, and I jumped on the back of Andrew's boat. Which did not work.
Photo: Justin Wholey

Rearranging, Andrew positioned me more securely between his legs:

Photo: Justin Wholey

And we were off on eight miles miles of fast Class I and II. Thanks Andrew!

Photo: Justin Wholey

June 2025 Update:
Over the past two days we'd paddled Moody Creek and Windy Creek - two very different creeks from each other and from the Jack. From our secluded car camp on a beautiful gravel bar of the Nenana, we drove up stream and about four miles out the Denali Highway for this third course. From the parking lot we splashed, sploshed, and squished through the muddy ATV trail towards Wolf Point. The trail was surprisingly good once we got past the motorized bog near the highway, and the green of early summer juxtaposed against the snowy peaks filled us with life.

At Wolf Point, we dropped into the Jack River valley where we replaced the muddy tracks of boots and ATVs with fresh ones of wolves and bears.

After about five miles of gorgeous hiking, though we definitely could have continued for miles more, we decided to take off our packs, unpack or rafts, stuff our rafts in our packs, and paddle onto the water. Like the past two days, the river was swollen to bankfull with peak snowmelt - I estimated around 900 cfs here. Above the canyon, the Jack was fast, splashy, and fun, with plenty of beautiful wild Alaskan scenery to take in between waves. Here, I felt like more water would have been great, and less would have been fine too!

At the canyon we stopped to scout. The rapid there is a big bedrock drop and its pretty easy to stop and scout with a small rock tower on river right denoting its location. At these high flows it looked like a feature out of Sixmile’s First Canyon. The center line offered a clean tongue which both of us were able to run smoothly. I think that at most water levels the center tongue is a good line to take.

Below the canyon, the Jack settled into the kind of slow, meandering waterway so common in Interior Alaska. Through the haze of Canadian wildfire smoke, we looked back toward the blurry headwaters, now getting farther and farther behind.

When the river finally came closest to the road, we packed up, scrambled back to the highway, and hitched a ride in the bed of a pickup truck rallying down the washboards of the dirt "highway" in a plume of dust. A fitting end to three days of back-to-back-to back classics.

Windy Creek Packraft - 6.13.2025

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Wed, 10 Sep 2025 05:40:00 +0000

Windy Creek is one of the more approachable classics of the day trip packrafting Shangri La that is Broad Pass. As such, I figured I would have gotten around to it a decade ago, at least five years ago, or at a minimum a couple years ago. But, we are gifted with myriad routes, peaks, and rivers to explore here. With so many of these adventures, its just impossible to get to them all right away. It wasn't until a sunny afternoon this June that Jordan and I pulled into the parking lot in Cantwell and finally stepped onto the old trail into the Alaska Range.

The trail was wide and started pretty dry - a luxury for a well used route in this boggy area. Even better were all the signs of life in this wild place. Beneath our feet we passed the tracks of moose, bears, wolves, and their furry poo too.

There was also evidence of the smaller creatures that make a living here. I loved this tree that some hungry porcupine had thought was delicious.

I thought about how many of these animals were probably still nearby at this moment and how if we sat down, took it all in, and waited quietly, they would inevitably pass us by on the way to their own business. After a few miles of fast and easy travel, the trail degraded into what some Alaskans would euphemistically call a "route".

A mile of this soggy and overgrown situation brought us to improving travel overlooking the aquamarine riffles of the creek.

As the headwaters of Windy Creek spread in front of us, the walking and views just kept improving. I wished we had time to connect all the way through the Alaska Range to the Sanctuary River or at least explore the upper basin. But, Oliver would be waiting at the road, so it was time to blow up our packrafts and hop in those expensive pool toys.

At the put in, I estimated about 165 cfs in the river. We were near peak snowmelt and the creek was bankfull. I think it would hard to time higher water in here, but I bet its easier to get it with less water.

On the water, Windy was straightforward and splashy. I could see how it would be a perfect choice for someone looking for safe fun on the edges of Denali. There was no significant wood in the river and I didn't note any particular features of note or concern. At low flow I bet it would be draggy, and at high flow fast and smooth.

Upon reaching the Jack River, the character shifted. The gradient slacked off and the water spread into scenic flatwater floating lazily sweeping past gravel bars and mountains filling the horizon.

Jordan on the Jack with Panorama Mountain rising above the Nenana Valley - another classic I'm still hoping to do:

Its taking me forever to check out all these classics, which I love. Can't wait to get back to this zone!

Moody Creek Packraft - 6.3.2017

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Wed, 10 Sep 2025 03:00:00 +0000

Updated in 2025 include another great day on this little chocolate river.

After a dry winter in the Alaska Range (and everywhere else), spring 2017 brought persistent cool weather to Southcentral. We wanted to get onto the water, but the weather history was tricky for predicting how much water we'd find. Driving north on the Parks Highway, the plan was to make a game-time decision. Passing Honolulu Creek, it had way too much water in it, so we headed for Moody.

We dropped a bike shuttle at the Healy bridge then parked at Dragonfly Creek to begin our customary late start. Following the dry drainage was straightforward and within a mile we were on the clear ridge.

Complete with game trail highways, the ridge was a great way to gain elevation towards the plateau above. Pretty good views southwest into the foothills of the Alaska Range too.

It also had vivid folding rock patterns to check out. The quartz intrusions are neat. Alex for scale:

And without Alex - I need to get back into my copy of Roadside Geology of Alaska.

Around 4,000 feet we skirted left behind the large promontory that bulges from the edge of the plateau.

Then we climbed the last little headwall to the ridge. This upper basin had several small ongoing debris flows to check out; and what looked suspiciously like an airplane door.

The ridge was remarkably flat and covered in sheep sign. It was hard to believe there could be that many sheep in one spot until we saw one giant flock. Then another giant flock.

Sugarloaf Peak coming into view. We followed a game trail to just short of its summit before dropping over the backside and down another trail towards the creek.

Looking back towards Glitter Gulch.

The rusty yellows, oranges, and browns were one of the highlights of the hike for me.

After scrambling up Point 4784, we turned towards Sugarloaf Peak and began our descent. From the top we could look east into the headwaters of Moody Creek. Its along basin, I'd be interested in going back and putting in higher up. It wouldn't be worth following the ridge to do so, maybe people have gone in from Montana Creek?

The incredible trails continued as we contoured down. Below us a large herd of sheep frolicked on the hillside. I wonder how many generations of sheep have been frolicking there.

Looking into the long headwaters of the Moody:

Now well below Sugarloaf Peak.

A good view of how well defined the trail is.

The game highway even had an off-ramp to the put in at Moody Creek. Perhaps AKDOT can hire these trail engineers?

Immediately after putting in, the creek turned into a fun game of boulder dodging thru chocolate milk.

Alex approves.

Ice persisting well into June. Look at those huge chunks of loose rock - what a dynamic landscape!

After some confusion (by me) on whether or not this rapid needed to be scouted, and a questionable brace off a bedrock ledge I setup safety for Khalial.

Perhaps I should give pointers on bracing off of rocks.

Alex and more ice. The blues of the ice contrasted nicely with the hues of the degrading rock.

I think this is the bottom of the most sustained rapid section. Based on the Tuff Shed sized boulders in the creek, this drainage must produce some major runoff!

Portaging across the one major strainer. I'm pretty sure that scrambling along loose, steep, and slippery rocks above the strainer was just as dangerous as paddling past it.

Continuous and exciting rapids continued down the small creek until its confluence with the Healy Creek. A few minutes later we joined the Nenana and cruised to the bridge in the evening glow.

By 11 PM I was on my bike, blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival, and blissfully cranking thru the last 13 miles of the day. I would do this trip again in a second - great hiking, views, geology, and water. Complete with optional bonus-exercise-bike-shuttle.

June 2025 Update:
Eight years since my last visit to this awesome little muddy creek, I finally returned. With the shuttle set at the power plant, we drove back through Glitter Gulch and parked at the trailhead behind the Grande Denali Lodge. The trail is easier than the scramble up the loose rock of Dragonfly Gulch, but still the typical shoddy construction of most social trails around southcentral AK. An hour of sweating up the muggy bushes of the steep trail and we were refreshed by the wind on the ridges of the Nenana Valley.

Like the Dragonfly Gulch access, these rolling ridges are splashed by patches of yellow, pink, and orange rock. The Dragonfly route is definitely faster for getting to the meat of the whitewater, but these extra miles of beautiful alpine are worth it if there's time.

From Point 4985, we started down to Moody Creek. This off trail descent is not as smooth as the boulevard of sheep, moose, and bear tracks on the Dragonfly Gulch route. The views into the headwaters of Moody and the Yanert were great, and we were treated to a close encounter with a large flock of sheep: I'd seen a few sheep from a distance and suspected there were more tucked into and behind small draws and ridges. As we approached, more of the white animals appeared out of the terrain and milled around to watch us as we passed their idyllic alpine meadow on the way to the creek.

45 minutes of bushwhacking down the valley brought us to the creek where about 200 cfs of Willy Wonka's chocolate milk was rushing past. Like last time, we were near peak snowmelt, but there was significantly more water in the creek this time. Here are pictures of the bedrock ledge drop now and then (red boat) which in 2017 I thought was the hardest feature on the run - that is no longer the case. You can see how much more water was in it this time.

Moody wasn't how I remembered it. There have been several new rock landslides, and there has been significant permafrost degradation and black spruce forest slumping into the creek. We saw a few pieces of wood in the creek, so I imagine that some of the black spruce from the slumping has flushed out, but I also wonder if there was dangerous wood that was fully covered in water that we did not even see. The rock landslides have added many technical features to the run making it even more exciting, technical, and continuous than I remembered.

The most important feature of note is a messed up undercut sieve at 63.82996, -148.83575 where the surface of the creek is constricted into a 4-foot wide pour over. This feature reminded me of stuff in Magic Mile or Upper Honolulu Creek:

By Healy Creek, the whitewater was over, replaced instead by even whiter skinny dippers. Hopefully you wild souls will stumble across this post someday - you looked great.

Okpilak River Packraft - June 2024

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Sun, 02 Mar 2025 23:10:00 +0000

Last June, Nyssa, Hazel, Charlee, Tony, Charlie and I headed north for our solstice pilgrimage to the Arctic. In Fairbanks, we met with Kirk Sweetsir who flew us in his bushplane to where the Hulahula River cuts through the Romanzoff Mountains of the Brooks Range. From there, we worked our way down the Hulahula to the edge of the coastal plain where we portaged to the Okpilak River. We explored the country around the Okpilak Hot Springs then floated the Okpilak to the edge of the coastal plain before one last portage to Kaktovic and our flight home. I think this is a close replica of a trip that Ken Hill, Robin Beebee, Ed Plumb, and Seth Adams did years ago - I'm sure others have done it as well.

The adventure started early on a Saturday June morning in Fairbanks as we dragged ourselves out of bed, injected caffeine into our groggy brains, and Ubered to Wright Air. We dropped off the Charliees and Tony who would fly to Arctic Village in one of Wright's Cessna Grand Caravans where Kirk would double back to get them after dropping us off at the landing strip.

Typical of operations serving rural Alaska, Wrights wasn't open yet, and we left the trio standing outside to figure out finding breakfast while we went looking for Kirk. The Yukon Air hangar was also deserted upon our arrival and it was our turn to work on breakfast while we waited for Kirk. Breakfast was on the way by the time Kirk pulled up in his Subaru. Then we started digging around for the bear spray and fuel he has stashed for us and stuffing our gear into his Cessna 185. Packing was pretty quick and we are soon airborne and leaving Fairbanks behind. As we flew north, the foothills of the Brooks Range begin to grow out of the vast northern coniferous forest.

The taiga melted away below replaced by surreal barren mountains rising around us. These peaks aren't tall, but they cut into sky with their raw untamed beauty.

As we passed the continental divide, and flew into the Hulahula watershed, I was filled with excitement to explore this wild place of caribou, pastel colors, and beautiful rivers.

We bounced down the Grassers airstrip and stepped out into the crisp air and stillness of the country. Kirk tossed our packs out and lifted into the sky once more to pick up the rest of our group at Arctic Village.

We were tired from the typical mad rush to pack up and get out of town, and relaxed in the morning sun while waiting for the rest of the group to arrive. The peace was soon broken by the arrival of the first of 10 helio courier and beaver flights which would fill the quiet valley with echoing buzzing for the rest of the day as they brought in a tent city for the Wilderness Society.

With the arrival of the rest of our contingent, we hiked away from the growing circus at the strip to a peaceful camp spot up the river. Tents up and eager to stretch our legs, we set out for an afternoon hike up to Peak 5480.

The bumpy tundra was alive with birds ready to take advantage of the short arctic summer, and we passed the nests of little birds as we made our way higher across the landscape.

Underfoot, the soft patchwork of grasses, dwarfed shrubs, and tussucks was replaced by the sharp feeling of rock as we left the wide river valley behind and climbed onto the windscoured ridges.

Cresting a ridgeline, we came across a classic arctic scene: a pair of caribou cooling off from the "heat" on the remaining snow of last winter.

From the little peak, our views stretched for miles away from our camp on the Hulahula. Snow from last winter clung to steep protected faces hidden below sharp ridgelines sawing into sky. While below us, nude scree transitioned to rolling tundra then cobbly little aquamarine creeks. We took a few moments to enjoy the view, then looped back towards camp.

Our return followed a small creek with each of us taking the caribou trail, contour, or creek bottom that called to us. I wondered if Tony and I would startle wildlife oblivious the existence of humans along the babbling water.

Our arrival at the big collapsed pingo announced the approach to camp. Pingos are fascinating features of the permafrost landscape: ice-cored hills formed when liquid water trapped beneath the surface freezes and expands, pushing the earth above into a dome. Over time, the ice core melts, and the pressure from the surrounding earth causes the center to collapse, leaving behind a donut-shaped depression in the middle of the hill. The pingo stood as a testament to the power of nature’s slow, unrelenting forces, a reminder that this land, though quiet, was anything but constant.

Sunday started with groups of hundreds of caribou flowing down the valley past us as we ate breakfast. With a full day ahead, we crossed the Hulahula to explore the peaks to the east of camp. As we gained elevation we looked down at our little camp next to the pingo.

We followed a steep gully cut thru the burnt colors of the old rock to efficiently gain the upper shoulders of the mountains.

Out of the steep valley walls we climbed into a paradise of rolling terrain.

Tucked between ridges were heavenly alpine benches covered in myriad little flowers splashing bright yellows, purples, and, blues across the terrain. Like they often do, these flowers reminded me of my mom, her adventurous spirit and time in Alaska, and how much she would love these colors here.

Climbing towards Peak 6340, we peered over a ridge to see a spread out flock of 40 or 50 sheep grazing peacefully in a protected alpine meadow.

On top of 6340, we stopped for lunch and to decide what was next. Rising to the east, Peak 6988 called to us - so we followed sheep trails towards it.

Approaching the summit of 6988, we crested another ridge bringing views of another beautiful valley splashed in pockets of sunlight and virga with the peaks at the head of the basin lurking in the clouds.

A short scramble brought us to the summit of the peak.

The mountains around us floated in and out of the clouds as we took in the saturated colors of the drainages around us before we started the descent towards dinner. We surfed the loose scree of the upper peak before reaching sheep trails that took us to their soft meadows.

Ahead of us we could see Charlie and Charlee disappearing over the edge into the valley.

Soon we too were hiking over the edge to the lower valley with the Wilderness Society camp coming into view. Thousands of feet below and a mile away, the strong odor of chemical and latrine from their big camp filled the air.

The clouds that had been with us all day started to lower and darken as we reached the valley floor.

Reaching camp, we watched a moody squall of dark rain pass to the south as we made dinner. I was glad we were off the high peaks.

On Monday it was time to make miles on the river.

Travel on the river was generally straightforward and mellow with a few small rapids and some aufeis. Aufeis, German for "ice on top", is a sheet of ice many feet thick that forms from successive layers of overflowing ground or river water freezing during winter. We'd paddle until our bodies cramped from the awkward positions in the foragers then pull off to lounge, stretch, and snack on the riverbanks.

We paddled until the afternoon winds blowing up the river became overwhelming then searched for a gravel bar for the night. With Mount Chamberlain towering above us we set up camp while Hazel played the bongo drums.

With the infinite midnight sun overhead we went for a dessert hike up the ridge to the east. Tony and Hazel stopped to enjoy the overlook of the wide valley while we continued to what we called "Engagement Peak".

With Mount Michelson seemingly just out of reach in the golden evening light, it was a beautiful spot that we will remember forever.

Photo: Charlie Procknow

Tuesday started with about ten more miles on the Hulahula before we'd reach our crossing to the Okpilak. As the river entered a small gorge we startled a nursery group of sheep that were grazing by the water. In the process of losing their winter coats, they looked pretty mangy as they easily hopped up the cliffs to safety. Even the babies barely bigger than our house cats were so incredibly strong and agile.

At the edge of the mountains, we reached a few miles of wave trains and rapids that have been mentioned in other reports. They were generally Class II with a few low consequence Class III holes that could easily have been avoided. That being said, Nyssa and I were having fun center punching all the rapids and got tossed from our raft into a big pool. The rest of the group watched that happen and easily avoided the bigger features.

Past the canyon, we pulled out on the east bank to dry out from swim practice, eat lunch, and pack for our hike. It was dreamy lying in the soft sunny tundra and hard to motivate for the tussucks that might lie ahead. Nyssa had the great idea to contour close to the edge of the mountains which was a good way to minimize the tussocks. They were way better than what we'd experienced a few miles west in 2023 and totally tolerable.

After a few miles of hiking along the edge of the coastal plain, the Old Man Creek drainage opened in front of us and we turned south into it.

Old Man Creek had great views of Michelson and good hiking on caribou trails on the bench far above the creek.

Soon we were crossing the main stem of Old Man and starting up the east fork where we would camp.

We set up on a bumpy but soft bench above the creek, poured a salty dinner down our throats, and set out for a hike towards Peak 3680 in the beautiful evening. At the ridge, the seemingly endless pack ice stretched over the horizon.

We followed the mellow ridge to the top and were rewarded with jaw dropping views of Michelson glowing in soft light from the north.

Like we'd found elsewhere here, the alpine was bejeweled with special flowers protected by the nooks and crannies of the rocky landscape.

Wednesday we woke to find yet another day of blue skies, packed up camp, and continued up the east fork of the creek.

It was lunchtime when we reached the pass to the Okpilak. The travel up the creek was smooth and we were all in agreement that this was a great way to cross from the Hulahula to the Okpilak.

After lunch overlooking the sprawling Okpilak river valley and the mountains to the east, most of the group continued towards the hotsprings while I convinced Nyssa to hang back for another little peak. We watched them disappear over the edge then hiked north towards Peak 4370.

The ridgeline was sprinkled with more blooming flowers and again I thought about how mom would treasure all these rugged little beauties.

4370 had just enough prominence for an absolutely killer panoramic view of the Michelson massif which we soaked in before returning to our bags at the pass.

The descent to the river was straightforward and we were soon walking fast and easily up the wide valley towards the hot springs. In general I was very impressed with the scale of the Okpilak valley: there was often 5,000 vertical feet of relief from the valley floor straight up to the spired peaks above us.

At the Okpilak Springs we met up with the rest of our group and Elias, Sammy, Tess, Ian, Kat, and Sam who'd arrived the day before via a higher route from the Hulahula. It was great to catch up, hear about their trip, and see the impressive work Tess had done cleaning nine months of algal growth out of the hot springs. I hope we get to do some adventures with them in the future.

Established at the hot springs, Hazel served us oreo pudding for my birthday, and we started to plan the next couple days of exploring the area. On Thursday we hiked south up the Okpilak Valley to explore.

I loved it here; the hiking was easy, long-tailed jaegers hunted swooping flight paths inches above the ground, and the height of the valley walls and the water spilling down from them was incredible.

On the west side of the valley we explored a series of incredible waterfalls spilling from the Michelson massif to pour over blocky white granite.

Then we hiked over to check out the Okpilak gorge. Even with our packrafts stashed a safe distance away at camp, this boiling canyon of miles of committing and continuous gray water, sharp rocks, and sieves made my blood pressure rise. There's people out there that are comfortable doing this kind of gnarly remote whitewater, but I'm not one of them.

Where the Okpilak forked and about nine miles from camp, we called it a day.

We peered into the mysterious upper reaches of the river, then headed back for dinner.

Back at camp, the crew had a great wildlife day. They'd watched a mature Dall sheep ram soak in the springs and seen baby musk oxen tumbling playfully on the aufeis. As we sat down for dinner, the other group, who had been waiting for the afternoon winds to die down, were just putting on the river.

Friday was another day for exploring the area before it was our time to continue down the river. On the advice of the other group, Nyssa and I decided to explore the tributary drainage where they had crossed from the Hulahula. Leaving the Okpilak valley behind and turning into the mountains I was floored by the beauty of this place.

For scale, the water fall in the lower quadrant of the picture is 300 feet tall.

Travel up the valley bottom was brutal and I was thankful to no be carrying a heavy pack. After a couple miles of cobble kicking we left the bottom and followed an orange stream upwards. Streams have been turning orange in the arctic as permafrost thaws and metals are released.

Following benches and ridges through the terrain, we were soon on top of Peak 5760 and staring straight at Michelson. We sat there dreaming about all the peak bagging right in front of us and how we would approach it. It was a beautiful day and very hard to remind ourselves that it was time to return to camp and continue towards the coast. I really hope to return here some day.

Eventually we dragged ourselves away and down the ridge to Peak 4960 before dropping back to the Okpilak.

There was a large herd of musk oxen that had been hanging out on the aufeis and in the floodplain, and it was a treat to pass these alien goats draped in shag carpets. I thought back to my first time in Alaska as a wide eyed 20 year old who cannot get over seeing these strange creatures wandering the tundra as I drive south from Deadhorse.

Meeting up back at the tents, everybody was stoked on seeing the musk oxen, and we happily packed up and prepared our boats to continue our adventure with an evening of paddling on the Okpilak. The silty waters carried us quickly out of the mountains and we turned around in our boats to admire the mountains in the evening light.

After a few hours we had made it the tenish miles that we'd hoped to and pulled out on a glorious tundra bench for night. It was spectacular.

Driven out of our tents by the greenhouse of the morning sun, Saturday was a day to make progress on the coastal plain. We encountered only Class II whitewater, but I imagine this could be a bit gnarlier during a large flow event. At the same time, more water would have reduced the damage of our boats dragging over these boulder gardens deposited at the edge of the mountains. At one point we watched Tony pour several gallons of water out of his drysuit from a collision with these angry rocks. I think low summer flows would make these cheese graters close to impassable and very destructive for rafts.

Past the boulder gardens, the Okpilak became a classic north slope river: dramatic cutbanks adorned with melting permafrost and snow, banks dotted with wandering caribou and pingos, migratory birds galore, braided channels, large flocks of willow ptarmigan clucking at us, up river winds, and great views of the northern end of the Rocky Mountains. I'm always so glad to have a two-person packrafts in these sections: they are so much faster and efficient and the shared company is nice.

After a full day of working to make progress down the wandering river, we climbed out of the river and up the bluff to make camp on land flatter than a pancake. Cold wind was blowing off the sea ice and we hustled to get out of clammy drysuits, set up the tents, and huddle behind them our paltry windbreaks. The rock solid ice in the frozen ground was so close to the surface that we couldn't drive our tent stakes in all the way. I like camping here: the high peaks northern peaks look so dramatic from this perspective. Ptarmigan were taking dust baths on the sandbars of the Okpilak as we crawled in for the night.

Sunday would be our crossing to Barter Island. By reviewing the aerial imagery to plot a route across the coastal plain, we were able to avoid the water all around us; my feet stayed dry until the last mile to the lagoon. The hiking was generally acceptable and mostly good. There was a bit of tussock with most of the miles were made up of various forms of ice polygons.

These polygons are made up of ice wedges which are cracks in the ground formed by thin pieces of ice extending downwards for several meters. During the winter months, the water in these cracks freezes and expands. The ice that's already present in the wedges expands as well. This process expands the cracks. As this continues over the years, ice wedges can continue to grow to very large sizes.

We disturbed countless cranky ptarmigan as we walked across the tundra who'd waddle in front of us doing everything short of actually taking flight. The frozen ground was just below the surface and every few steps we'd feel the hard ice surface against the tips of our trekking poles. Out here, I love the dichotomy of the coastal plain against the high peaks of the Brooks Range just out of reach.

Crossing the icy Arey Lagoon to the island was our last crux and we thoroughly enjoyed this adventure. We inflated our boats then dragged them onto the broken ice as we probed ahead with our trekking poles. At open leads, we'd push our packrafts into the water in front of us, clamber in, and paddle to the next iceberg where we'd crawl onto the ice and repeat the process. It worked great.

Across the lagoon, we tucked out of sight in a private and inconspicuous beach camp under the bank. For dinner we were joined by a group of friendly longspurs and snow buntings while geese, eiders, northern pintails, godwicks, cranes, swans, and others cruised past. We fell asleep to the gog-gog-gog call of female eiders passing by.

On Monday, we slept in, packed up, walked a mile from our campsite along the dump road to the airport, then two more miles to Waldo Arms for lunch. The walk from airport to Waldo Arms took about 40 minutes. Marty gave us the cliffs notes on his life from starting to work in restaurants at age 9, scholarships to culinary school, setting up restaurants all over the country, to working all over rural Alaska. What an interesting and cool guy. I could have talked to him for hours. But we had a plane to catch home, and it was time to jog back to the dusty airstrip.

As the caravan lifted off from Kaktovic, we watched the pack ice meet with the soggy tundra then stretch away to infinity before the plane banked south and our view turned with it.

Our pilot stayed low and we watched the rolling hills of the Sadlerochits transition to the mountains of the Canning river valley. Then, the craggy crest of the range grew around us as we flew past the divide, into the smokey haze of the interior, and towards home.

Spirit Walker - 2.12.2025

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Fri, 28 Feb 2025 19:38:00 +0000

With its beautiful 3,500 vertical foot west face of sustained avalanche terrain rising straight out Mills Creek, Spirit Walker has been on my list for what seems like forever. But, as it has a tendency to do, time has ticked forward without me skiing Spirit Walker or many of the other things on the list.

Before the glorious midwinter ski window of 2025 came to an end, Dan and I drove south out of Anchorage to give the Summit classic a go. Around Twentymile I realized my beacon was not present. Discussions, brainstorming, justifying, and phone calls ensued. We were saved in Girdwood with a loaner beacon from George - thank you so much. Back on track, we were soon leaving the inversion of Canyon Creek behind and skinning up the old mining road.

We left the road behind where the west ridge of Spirit Walker met the mining grade and began to climb up the ridgeline. I'd heard horror stories about trying to navigate this ridge and imagine they are true between the top of Soul Fire and the true summit, but when we dropped into the Soul Fire face we'd encountered nothing but smooth travel on our climb.

The snow surface had an unpleasant looking texture and it was hard to believe it would ski ok, but a little bit of faith and a few bad turns brought us past the bad wind affect and into really faceted windboard that skied a bit liked corn. I enjoyed the consistent pitch of the ribs of Soul Fire and chased after Dan until we were at the bottom and right under Spirit Walker proper. The detour warmup lap was a great way to maximize the approach to the objective and spend less time in the mega terrain trap of Mills Creek. Stoked on the snow conditions we'd found and what was to come, I continued my hopeless pursuit of Dan as he raced towards the top.

We followed Zack, Claire, and Eli's old skintrack up the south ridge towards the summit. Soaked in sunlight and generally out of significant avalanche terrain, it felt like a great way to get to the peak.

Topping out, I was stoked to take in new views and new perspectives on old views. Looking south into the heart of Mills Creek we dreamed over the many lines back there that we may or may not ever ski. Dan has already been back for at least one of them.

To the east, we had a great perspective of the south face of Isthmus which Nyssa and I skied at sunset years ago; then we skied the north face in alpenglow. I was also reminded of the Isthmus Icefield Traverse that really opened my eyes to all the terrain back there.

Rotating further, we drooled over Lynx Creek with Carpathian crowning the skyline. Lynx Creek is a bit like Spirit Walker for me: its always on my to do list, but its hard to drive past more stable zones to get there. Byron is poking up back there too - I'd like to ski its steep and complex south face someday.

I really enjoyed the new views of familiar zones from here including the unique angle of Turnagain Pass. Here's Goldpan, Pastoral, the Santa Zone, Grandaddy, Pete's, and everything else. You can see the big avalanche chute that drops 3,000 feet from the top of Pete's to Johnson Pass. Nyssa, Erin, Tony, and I skied that under mostly moonlight three or four years ago. It made my grundle tickle.

Before we were ready to drop in, there were more things to mindsurf to the north, including, but not limited to, the Jewel Loop, Goat, and TT43. TT43 is one of my all time favorite tours for a high spine to slog ratio.

Full of views and questionable breakfast burritos from Safeway, we tipped into the huge catchers mitt. Dan:

Dropping into the huge avalanche funnel, I could not help but think that a beacon would not save me here. In terms of the size of the slide path, it felt like TT43, but with a worse snowpack and without spines to help stop a propagating crack. Plus more skiing over cliffs. Like Soul Fire, the orange peel skiing was kinda loud but nice.

Standing on top of 25 feet of concrete avalanche debris at the bottom, we debated what to do next. The obvious decision was to avoid the Mills Creek approach/deproach and head up Raven's Ridge. We zigzagged through, around, under, and over the alders as we followed a traversing climb towards the ridge. While hacking steps into bulletproof raincrust, Dan's ski went flying off and he heroically dove after it as it fled for the creek thousands of feet below. Then a rumbling collapse had me pondering my existence - exactly why I avoid this zone most of the time.

We made it to the top of the next run intact, and dropped into the recycled and loud, but soft turns of giant surface hoar and faceted sastrugi.

The soul turns of the egress run to the lake worked great and we were soon shuffling and skating past ice fishing holes and dog poop towards the short walk down the road back the car.

Wolverine Peak Ski - 4.10.2020

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Tue, 25 Feb 2025 06:30:00 +0000

Updated in February 2025 to include another great day on Wolverine.

It was April and we were all chomping at the bit. But, I was tired from my solo Bench Peak slog the previous day, and was looking for more vertical and less horizontal. So, Connor, Jordan, and I settled on a circumnavigation of a Turnagain classic - Wolverine.

We parked at the Eddies lot and followed the familiar trail into the woods before leaving the Iditarod Trail and contouring into Wolverine Creek.

Leaving the hemlock forest behind, we startled two moose who, cautious of hungry bears, high-tailed it up the north face of Eddies. Oddly, the moose were still postholing towards the heavens as we skinned out of sight.

Under Wolverine's iconic northwest-facing catcher's mitt we turned left and started climbing. I'd found good snow in the mid elevations of Bench the previous day, and hoped for the same, but no luck. By the the upper face we were front-pointing on a nearly unskiable mix of rime, ice, icy windboard, and debris.

Photo: Connor Johnson

Snow conditions were a far cry from when Mike, Waldo, George and I skied the line years ago:

Photo: Mike Ausman

But, as we all know, soft snow is really just a bonus, and we kept hacking steps towards the summit.

Photo: Connor Johnson

Another thing that's better than soft snow: scrambling in hard boots.

The hard snow helped make quick work of the climb, and we were soon taking in the views from the northeast corner of Turnagain Pass. Across Wolverine Creek we could see the tilted layers that form the stacked double fall line chutes of Eddies North.

Photo: Connor Johnson

Holding spines, bowls, chutes, and crevasses, Explorer is a snow globe of AK skiing:

No one was particularly stoked at the thought of skiing the ice spines we'd just climbed, and we discussed our options.

In the shade below a chute dropping into the Flower Box seemed like it might go.

Photo: Connor Johnson

We gave it a go. If nothing else the snow was soft.

Photo: Connor Johnson

Skiing closer and closer to the roll, it looked more and more like a cliff. We peered over, sidestepped around, and tried to traverse. No two ways about it: our chute terminated in a 100 footer. As I have experienced firsthand, sending 100 footers is a great (ie traumatic) way to shatter bones (and cartilage).

Booting back up was the less painful option. Then, in search of a continuous line, we tackled the tedious task of traversing the exposed ridge.

Photo: Connor Johnson

After a nerve wracking 30 minutes of clinging to near-vertical rime we made it to continuous snow and skied towards the hanging valley above Twentymile River; I've heard there are carnivorous plants back there.

Photo: Connor Johnson

Connor:

Directly above Jordan is our first attempt. Glad we didn't ski off that edge!

The soft not-above-a-cliff snow was rejuvenating and we were stoked to continue our loop of the massif. Tossing on our skins, we climbed towards another shoulder of the peak and were rewarded with a shady bowl.

The snow was okay, but more importantly it dropped us at the west face of Wolverine.

The west face is one of those rare lines that is steeper than it looks, and the angle ramped up as we booted higher.

Connor and Jordan led the charge as we transitioned from the face to the west summit ridge. The ridge was a real treat - a rib of snow hanging 2,000 feet above the creek below.

Sitting on the corniced summit knob, we looked at many special memories guarded by the huge peaks of the zone. Bench:

The Pregnant Woman:

Isthmus. What a great weekend adventure. You can do it with a sled, but I think that's less rewarding.

Carpathian and the Skookum Glacier. I love that line through the Skookum icefall, and I'd love to ski the south face of Carpathian.

After refueling on fig bars we dragged ourselves away from daydreaming and towards skiing. Jordan:

Connor:

The west face was awesome: steep and soft with fun slough. We cranked directional turns as the loose snow poured past us. I'd like to link this up without skiing over large cliffs or clinging to rimed cornices. Jordan:

All too soon we were hooting through the last mellow turns and into the shade of Shark's Fin. Which is when we realized that one more short skinner up the fin, would give us one more long run.

On top of the fin we wondered what those mountain climbing moose had gotten up to. Following their tracks with our eyes we found one stuck between cliffs and alders way above the valley floor.

Where was the other? What was that brown blob down by the creek? And what were those giant craters in the snow. It was the other moose. The swamp donkey had tomahawked down 1,500 vertical feet of mountainside, bushes, and cliffs leaving a trail of hair behind.

Rumor has it that someone went back to harvest a backstrap and a quarter off that moose. They found its neck snapped and twisted in a knot but the meat unharmed. Hopefully a brown bear had the rest for breakfast.

After a moment of silence for the flying steak we cruised ripe corn towards the Iditarod trail.

An hour later we were back at the car, sipping cider, and savoring a new memory.

February 2025 Update:
After a great Saturday on Kickstep, we were excited to head back to Turnagain the next day, this time time pointing our sights at a Wolverine loop. The Eddie's parking lot had the familiar faces of the usual suspects as we left the cars behind and shuffled towards Ingram Creek.

It felt good to climb out of the inversion and the warm sun as we reached the alpine.

Climbing the little headwall to the ridgeline, the team was silhouetted against the north face of Proper. Its one of the bigger lines at Turnagain, and a classic that I'm always stoked to catch in good conditions.

Once on top of the ridge, we dropped into one of the first spiny-things. The snow was a little funky from wind, sun, and slides plus there was a cliff in the middle - it was a bit of an adventure. Erin:

With one lap down we skinned east up the floor of the shady valley before climbing into the sun and towards the notch that would connect us to Wolverine drainage. I've heard that this zone at the back of Eddie's is called "FOMO".

As the bowl transitioned to a steep chute, we transitioned to boot and chased after Nyssa as she carhged up the last pitch to the ridge.

From the airy little nest we looked across at the iconic southwest face of Wolverine and clicked in for the shady descent down the double fall line of the H Couloir. It looked good.

I love this line. Its long by Turnagain standards, protected, and rarely visited. Dan:

Erin:

The snow was way better in the sheltered slot than the funk on the south side of Eddie's, which encouraged us to continue towards Wolverine. Trish had a stomach bug and had only eaten three gummy worms in the previous 48 hours so bid us adieu to glide towards the car as we started our next climb. Az came skiing down as we reached the choke at the top of the apron:

Moving into the face, the booting got deeper.

And deeper:

The evening alpenglow was absolutely spectacular as we reached the top and we soaked in all the midwinter light we could as we prepped for our last descent.

Explorer with the Prince William Sound beyond, what an incredible place:

More Explorer plus Shakespeare Shoulder:

Twenty Mile - a lifetime of adventures and misadventures await up there:

With the last rays of the day kissing the face we dropped in. I erroneously guessed we'd be back at the car in an hour - everyone else knew better. Erin:

The H Colouir with Az's tracks in the foreground:

The snow in catcher's mitt was actually pretty good, followed by a few survival turns through the breakable crust of the sloughed out choke, then we were coasting down the valley and towards home.

Needless to say, it took more like two hours to get back to the car. The Wolverine egress just never is that straightforward for me, but at least these days I know better than to get sucked into the gorge. Although its a funny story to think back on the time Charlie fell into the creek there.

Kickstep Mountain Skiing - 1.25.2015

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Tue, 11 Feb 2025 03:00:00 +0000

Updated January 2016 and again February 2025 to include more great days on Kickstep.

There are days that you know that you have everything in your favor: weather, stability, beta, etc. Then, there are days where some pieces of the puzzle might not fit, you don't know how it will turn out.

Josh on the approach up CFR ridge.

Sunday was a day that started out as a question mark, but in the end, it lined up perfectly.

The warm up run.

The question mark was the weather, forecast to be cold and breezy. Cold enough that a wrong turn, avalanche, or crevasse incident could mean hypothermia. We set our sights on a smaller objective: the Library via Tincan Proper.

The Library dwarfed by Kickstep.

Driving south from Anchorage, the thermometer rose from 0 to 15, and passing Portage, even the gap winds that should have been roaring were calm. I was getting excited.

Malcolm dropping into Tincan Proper.

The parking lot was quiet, with only two cars when we arrived at 9:30. We knew those groups were already moving towards Proper, so we kicked it into gear and were soon on top of our line. Malcolm drop first, as his slough poured off rocks around him, we watched him ski a long rib towards the valley.

I dropped next, turning back to watch Josh:

Three more turns, three more faceshots.

The choke at the bottom proved to be an adventure. Malcolm and Josh quickly found a way through then had the pleasure of watching me descend an icy cliff via a series of alder belays. At Tincan Creek, we skinned east, wondering about skipping the Library for the real reward.

Standing by itself at the end of the valley, Kickstep is enormous as you approach it. Leaning back to see the top, you can't help but get dizzy. It wasn't heard to convince the boys to go for it.

We followed the creek until the turn to Kickstep's pocket glacier, then headed towards the Kickstep's west ridge. Looking across the pocket glacier:

First, we climbed the mountain's shady north face until bursting back into the sunshine on the ridge we'd take to the summit. The ridge was great, wide enough to be quite safe, yet still with the feeling of floating 1,000 feet off the ground.

Eventually, vertical snow and rock forced us off the ridge and onto the huge south face that would later be part of the descent. As I led the traverse, I could look straight down between my legs at the valley floor.

From there, a steep climb brought us back to the ridge, and the last push to the summit. Malcolm, unfazed by a pinched sciatic nerve:

On the summit, perched on the edge of the Turnagain Zone, you could see everything. There was the Sleeping Lady way out to the west. Turning around, Carpathian was staring us in the face; maybe someday we'll ski its south face.

It was getting late and cold. Shivering, we quickly took it all in, and started down. Looking at the top turns:

Josh just below the summit:

Last light on the steep, fluted south face:

Working into the heart of the face, the sloughs started to get fast. Waiting for them to pass, we skied the bed surface until past the cliffs that guard the middle of the face.

Then it was into the apron, hooting as we happily finished off the line in perfect powder.

At this point I would have been completely content to call it a night and curl up in a warm blanket. Unfortunately, there was still the long traverse out through the very real alders.

Back at the car, and one broken binding later, it was still 6 degrees. I can't decide if my favorite part of the day was the climb up or the ski down, but I do know that Sunday was a Top Ten Adventure.

January 2016 Update:
Almost exactly a year later, we went back to ski the northwest face of Kickstep. This time, instead of first skiing Tincan Proper, we traversed directly into Center Creek. The rising sun highlighted our tracks on Big Chief from the previous day.

Once past The Library we turned left the U-shaped valley and followed the old moraines up to the pocket glacier.

Then it was on to the standard west ridge route. This is my favorite climb at Turnagain and didn't fail to disappoint. Sometimes it was so deep that Owen had to burrow under the snow to continue.

In the high-contrast January light the 360 degree summit views were incredible. Wolverine and Eddies Spines:

Twenty Mile:

If I ever claim that touring is more fulfilling than heli-skiing just remind me about Twenty Mile. Some big crowns back there that year:

Looking south I was reminded of another great day in 2015. We got turned around on Kickstep, but got some steep lines above Center Creek.

I dropped first into the cold uber-fluff of the north face. Regrouping above the choke, we watched a giant slough dragon race onto the pocket glacier. It was the size of New Sagaya.

Although the northwest face was shorter than the iconic southwest face, its choke was deliciously steep. Khalial:

Photo: Zack Fields

After party skiing the pocket glacier we turned left and skinned towards the seemingly impossible west face of Tincan Peak.

The choke on the west face wasn't in and we weren't prepared (or interested in) climbing the rime on the peak's backside. But, we did get a good view of this guy:

Next time I'd like to ski the northwest face, get back on the west ridge summit express then ski the big southwest face to the valley floor.

February 2025 Update:
In January 2025, a series of wet and warm atmospheric rivers buried the mountains of Southcentral Alaska in dense and sticky snow. When the dust settled, we couldn't wait to get out, and turned our attention to a classic Turnagain tour as soon as we could.

February 1st found Tony, Dmitry, Charlie and I climbing out of the inversion at from the Tincan parking lot and towards the classic line of Tincan Proper. From Proper, I looked back at Dmitry as he crested the ridge above Hippy Bowl.

Seeing that the spines of Proper had be hardened by outflow winds and skier traffic, we realized that it would be a day to seek the protected snow of the gullies and chutes. Dmitry:

At the bottom of Proper, we met up with Trish, Dan, and Will and raced together towards Kickstep as the rising sun kissed our faces and cast shadows across the complex terrain of the Library.

Miles had skied the north face of Kickstep the day before, putting the booter up the west ridge along his way. I'd never followed a track up here before - it made the airy experience of the climb across the hanging face much more relaxing. Thanks Miles.

We jammed skins in packs, snacks in mouths, and pointed for the southwest face. Charlie:

Last time I skied this iconic face with Malcolm and Josh, it had slid and sloughed leaving behind a firm bed surface. I was stoked to get it in better conditions. Dmitry:

The conditions on the southwest face were great, and hungry for more, we continued east towards Tincan Peak which has been on my list for what is starting to seem like forever. The approach towards the peak passed under the steep wall of upper Tincan Creek which is stacked with lines, a couple of which I've had a chance to ski. At the base of the face we were greeted by a series of bergshrunds which I skipped across but could not convince everyone else to do so.

So, we retreated the south face of Kickstep as the "consolation prize". High clouds drifted past to the south painting the mountains in beautiful soft light as we climbed.

From the top of our second Kickstep line of the day we looked east into the Isthmus Icefield drooling over old favorites and objectives we've yet to reach. Then we dropped into the steep windbuffed pow of the chute. Dmitry:

The south face was new to me, and as is always the case, I was stoked to check off a new line.

As we started to glide down the valley towards the car, we noticed a skinner climbing to the Kickstep pocket glacier before efficiently topping out on the Library. We couldn't resist, and with the light turning pink and gold on the peaks we jumped on the skintrack to continue our scavenger ski tour ways.

The sun had set by the time we were on top of the Library and ready to ski our fourth lap of the day. Charlie:

In the waning light we skied the face, then glided down the valley as the calm of the quiet night enveloped us. The stars were sparkling overhead in the inky sky by the time we clambered into Dmitry's warm truck already dreaming about what the next day would bring.

Aleutian Picture Project

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Tue, 07 Jan 2025 08:28:00 +0000

The Aleutian Islands are a chain of 14 large volcanic islands, and 55 smaller ones extending in an arc westward 1,200 miles from the Alaskan Peninsula towards the Kamchatka Peninsula. It is a gnarly world of strong wind, heavy rain, ubiquitous fog, and people that probably aren't like you.

In my early 30s, I spent 5 years working on contaminated site cleanup projects in the Aleutians. Now I work on coastal engineering projects there; sometimes we even visit for fun. Like the Prince William Sound and Kanuti Picture Projects, this post is made up of unique and memorable moments that stand out.

The islands are a punishing land, but a place of abundance. They are a major breeding ground for seabirds who nest on steep cliffs and rely on the rich marine environment for food. During the summer months, the archipelago becomes a vital stop for migratory species traveling between North America and Asia. The Aleutian cackling goose is an endemic subspecies of the Canada goose, notable for its smaller size and adapted to the harsh world of the Aleutians. Raptors including peregrine falcons, eagles, and hawks also call these windswept rocks home. The islands are affected by introduced species including cattle, caribou, foxes, and rats: the ecosystems and animals are visibly different on islands with introduced mammals.

Aboard the C/V Miss Alyssa on the passage from Dutch Harbor to a project on Unalga Island, we encountered something unusual for the Aleutians: blue skies, light winds and calm seas. Dutch Harbor averages 80 inches of rain, 250 rainy days, and 150 days of fog per year. Meanwhile, powerful Pacific storms batter the islands throughout the year with gale-force winds, typhoons, and dangerous storm surges.

With the exception of some stunted willows, the vast majority of the chain is devoid of native trees. On some of the islands, there are a few coniferous trees left over from the Russians. Aleutian conifers, some up to two hundred years old, rarely reach even 10 feet tall because the winds here like to snap off anything taller.

Tide rips in the Aleutians are a ferocious force, resulting from the collision of currents, tides, and underwater geography as water sloshes between the Pacific and the Bering. These violent, swirling, and dangerous currents are vital to the region's marine ecosystem, helping to concentrate nutrients that support a diverse array of wildlife.

It takes about five years for a bald eagle to mature from a small, gray three-ounce hatchling to a three-foot adult with a six-foot wingspan. During years two and three, the eagle is referred to as immature. At two and a half years, the most varied plumage occurs. The breast remains dark brown, the legs are a brighter yellow, while the eyes and beak continue to lighten. Immature bald eagles look a bit like they are having a bad hair day.

Marookas are like rubber-tracked dump trucks that are purpose built for soft or uneven terrain while minimizing ground impact - they're ideal for the challenging mud and rough landscapes of the Aleutians. Compact and durable, they can navigate confined spaces and operate reliably in extreme conditions.

Part of the Pacific Ring of Fire, the Aleutians are home to over 50 active volcanoes, making it one of the most volcanically dynamic areas on Earth. These volcanoes were formed by the subduction of the Pacific Plate beneath the North American Plate, creating a chain of stratovolcanoes and shield volcanoes. Their eruptions vary from explosive, ash-laden events to lava flows. For the indigenous Unangax̂ people, the volcanoes are woven into cultural and spiritual traditions, representing both creation and destruction in their homeland. For contaminated site cleanup crews, the Aleutian volcanic ash mixes with the endless rain to form muck that even Marookas can't beat.

Eklutna to Pioneer - 8.17.2024

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Sun, 08 Dec 2024 06:23:00 +0000

Its been about a decade since the last time Tarah and I followed the gorgeous rolling ridges from Eklutna Lake to Pioneer. During that time it has stayed fresh in my mind as a special treat to return to. Finally, in August 2024, Nyssa and I left the shuttle car on the shoulder next to the packed Pioneer Ridge Trailhead and retraced our tire tracks up the steep winding road to the lake.

There was just a hint of the sharp fall smell of cranberries as we left the parking lot behind and hiked up the switchbacks towards Pepper Peak. Above the birch forest, the otherworldly aquamarine waters of Eklutna Lake stretched away from us. Across the lake, Thunderbird Ridge mirrored our plans for the day. I think it’s one of the best ridges around here; and ties into Peters Creek—a place that feels about as wild and untamed as any corner of Southcentral AK.

Its a hoof up Pepper, and I was ready for a quick lunch at the top. We looked west past Palmer towards the Talkeetna Mountains where we have so many hiking, paddling, and skiing memories.

My eyes were drawn to the Sheep Glacier, where I had a relatively unsuccessful ski trip years ago.

We paused on the ridge to refill our water bottles with meltwater from a lingering snowdrift. Tucked into a sheltered dell, its a quiet remnant that reminded us of last winter.

Back on our feet, we followed the trail east towards Salt Peak. We looked south toward Peeking Peak, dividing Peters Creek and Falling Water. From our vantage, the tops of the iconic X and Y couloirs teased our view, stirring fond memories of the times we have wallowed our way up these steep, snowy slots.

Past Salt, we left the trails of humans behind and followed the tracks of the original alpine civil engineers: sheep. The sheep trails here are incredible, allowing you to take your eyes away from your feet and really enjoy drooling over the huge mountains in every direction.

As we continued to follow the game trails east, the perspective of the giants of Peters Creek shifted with us. Soon we were drooling over Yukla and Rumble. Rumble may be my all time favorite ski, I think this one would stand up against any ski line in North America.

With each step forward our views changed. Turning north, the headwaters of Eklutna opened out of their incised chasms.

There is so much to explore back here, I've just touched the surface, and I know I'll never see it all.

The miles of excellent sheep trails continued to flow by and so did the mountains rising around us. Jogging north, more of the B Peaks appeared.

Bold's infamous north face. With a little more time, perspective, and experience, I'm realizing just how lucky I was to hit this line in perfect conditions with Jake in 2018. I think its usually unstable, has bad snow, or is a discontinuous mess of cliff bands. Or, more likely, all three.

I've also loved skiing Boisterous a couple of times. It may look little sitting in the shadow of Bashful and Baleful, but its not.

The next eye candy on the traverse was Hunter Creek. I've barely spent any time here, but its been enough to wet my appetite for more. There's a lot of potential for unique, challenging, and big ski descents in here.

As the route curved towards Pioneer Ridge, we looked across the Knik Valley at Matanuska and Frontier peaks. The sight brought back memories of linking them up on a day with some particularly bad snow.

The sheep soon had us turning west and towards Pioneer. Just like the rest of the day, the animal trails stayed smooth and we continued to jog the flats and downhills, walk the climbs, and take in the world around us.

About 6.5 hrs after leaving the lake, we were at the top of the Pioneer Ridge trail. Although the day was already approaching 20 miles and 10,000 vertical feet, the evening was young and the miles had been easy. It seemed like the natural decision to jog towards South Pioneer Peak and tag the summit.

It's been a long time since I'd been up South Pioneer, or the Pioneer Ridge trail for that matter. Returning here brought back a flood of memories from my first days as an Alaskan. What an exciting time in my life. Many of the people from that time do not live here any more or are no longer with us. I thought about how every day here is a gift to be cherished.

Pioneer with Erin and Scamp in late September 2014:

Clambering across a series of steep, gravelly ledges, South Pioneer seemed gnarlier than I remembered. We were on the south side of the ridge, and switching back to the north side "improved" the climb to the loose scree that I was anticipating.

It took longer than I expected to get to the summit (sound familiar?), and I was ready for my dinner granola bar when we got there. At the top, we sat looking at North Pioneer; its exposed north peak brought back a flood of special memories on that magnificent mountain. Like I've said before, I'd love to be lucky enough to ski Pioneer every year.

Racing a sun that's setting hours earlier than it did a month ago, we retraced our steps down the gravelly summit pyramid to the ridge trail. Below us, a large flock of sheep grazed peacefully in Goat Creek.

Finally, we jogged down the ridge trail to the parking lot. There was new work on the trail with improved drainage, planking, and brush cutting. Thanks to the trail gnomes who did this great work - its a real improvement.

Nellie Juan Skiing - April 2024

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Sat, 07 Dec 2024 06:12:00 +0000

Spring in the Prince William Sound is a time of contrasts that I look forward to each year: deep snow, vibrant blue waters, and endless adventure. This past April, Nyssa, Scott, Emrys, and I set out for a weekend of skiing, shrimping, and exploring the dynamic terrain of Port Nellie Juan.

After surviving the usual Whittier mayhem of the tunnel, parking, and the boat ramp, we leave the harbor behind and motor down Passage Canal and then across Port Wells. The wake of the boat chases us as we turn right and slip into the sheltered waters of Culross Passage.

Photo: Emrys Hall

At the end of the passage, the glassy waters of Nellie Juan spread away from us as we set our shrimp pots. There’s always the sense of mystery when dropping the pots into depths - wondering whether they’ll yield a haul of prawns, a few baby tanner crabs, a pile of mud, or something unexpected.

Photo: Emrys Hall

With the pots soaking, we skin into the temperate rainforest. The snowpack is deep, etched with rain runnels, and uncooperative underfoot - a slippery ascent through the trees that is a laugh-filled start to the tour.

Photo: Emrys Hall

At treeline, we pause to take in the view of Blue Fjord and Nellie Juan beyond. Emrys:

The ridges separating Blue Fjord and Derrickson Bay call, and we chase after Scott as he becomes a speck silhouetted against steep drop-offs and terrain smoothed by the heavy snowpack.

Climbing higher, we look down to see Emrys above the head of the fjord, where the intertidal zone, snowy shoreline, and deep blue waters paint a breathtaking intersection of landscapes.

Our first west-facing run above Derrickson is glorious mellow corn. Scott can't contain his grin as he carves soulful turns:

With the sun moving across the sky, we explore farther west. Below us, we look at Derrickson speckled with icebergs splintered from the Nellie Juan Glacier. Contact Glacier, now retreated from the sea, stands as a reminder of the changing landscape.

From a high ridge at the top of the lap, we look east toward Montague Island, its spine rising beyond the island-dotted waters of the Sound.

The next west-facing descent brings more quality skiing. Scott arcs turns toward Derrickson Spit, a moraine deposited and contoured into shape during a time past when the Nellie Juan and Contact glaciers joined and extended farther. I am reminded of last year when we nervously boated through the tide rip of the shallow inlet, looking down into the shallow water at boulders deposited by the glacier from when it still touched there.

The day is getting later and we start to head back towards the boat, climbing above Ultramarine Glacier, its massive gorge cutting through the mountains below us. Emrys pausing to soak in the scale of the place:

With extra time and the stable maritime snowpack, we drop our packs for a carefree lap. Nyssa peers over the cornice and is frozen for a moment in time as her momentum shifts and she tips into the bowl:

We follow, carving into the buttery corn snow as the rolling white horizon cuts the blue sky.

Photo: Emrys Hall

Emrys sits out this lap, soaking in the glory of this magical place as we skin back over the horizon to him. Below us, the shimmering water stretches out in all its beauty, a reminder of the vastness of the Sound. In the background is the terrain we will end up skiing the following day:

Photo: Emrys Hall

For our final lap to the salt water, we carve deep tracks into the overcooked corn. At treeline, the smooth skiing gives way to the inevitable challenges of the backcountry: downhill bushwhacking through trees, alders, and creeks coated in manky inconsistent snow - honestly one of my favorite things.

We check the pots then head for a sheltered beach where Nyssa, Scott, Carolyn, and I have camped before.

On the beach, the tents are dwarfed by 8 to 10 foot snowbanks—a testament to the impossible amount of water that the western PWS wrings from the sky.

As evening falls, the stillness of the fjord wraps around us.

Sunday dawns bright, calm, and perfect. We breakfast on the rippling waters then go to reset our pots.

Photo: Scott Patterson

Photo: Scott Patterson

Kings Bay is our goal for the day, but the winds are funneling through the channeled gap and I am nervous about leaving the boat. We putter around for awhile looking for a place we feel comfortable anchoring the boat. After exploring several potential spots, we settle on the West Finger Inlet, where the boat is protected from the strong west winds.

We anchor the boat and walk the grassy tidal flats to the snow. Like usual, the skin up through the rainforest is silly with a series of goofy cruxes where we cling to icy snow and questionable veg belays.

Approaching the alpine, I look at the long moss dangling off the trees, its a quintessential gulf of Alaska landscape in my eyes.

Above treeline, the view west into Kings Bay is of deep blue waters with squalls dancing on the surface - I'm glad we didn't leave the boat out there.

Scott is ahead again and skis a west facing lap from the high point carving smooth turns past us and down a mellow west-facing slope above Kings Bay

It looks fun. Scott catches up with us and we all ski it together one more time.

Together, we follow the ridge north for our next lap. Nyssa, Scott, and Emrys are ants against the massive backdrop of giant Chugach peaks rising over Port Wells.

Photo: Scott Patterson

Dropping north toward the inlet, we ski a lap of steeper, rolling terrain. The run is fantastic. Nyssa:

Scott spots another promising zone farther north along the ridge and our eyes and souls absorb the unique landscape as we head that way.

While Emrys calls Sara, we run ahead to squeeze in another lap. As we rip our skins and prepare to drop in, we look past a huge overhanging, dripping cornice at Emrys who is giving the dangerous monster the space it deserves.

The ramp curves northward as we descend. I watch Nyssa ski towards Scott, her tracks juxtaposed against the textured shadows of where water is draining through the snowpack.

We climb back toward Emrys, who is waiting on the ridge. As we gain elevation, Cochrane Bay and Port Wells come into view, stretching for tens of miles to the north.

Then, its our last run of the weekend, and we cut through sloppy corn, carving our way toward the trees and the boat waiting below. Nyssa slicing into the cooked snow with each turn:

At treeline, we pause to look back up at our tracks stamped into the classic rolling terrain of the Sound - ephemeral evidence of a great day together.

Turning our gaze westward, we take in the sweeping channel of Kings Bay, framed by the striking white granite peaks of Deepwater Bay rising sharply from the sea.

Skiing through the rainforest is as silly as always, complete with plenty of laughs along the way. At the water, we scramble and slide over the slick, uneven rocks and kelp stumbling to the dinghy.

We retrieve the boat, toss our ski gear on the back deck, and set sail to retrieve the shrimp pots. The fresh spot prawns are tossed in our pad thai and we drift in the golden light savoring this unique interplay between snow and sea that draws us back to this wild place every spring. Then we start the beautiful evening cruise back to Whittier and the work week.

B-Peaks Ski Traverse - April 2024

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Thu, 21 Nov 2024 07:39:00 +0000

Since moving to Anchorage a decade ago, the East Fork Eklutna valley has held a place in my mind and tugged at me. Over the years we've explored the peaks around the yawning mouth of the drainage, but the upper basin has waited out of reach. With a scheduled traverse from Seward to Homer kiboshed by uncertain weather and my tight work schedule, Nyssa, Heather, Lars and I "compromised" with a loop through the dramatic gorges of the towering B Peaks.

The trip started on a sunny Saturday morning in the Eklutna parking lot where we swung on our loaded packs and skated onto the lake. Days of spring sun and clear nights had metamorphosed the surface into a hard and fast crust which we cruised across as Chad and his smiling golden retriever skated laps around us.

At the east end of the lake we chased the crust upstream until the skating became a contact sport. Then, we crashed through the scarred deadfall remains of the old wildfire until crawling out onto the road at the East Fork trailhead. We skinned over exposed rocks and walked along the melted-out dirt of the spring trail as the shady walls of the giant gorge closed in above us.

We had ventured into this giant canyon several times, but it seemed even more breathtaking than before. Perhaps it was the intention to pass through it that had me seeing the length of the valley and truly experiencing the scale of the beast.

From high on the cliff walls above us, we could see goats perched on impossibly small ledges. Turned to the scale of moving white dots by the mountains that they inhabit, it felt like we'd entered another world.

I really enjoyed our time winding through this deep canyon. It's amazing how a place this big can hide so close to civilization.

As the gorge opened into a deep valley, we started to gain elevation towards the glaciated shoulders of Bounty Peak.

Here, our gloriously fast travel was slowed by impressive glopping that had us hitting our skis against themselves, our poles, and or anything available in a futile attempt to beat the heavy slurpee of snowy glue off of them. A snapped carbon ski pole was a quick reminder that some of us should not own carbon things.

By evening we were at the nunatak under Bounty where we shoveled out a protected camp under a rock wall splashed with the saturated colors of lichen. With camp established, there wasn't time to summit Bounty, so we decided to do a recon tour towards the north couloir.

Approaching the base of the peak, the clouds that had been hanging around the valley lowered and engulfed us. With all contrast stolen by the dark fog, it was nearly impossible to see the bergschrunds or massive blocks of cornice-fall around us. We called it a day, and cautiously picked our way back to camp.

Sunday morning dawned with beautiful blue skies highlighted by a little cap cloud sitting on top of Boisterous. As we retraced our steps from last night, it was comical how much easier it was when we could see where we were going.

Crossing the deep gash of bergschrund took about 20 minutes of zig zagging back and forth as we probed for a supportable bridge over the abyss. Above the cracks, the chute steepened and we started to boot up the deep snow.

At some point in the climb, the chute bifurcated, and the decision was made to take the lookers right fork. Unfortunately, this side did not go to the summit or summit ridge and instead deposited us on an airy perch high on the north face of the peak.

At this point, Lars and Heather wisely stopped, while Nyssa and I chased a snowy ridge across a very steep face towards the peak. Hacking through a cornice, we clawed our way onto the west ridge where we were greeted by a biting north wind.

To our south, the high peaks of the Girdwood were caked in snow and dripping spines.

Whitecrown:

We could see a likely route to the summit through gullies tucked between cliffs of rime, but the mojo was gone and we decided to descend.

Having no desire to retrace our steps through steep exposed terrain, we descended the west ridge until we could safely return to the East Fork drainage. The south face of Bounty is big, steep, rocky, and wind ravaged. It was a long way down to the Whiteout Glacier as we descended the ridge.

At a break in the cornice, we skied through sloughy powder littered with jagged seracs of ice.

We rejoined forces with Heather and Lars and coasted to camp where it was time to pack up and keep moving.

Next, we broke a winding skin track through big crevasses covered in sagging snowbridges towards Booty Peak.

We skinned up the west bowl of the peak to reach the ridge separating Booty from the Troublesome Glacier.

From high on the ridge, the peaks of the Knik dwarfed us. Despite its relative proximity to Anchorage, its hard to get a view of this zone in the winter, and I was awestruck. Covered in glaciers and seracs, some of these huge peaks rise over 10,000 feet from their roots and completely overwhelm the scale of our local mountains.

Heather was having trouble with her skins, so she and Lars moseyed north along the ridge while Nyssa and I ran over to Booty's summit. We skied a quick lap of sloughy turns down the west bowl and across the bergschrund before grabbing our skinner and hopelessly chasing after the speed demons.

Back on the ridge, we watched a tiny speck on the glacier as they skinned away from their plane. I'm looking forward to doing this.

We caught up with Heather and Lars who were waiting for us at the top of the Troublesome and skied down the glacier together. The run was several miles long and had enough pitch to turn or coast down.

It was a treat to hop in and out of each others tracks as we bounced down the long glacier together.

Past Brittle Peak, we stopped to make water in the sun, then starting the climb to the divide to Hunter Creek.

As we climbed above the Troublesome, we drooled over heli ski tracks on Worrisome Peak, and other peaks that deserved tracks.

We gazed beyond our little snow globe at the heart of the Chugach.

At the pass, cliffs, cornices, and windswept ice and rock guarded the entrance to Hunter Creek. We poked back and forth for an entrance to an acceptable line then skied a rib into the drainage.

Lurking in the rain shadow and battered by wind, Hunter Creek felt like a different world from the Troublesome. The thin snow only partially covered the dirty ice of the glacier and the sharp rocks of its moraines.

Descending this glacier from Mordor was a lesson in trying not to leave too much P-Tex behind. At the end of the glacier we peered down-valley at a gnarly gorge nestled between walls of windswept rock and scree. It was extremely unappealing. Reviewing our maps, we identified a potential ski line on the far side of the Siwash ridge. It was a gamble, and the tired evening sun was already kissing the tips of the peaks with golden purple light. If we were wrong then we'd be retracing our steps down the refrozen death cookies on the south side of the ridge at dusk.

Everyone was motivated to give it a go and we ripped up the gully. On top in the soft purple-pink light of dusk, we peered into a perfect north facing ramp. It looked like there was a twin run to the left as too. Perched in the little nest above Hunter Creek, our eyes lifted towards the giants towering above us stretching from Baleful to Hunter Peak to Troublesome Peak:

It was a perfect spot to drink in the views and hard to leave the magic, but we we needed to find a camp and eat. I watched the posse gobble up the dinner appetizers of old settled pow, savored the view, then chased after them.

As the soft starlight replaced the saturated colors of alpenglow, we set up camp under Siwash and crawled in for the night.

As the rising sun climbed over Troublesome Peak and bathed our camp in warm morning light we skinned back up the valley to ski the twin to the last night's line. Like the other one, old heli-ski tracks were poking through the new snow. We were glad to have these snowpack stability data points in such an unknown and thin zone.

Today's breakfast lap was maybe a bit wider and longer than last night's lap but was the same theme. While vertical cliffs rose next to us to the summit of Siwash, we skinned to the top of the moderate pitch.

From the top, we compared the views in morning light to the previous evening, then ripped back to camp.

Lars:

Packing up camp in the late morning warmth was wonderful, and with our loaded packs we skied down valley towards Boisterous.

Siwash:

Descending into the lower elevations of the valley floor, we descended into spring, bushes, and adventure skiing.

As we inspected the loping tracks of a pair of wolves along the creek, Adam flew above us in his Cessna. The wolves might have been so close - perhaps watching us from behind a bush or a rock. It was awesome to be so near yet so far from civilization.

Low in Hunter Creek, we started the long climb out of the drainage. Melting in the strong spring sun, the climb was gloppy and punchy. Feisty mating ptarmigan waddled and squawked around us as we climbed to the base of Boisterous.

Higher up, we watched a pair of young rams who were probably as curious about the weird apes in their mountains as we were of them.

By 4:30 PM, we had reached the bottom of the Boisterous Couloir. A discussion ensued as to whether we should try to summit or head for the car. Lars thought a Boisterous summit would mean a midnight arrival at the parking lot. I erroneously, but typically, predicted four hours to the car.

Eventually, Heather and Nyssa convinced us to go for the summit and up we went. The trail breaking was deep and I felt lucky to have such a strong crew to lean on.

Nearing the top, we followed Heather and Nyssa as they climbed to the left. In 2019 we had gone to the right at this point - that worked fine, but we ran out of snow several hundred feet below the summit. This time, going left, there was continuous skiable snow within feet of the summit. It was great.

On top of Boisterous, we checked in with Miles, who had a question about a piton that he was examining on the north face of Pioneer, took in our surroundings, and prepped for our next descent. I love the view from up here: to the north and seven thousand feet below us, the Knik was snow free like summer juxtaposed to the south by Bashful was still draped in winter.

The Knik River Valley:

Bashful:

To the east, we surveyed our tracks, camp, and the possibilities of Hunter Creek. I think skiing off the summit of Hunters Peak might be above my paygrade, but I'd like to give Troublesome a go.

Thousands of feet straight below us we peered into the deep gorge we'd avoided in Hunters Creek - I'm glad we didn't get drawn into an epic in there!

It was 8:30 before we started to descend and I finally realized that it was indeed going to be a late night, but the skiing was great. In the time since I'd been up here last, I'd almost forgotten what a great line this is.

The top is great powder skiing. The middle is steep, tight, and much like Mount Pleasant, accented by an incredible ice bulge.

And, the bottom is an majestic amphitheater highlighting where you've just been. Lars:

Heather:

Nyssa:

Done with the Boisterous Couloir, we grabbed our stashed camping gear, and skedaddled towards Hunter Pass.

Hunter Pass was a mix of impenetrable boilerplate, bare ground, cackling ptarmigan, and windswept scree. We looked behind us at our tracks on the upper snowfield of Boisterous in the refracting purple and gold of the setting sun.

As the sun set over the Tordrillo Mountains was scratched our way to the top of the pass to see Bold Peak, Bold Valley, and Eklutna Lake far below.

Scanning the steep snow and vertical rock that make up the north face of Bold, it was hard to imagine a ski line tucked in there. It's been years now since I've skied that, and with each passing year and new story, I realize just how lucky Jake and I were to get it in skiable, let alone safe conditions.

The descent from the pass to the lake was a comical parody of how many of our ski adventures end: with nasty snow, failing light, bushwhacking, and inevitably, being late for dinner.

By the time we were skating across the lake and towards the parking lot, the northern lights were dancing in the sky above us.

Zero Bowl - 11.11.2024

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Sat, 16 Nov 2024 19:43:00 +0000

Early season skiing is a challenge for me: the snowpack is thin, there's limited beta, and I'm so hungry. These factors have led to close calls for me, those I care about, and our incredible community, and it makes me hesitant to head out. The reports of quality conditions and stability have been trickling in, and it was time for us to set aside our piles of chores and head for the hills.

After a late start, we drove south past the snowy peaks of the Chugach and the Kenai mirrored in the still waters of Turnagain Arm, and chatted about ideas for the day. Usually, we go into each day with so much recent beta and many ideas, it was fun to start this one with a blank slate. By the time we were nearing the top of Turnagain Pass and pulling into the DOT lot, we had a plan: we'd go check out the sunny bowls, chutes, and ribs of Seattle Ridge.

Skinning up the icy uptrack, my stoke and excitement built as we caught dogs and friends enjoying the winter wonderland of a beautiful sunny day on our public lands. Cresting the ridge, we looked across the arm at the iconic ski lines crowning Girdwood, Peterson Creek, and Twentymile. We talked about our favorite adventures past and our dreams for the future in these magical valleys.

Then we turned our attention to matters at hand and peered over the edge into First Bowl. It looked soft, steep, and tantalizing.

Photo: Brady Deal

We hadn't seen or heard any reports of instability, but knew we were poking into the unknown. In fact, 10 years ago we triggered a couple avalanches on this face. Here those are:

We roshamboed for the privileges and risks of going first, then I dropped into the milky light of the chute.

Knowing the prevailing winds had scoured one side of the chute while depositing a fat pillow on the other side, I tried to thread the needle between too little and too much snow. I was topped off on stoke by the time I coasted into the bottom of the line, and looked up to watch Brady rip down to me. Not a bad way to start the season.

In the cold shade of the bowl, we pulled our skins out of our warm jackets, slapped them on our skis, then I chased after Brady as he broke trail up for a double dip. We could see other groups peering down on us, and knew it would only be a matter of time until we had company. I thought back on a less stable day here, where a group dropped between us as we broke trail through the new snow, and hoped that wouldn't happen again.

Happy with what we'd found on the previous lap, this time we stepped into slightly bigger terrain farther along the ridge. It was Brady's turn to go first onto the double fall line fin tipping into the darkness below. Again, we found quality snow with no signs of instability.

Two laps down and others started to join us in the bowl. As we climbed back up our skintrack, it was fun seeing familiar faces skiing past us in the velvety snow.

Now with a couple more data points, we continued to push along the ridge. Working together to identify safe gaps in the cornices, we looked into a wild, constricting chute. The terrain below us was steep, bulbous, and unsupported - it would be a real test of stability. I considered how skiing this had far more potential hazard than the slight frustration I felt about getting dropped on on the last climb.

Working the terrain to allow my slough to flow away from me, I skied to a safe spot on a spine below, then waited for Brady to join me.

Photo: Tony Naciuk

Photo: Brady Deal

Brady:

Brady caught up to me at the safe spot and we skied together to the skin track below. What a great line for early season. Back on the skintrack to the top, I could feel the glue of reality dissolve - what a special gift to sneak such a debaucherously steep and complex line in early November. Climbing back into the sun, we watch Tony then Simon come flying over the curling cornice and into the sunny bowl.

Photo: Simon White

Back on top of the divide between Zero and Warm Up Bowl, there was one last line in play. We followed the rolling ridge and peered off the end. Years ago Brady, Neil, Andrew, and I had skied this line on a day of horrible vis. I remember stepping off the edge into open space, infinite flat light, and indefinite freefall. When I returned to the surface of the earth, I looked up at the boyos peering over the cornice from somewhere above me. I'd always wondered what it actually looked like here.

Turns out it was even better without the flat light: a fin of surprisingly steep rollovers took us towards Seattle Creek before we cut left into an exit chute back to Zero Bowl.

By the time we'd climbed out of Zero Bowl for the fourth time, our lovely little zone had lost sun for the day. We mind surfed the spines that weren't quite ready yet, looked north at the classic lines of Turnagain Arm, then climbed higher for one last long descent back to the truck.

What a great way to start the season. Some of these lines I hadn't skied in years or ever before - its such a gift to call these endless mountains home.

Sheep Creek Ski - 3.23.2024

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Tue, 24 Sep 2024 04:03:00 +0000

From the hubbub of Anchorage, Juneau is always in the back of our minds as an escape from the big city. About once a year we notice that the weather is drier in Southeast than Southcentral and rush to put together last second plans to get down there.

On a Friday night in March, we looked into the crystal forecast ball to see a sunny weekend in the coastal rainforest while our northern mountains were cloaked in clouds, wind, and snowfall. We rushed to jam our gear into our bags and jump on the first flight south the next morning.

In Juneau, we stepped out of the airport into a chilly and crisp spring morning. An hour and a cup of coffee later, and we were parked out the Thane Road and hiking into the mossy old growth forest of sheep creek.

Hawthorne Peak, the second objective of the day.

Wearing our running shoes, we followed the dirt trail up the valley until we were standing right under the big steep south face of Sheep Mountain.

We jotted down mental notes and snapped photos of the complicated 3,000 vertical foot face, shoved on our ski boots, and started climbing the frozen snow towards the west ridge of the peak.

Climbing the hard snow was efficient and I just did my best to keep up with Nyssa as she blazed the upward trail. Weaving our way around waterfalls, cliffs, and alders brought us to the summit ridge.

From the wide ridge, views of the deep blue inside channels and the coastal mountains spilled away from us. What a magical place.

Thirty minutes on the ridge brought us to the 360 degree views from the top. To the south, our intended line dropped out of sight, reappearing as the valley floor way below.

We reviewed our mental notes and photos of the route, clicked into our bindings, and slid over the edge.

Within a few turns, we were swallowed by the terrain, and felt just how big and involved this face was.

It's hard to think of a comparison around Anchorage, but what first came to mind was a bigger version of Torreys East Face. Nyssa is visible as a dot in the upper right:

Because it requires conditions to align perfectly, it's very rare that we ski terrain this complex. It took complete focus from both of us to find the snaking path of continuous snow past one dead end after the next.

At the bottom we stopped to admire our handiwork and slap our skins on our skis for the ascent up our next objective: Hawthorne.

We've been turned around twice in our running shoes by hard summer snow over exposure near the summit of Hawthorne and hoped that the third time would be the charm. The skin through rolling terrain back to the ridge was pretty straightforward - it was funny thinking about the impenetrable bramble of salmonberries buried in 20 feet of snow below our feet.

Approaching Hawthorne's summit, we again found icy, hard snow. But, this time we had our crampons. Like they usually do, the little metal spikes made everything so much easier.

Soon we were to the gendarme which had stopped us on our second unprepared attempt. Like the salmonberries before, the fat caking of maritime snow had buried the gendarme and made our lives so much easier. All that was left was 100 feet of a sharp ridge glued with warty rime and we were finally on top of Hawthorne.

Looking back at our descent on Sheep:

The shadows were getting longer as the evening sun dipped west towards the Pacific Ocean, and we hustled to stuff our wet skins and crampons into our packs to start the ski down before the sunbaked snow started it's nightly transition to punchy glop covered in a grabby crust of ice.

Photo: Nyssa

This time we skied southwest towards the summer trail. I didn't know what to expect and was impressed with the pitch and ambience of the summit cone - it felt like we were hanging over the salt water of the channel below.

As we descended out of the sun and into the shady reaches of the upper Sheep Creek basin, we found the terrible evening snow we'd worried about. Clinging to the glazed ice with our little edges, we did a skittering traverse until we were under the saddle of the summer trail. With ears ringing from our skis scrapping across the icy surface, we booted the last short climb to the summer trail.

The conditions and brush situation on the descent down the summer trail was another unknown for us. We knew this was just part of the adventure, but were pleasantly surprised to find overcooked, but skiable corn into the woods. We surfed the sloppy snow covered in leaf litter until it was just mossy forest floor covered in leaf litter.

Then, with our skis strapped back on our packs we tromped thru the jungle to the road.

Trading our muddy ski boots for our muddy running shoes, we jogged the road back to retrieve the car.

What a great day - I think this one is worthy of the Best Of Page.

Pioneer Peak Ski - 3.30.2018

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Fri, 30 Aug 2024 01:00:00 +0000

Note: updated below the original post to include an evening lap on the north face in March 2022 with Tony, and again on a magical late summer day with Nyssa in August 2024.

Over the last two days Brian and Sam had both skied Pioneer, and it was about to get a refresh - it was time to go get it. Only two small problems: I didn't have ice tools, and Alex had a project due at work. Easily remedied. I went to REI and Alex called in sick with a bad case of powder fever.

Pioneer's giant north face towering over Palmer.

The next morning found us driving back and forth on the Old Glenn looking for the north face trailhead. After a few laps of the road we'd located the appropriate thicket and were skinning into the alders. Within 500 vertical feet we'd reached the avy debris and were soon climbing mellow ice.

I was pleased how much better my ice tools performed than my finger nails and running shoes. Kind of like being a cyborg.

After the first pitch we put our skis on and started skinning up the lower face. Bryon's tracks were still visible through the new snow and were a nice reassurance that we were on track. Or at least on Brian's wrong track.

The new snow deepened and buried the old tracks as we approached the second ice pitch. The skiing was going to be fun.

Brady tried out the second pitch and after having his crampons pop off a couple of times decided that he'd rather climb rock than ice. So, we clambered up the steep snow chimney to the left. I remember one particularly fun mantle and high step that was Alex's favorite part.

A little more snow climbing and it time for the last ice of the day. The short vertical segment was fun and quick.

Then we moved to the upper bowl. From Palmer the upper bowl looks like a steep hanging face. But, from its heart it feels like a huge catchers mitt. Low angle and relatively safe near the bottom, then steeping continuously to the peak.

Filled with spindrift from the previous night's snowfall, the upper coolie was deep. We wallowed through it and crawled over the small rock steps.

Popping out of the cold north face onto the summit ridge brought the sudden warmth of the spring sun. In front of us, the Goat Creek drainage sparkled thru thin clouds. The Bold Ridge Hike from Eklutna to Pioneer is a fun a traverse above Goat Creek.

As the clouds cleared we looked up the Knik Glacier at Mount Goode and the High Chugach. Jeff says that Mount Goode is a "good girlfriend ski". Whatever that means.

The ridge held a foot of unsupportable snow sitting on pointy rocks. We wouldn't be skiing from the summit, so we left our skis at the entrance to the face and walked to the summit. Alex modeling how to make mellow snow climbing look more technical:

After lunching in the deliciously warm sun we scooted back down to click into our skis at the top of the entrance coolie.

Brady skied first into the steep soft snow. On this low tide year, the rock step at the choke wasn't covered and required a down climb or huck.

Dropping into the supportable fluff I couldn't believe the good luck of getting to ski such a big line is such great conditions. Pulling over every few turns to let the slough pour by, I leapfrogged past the boys as the chute opened up.

Photo: Brady Deal

Brady:

Alex:

The summit couloir spit us out in the upper bowl.

At the bottom of the hanging bowl it was time to take a hard left and traverse towards the rap anchor. Not completely sure where it was, and tenderly skiing towards the horizon line of what was obviously a large cliff was exciting. The colorful cordelette of the anchor stood out against the shaded rock, and we were soon inching along the edge towards it.

Off the hanging snow field it was time to relax a bit, open up, and enjoy skiing the untracked snow together. Brady:

Arcing down the lower bowl, the snow stayed soft, and we played tag all the way to the alders and the lower rappel.

Photo: Brady Deal

Dangling from and falling off alders, we slid back down to the last rappel station. Done with that, it was a short walk down the concrete avy debris to the car. What a classic: moderate ice, 6k of vert, and a steep iconic line. I'd ski this every year!

4.1.2022 Update:
Its been a fat year for the mountains of the Upper Cook Inlet plus the north face of Pioneer flushed to the road, so Pio has been on my mind. But, per usual, my mind has also been fogged by other things like planes, boats, knocking down walls in the house, family, and maaaybe work. Dane and Charlie's recent ascent of the north face was the reminder I needed.

Earlier this week Tony and I left work early to meet in the parking lot where it was 47 degrees and hard to believe that it could be winter anywhere. We putzed around pulling extra odds and ends of climbing gear out of our backpacks then waded up the 40 foot-deep cone of avy debris. The first ice pitch was sticky and quick, but I was definitely glad we would not be free-downclimbing it like Dane and Charlie recently did.

Above the ice bulge we stopped to swap crampons for skins, look out over the dry Mat Valley, and then start to break trail up into the sticky hot pow.

Into the shade of the north face, the heat of spring sun disappeared, and we left the wet snow behind replacing it with cold winter pow.

When I first moved to AK I heard the lore of the legendary winter of 2012 when Pio was so filled in that no technical climbing or rappelling was necessary and the entire face could be skied continuously. I figured it wouldn't happen again, but over the years Ben, Matt, Neil, and Brady have all realized that its possible by some "technical scrambling" up and rock skiing down the ramp adjacent to the upper technical pitches. We decided to follow their lead.

Skipping the technical pitches was easier and faster though perhaps more boring. Actually that last part isn't entirely true - one of my crampons popped off while I was kicking a rock slab - that was more than exciting enough for me.

The ramp was fun and definitely the way to go and we were soon past it and into the upper amphitheater. Maybe cause its full-on meltdown in town, but I hadn't really anticipated how deep the wallowing to the ridge was going to be and pretty much maxed out swimming uphill in the race against nightfall. The chute just kept getting steeper and deeper as we climbed until reaching a point where a lot of snow was making its way onto Tony's head and neck:

By 8 PM we were on top of the north face and into the golden evening sunshine - just enough time to zip up to the summit.

From the summit we took in the really incredible views in all directions including the pretty jaw-dropping 6,000 vertical feet straight down to the car, crammed something resembling a dinner appetizer down our throats (smores Pop-Tart for me) then continued our race against the sun.

Its funny how the upper chute had felt borderline too steep and deep to climb without peeling backwards into space - with our skis on it suddenly became perfectly pitched steep pow skiing.

Steep faces with big walls like this one are always spindrifting which is good for stability, but often leaves rather firm snow conditions, so it was a total treat to get high quality pow all the way. Reaching the ramp, I wasn't exactly sure what to expect as it had felt exposed and steep on the climb. Just like the upper chute, everything is easier with skis on. The ramp kind of reminded me of Crested Butte's Rambo, but in the middle of a complex 6,000 foot Alaskan backcountry face - good, clean fun.

It felt good to have the uncertainty of the ramp behind us (pictured center-right in the photo below) and we hustled to get to the rap station while there was still enough twilight to find it. The astute reader may note that Tony is skiing with one pole; the other one evaporated a couple turns into the face to never be seen again.

By the time we clipped into the rappel at 1,500 feet it was too dark to make out the writing on our ATCs, and then we were walking back to the Subies under the starlight talking about what an absolutely classic ski line the north face of Pioneer is - maybe especially when you're lucky enough to have conditions where you can skip the upper rappel and ski the ramp continuously.

8.17.2024 Update:
Its been about a decade since the last time Tarah and I followed gorgeous rolling ridges from Eklutna Lake to Pioneer Ridge. During that time its stayed fresh in my mind as a special treat to return to. In August 2024, Nyssa and I left the shuttle car on the shoulder next to the packed Pioneer Ridge Trailhead and retraced our steps down the Knik River Road and up the steep winding drive to Eklutna Lake.

There was a hint of the sharp fall smell of cranberries as we left the parking lot behind and hiked up the switchbacks towards Pepper Peak. Above the birch forest, the otherworldly water of Eklutna Lake stretched away from us. We looked across the aquamarine lake towards Thunderbird Ridge - another classic.

Its a hoof up Pepper, and I was ready for a quick lunch at the top. Sitting there, we looked west past Palmer towards the Talkeetna Mountains where we have so many hiking, paddling, and skiing memories. My eyes were drawn to the Sheep Glacier, where I had a relatively unsuccessful ski trip years ago.

Back on our feet, we followed the trail east towards Salt Peak. To the south, Peeking rose above Thunderbird ridge. There are some incredible ski lines tucked into its big dark north face; and unfinished business for me there as well.

Past Salt we left the trails of humans behind and followed the tracks of the original alpine civil engineers: sheep. The sheep trails here are incredible, allowing you to take your eyes away from your feet and really enjoy drooling over the huge mountains in every direction.

As we continued to follow the game trails east, the perspective of the giants of Peters Creek shifted with us. Soon we were looking at Yukla and Rumble. Rumble may be my all time favorite ski, I think this peak would stand up against any ski line in North America.

With each step forward our views changed. Turning north, the headwaters of Eklutna opened out of their incised chasms.

There is so much to explore back here, I've just touched the surface, and I know I'll never see it all.

The miles of excellent sheep trails continued to flow by and so did the mountains rising around us. Jogging north, more of the B Peaks appeared.

Bold's infamous north face. With a little more time, perspective, and experience, I'm realizing just how lucky I was to hit this line in perfect conditions with Jake in 2018. I think its usually unstable, bad snow, or a discontinuous mess of cliff bands. Or, all three.

I've also loved skiing Boisterous a couple of times. It looks little sitting in the shadow of Bashful and Baleful.

The next eye candy on the traverse was Hunter Creek. I've barely spent any time here, but its been enough to wet my appetite for more. There's a lot of potential for unique, challenging, and big ski descents in here.

The sheep soon had us turning west and on towards Pioneer. Just like the rest of the day, the animal trails stayed smooth and we continued to jog the flats and downhills, walk the climbs, and take in the world around us.

About 6.5 hrs after leaving the lake, we were at the top of the Pioneer Ridge trail. Although the day was already approaching 20 miles and 10,000 vertical feet, the evening was young and the miles had been easy. It was an easy decision to jog towards South Pioneer Peak to tag the summit.

It's been a long time since I'd been up South Pioneer, or the Pioneer Ridge trail for that matter. Returning here brought back a flood of memories from my first days as an Alaskan. What an exciting time in my life. Many of the people from that time do not live here any more or are no longer with us. I thought about how every day here is a gift to be cherished.

Pioneer with Erin and Scamp in late September 2014:

Clambering across a series of steep, gravelly ledges, South Pioneer seemed gnarlier than I remembered. We were on the south side of the ridge, and switching back to the north side "improved" the climb to the loose scree that I was anticipating.

It took longer than I expected to get to the summit, and I was ready for my dinner granola bar when we got there. At the top, we sat looking at North Pioneer; its exposed north peak brought back a flood of special memories on that magnificent mountain. Like I've said before, I'd love to be lucky enough to ski Pioneer every year.

Racing a sun that is now setting hours earlier than it did a month ago, we retraced our steps down the gravelly summit pyramid then jogged down the ridge trail to the parking lot. There was new work on the trail with improved drainage, planking, and brush cutting. Thanks to the trail gnomes who did this great work - its a real improvement.

Sitting at home watching the sun set over the Tordrillos as I write this, I cannot help but think back on the amazing adventures that I've been gifted with in my relatively short life. Many of them are already fuzzy in my mind, its nice to have this written record to reminisce over.

Kenai Skyline Traverse - 8.20.2024

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Wed, 28 Aug 2024 06:09:00 +0000

Lately we've been in the habit of checking out (and checking off) ridge jaunts around our home mountains in the Western Chugach. But these lovely ridges exist farther from home, and last week, hungry to enjoy every last minute of summer, we drove south for a Kenai ridgeline.

From the Fuller Lakes Trailhead, Nyssa, Madeline, Peter, and I left the gravel of the parking lot and walked into the green tube of the well maintained trail through the jungle to the lower lake.

At the first lake we emerged from the forest into a classic view of the rolling hills of the dry side of the Kenai Peninsula. It reminded me of the terrain around Summit Lake.

We had been impressed with the trail conditions on the lower trail and figured that might bode well for the rest of the approach to the ridge. Unfortunately, we were wrong, and the trail deteriorated into a morass of bushes, roots, and deadfall - all sorts of tripping hazards and things to hide those hazards from view.

Crawling out of the brush at the upper lake, a north wind kissed our cheeks with the cold tingle of the northern morning.

The mottled emerald green of the shallow lake contrasted beautifully with the bright fireweed of late August as we passed the second lake and approached our south turn to the ridgeline.

On the scarred edges of the Swan Lake wildfire, we stopped for PB&Js before beginning our climb to the ridgeline.

Above treeline, the evidence of the fire remained; here the burned soil and vegetated mat had been eroded by persistent elements leaving life to grasp for a foothold in this charred ecosystem.

I chased after Nyssa to the top of Peak 3480 where we found the blue glacial waters of Skilak Lake spreading out below us to the south. We laughed over a particularly memorable misadventure with Ethan in the mountains and waters of Skilak then followed the ephemeral ridge trail to the southwest.

On a little game trail, our tracks mixed with many hoofed prints of a flock of sheep, and we wondered where these mountain dwellers were until we turned around to see them traversing the hillside behind us. We must have passed close to them without even realizing it. I bet they noticed us well before we saw them.

I had been on this ridge before the fire and remembered it being relatively smooth and easy travel. Memories are fluid things, but I think the topsoil and alpine vegetation are largely gone, eviscerated by the elements.

With the exposed rock tripping up our feet, we spent a lot of time looking down instead of at the beautiful surroundings. I was generally bummed by this, but with our attention directed down, we spotted a fossil - a first for us in this area.

The Skyline Traverse is shaped like a horseshoe encompassing the Mystery Hills. First facing southeast, then swining around the compass to eventually point northwest. Moving along the horseshoe, our direction of travel changed, and with it our views. To the west, Mount Spurr loomed across the Cook Inlet. I thoroughly enjoyed skiing Iliamna and am looking forward to finally getting Spurr one of these days.

Nearing the end of the horseshoe, our views turned northwest to Peak 3264 and the top of the trail that would take us to the parking lot by the Jean lakes.

Approaching the Skyline trail, human traffic increased and with it the telltale trail. After generally being forced to walk by the ground surface over the first 3/4 of the route, I welcomed the opportunity to move faster and look at the mountains instead of the ground. Nyssa above Jean Lake.

Soon we were at the top of the descent. We took one last gulp of the sweeping views stretching from Denali, to the Neacola Mountains, to Truuli Peak, then chased each other towards the Subaru.

Sheep Mountain Ridge Hike

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Fri, 26 Jul 2024 00:14:00 +0000

We've seen countless unbelievable photos of what seems like everyone in southcentral AK exploring the surreal painted rocks of the Sheep Mountain Traverse. I've always wanted to go, but somehow time just flows by. Summers are so busy, and there's so much to see - what a great problem to have. Finally, on a hot and sunny day in late June of 2024, Nyssa and I joined the pilgrimage to the crumbling colors of the Glenn Highway.

By nine we're lifting off the ground into a beautiful morning above Merrill Field. We climb over the western edge of the Chugach then cruise northeast across the Knik River Valley before reentering the mountains around the glaciated peaks of Friday Creek. We follow the creek up-valley then the little plane is dwarfed by the behemoth of Skybuster as we start to glide towards the Sheep Mountain Strip. We do a low pass before landing, tie down, then jog onto the ATV trails that depart from the lodge.

The trails are nice and smooth, and quickly bring us across the cobbles of Glacier Fan Creek and to the Gunsight Mountain Trail on the southern flank of the peak.

The steep solar aspect feels like its perpendicular to the summer sun and cooks us as we hike up the trail. We're relieved when we reach the cooler air of the tundra benches a couple thousand feet above the road. From the grassy slopes, we look across the Matanuska Valley towards where the South Fork's headwaters spill from the toe of the Powell Glacier.

An acceptable path weaves thru the talus and to the summit of Gunsight. On top of the peak, we lunch on PB&J sandwiches and stare east thru the haze to the glaciated monsters of the Wrangell Mountains and south to the Chugach which are just out of reach.

Then, we start west past Gunsight's namesake notch and towards Sheep Mountain.

We look north towards the Caribou Creek basin and its tributaries where Nyssa and I both have fond memories from our early days in Southcentral AK.

Travel on the ridge is surprisingly good: like a gravel path made of the decomposing rock, and we jog the rolling terrain. Nearing Sheep Mountain, the rock changes from metallic purple to sulfuric yellow.

Once past Sheep Mountain, there's a steep pinnacle blocking our way along the ridge. To get around the feature, we try descending to the north, but the steep rock here is covered in ball bearings of gravel and it's treacherous. We retrace our steps and go over the tower. It's exposed, but much better than the north route and feels safe. From Heather, who descended to the south to get around the crux the next day, it sounds like this over-the-top route is probably the way to go.

Back on the ridge, travel is easy again, and the colors shift once more. As we climb the west peak of Sheep, the ground under our feet is now bloody orange. Above Gypsum Creek, we pass a streak of red splashed across the mountainside that is so saturated with color that it hardly seems real.

Soon we are on top of the west peak and staring into ice giants at the heart of the Northern Chugach. Icing Peak:

Mount Thor:

It's hard to tear our eyes away from these indescribable piles of ice, but it's time for us to find a way back to earth. We look at the ridge dropping south towards the highway, think its promising, and decide to follow it down. At first it is manageable and secure talus. Unfortunately, the slope steepens as we descend, and the rock detaches from the substrate. Nothing seems to be holding the scree in place, and we watch with a mix of awe and fear as rock avalanches release from our feet and propagate away in every direction.

The next 1,000 vertical feet is scary as we methodically make sure we never allow these dragons of moving rock to build momentum above us or entrain us. It's a bit like slough management on skis, but way less fun.

It's a relief when we reach the elevation where vegetation is growing and beginning to glue the unstable rock into place. Afterwards, talking to both Josh and Heather, we learn how much better it is just to follow the ridge to its western end.

The rest of the way down is uneventful though not particularly fast, efficient, or comfortable. We push thru thickets of dense young aspen, scrape our legs on thorny bushes, then avoid trespassing thru the front yard of folks who clearly doesn't want visitors before rejoining the highway for the jog back to Sheep Mountain Lodge.

Skilak Backpack - July 2024

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Sun, 21 Jul 2024 18:59:00 +0000

For years I've dreamed of exploring the rolling mountains that rise from the south shores of Skilak Lake's vibrant blue waters. With our dear friend Ethan, we finally had a chance over a long weekend in July 2024.

The adventure starts like so many others have: packing late into the night to get out of town. We crawl out of bed in the morning, and refreshed by coffee and a bathroom break in Girdwood, join the line of cars with sights set for the Kenai. The Skilak Lake Road is a mess of dusty washboards and some pieces of the boat are probably rattled loose. Launching is a shit show, but we're eventually underway across the stunning lake on a quintessentially gorgeous Alaskan summer day.

Its breathtaking and magical on the sunny lakeshore and hard to leave. There's the usual indecision if the boat is secured or if need to tie a few more backup knots on the line. We pull up our hoods for protection as we begin the buggy hike thru the woods. It's hot and I laugh about the short sleeve that I optimistically packed forgetting about the bloodsucking flying demons.

A couple hours of climbing the quality trail through the forest brings us to the alpine. The winds are ripping, and we tuck into a green dell for shelter while we eat lunch.

From the top of the trail, we consider climbing Peaks 4320 or 4738 but even down here the wind is harsh. So, instead we sidehill towards the pass between the peaks. In front of us we squint at a blonde rock that looks like a sitting bear. Then, the rock moves and begins circling around us. It's a sub-adult grizzly that doesn't seem too concerned or interested, we look back behind us as it flops down in a bush and rolls around lazily.

At first the sidehilling is on smooth benches, but it deteriorates as we climb into the unvegetated scree. On top of the pass we lean into the gusts and peer into our next valley.

It has the classic U-shape of a valley carved by prehistoric flowing ice and the hiking looks promising. Ethan's sharp eyes spot a group of caribou running up-valley. The nimble northern deer are brought into sharp relief as they scamper onto a snowfield and are silhouetted against the wintery white.

The travel isn't as easy as we'd hoped for, and it deteriorates as we travel down valley and scrappy willows grab at our legs from the swampy ground. At Benjamin Creek, there is beautiful blue water tumbling over smooth boulders. It's a picturesque spot.

We climb onto blooming tundra benches on the far side of the creek, where the walking is much better.

Looking west, we watch a tall golden grizzly hunting ground squirrels on the west side of the creek. Even from the distance we can see his boney hips still skinny from a hard winter. We're glad he doesn't notice the easy meal dressed in Gore-Tex.

We make fast time on the efficient benches high above the creek and are soon approaching the small notch to the Twin Lakes valley. We're greeted by a chorus of plump marmots sitting on the rocks like plump mini-Buddha statues. From the pass, we look down into the valley of the lakes guarded by big peaks still draped with slivers of snow.

A short descent to the valley bottom and it's wet again. We follow an ephemeral trail thru sphagnum swamps that seem like they might eat us alive. It's 9 PM when we reach the edge of the lake; we're hungry as we look for an acceptable campsite in the soggy ground and pokey willows.

Nyssa catches a flash of movement across the lake. We sit down to watch a group of caribou bachelors jogging towards us like it's nothing to run thru the uneven, soft, and brushy terrain.

They're curious about us and come close to see if we're friends.

It's after 11 PM by the time we find a flattish camp, cook food, and crawl into out tents.

In the morning we hike towards the Skilak Glacier overlook. We pass a big, flat campsite near the midpoint of the lakes. The walking around the lakes is generally soft, wet, and bushy. It improves as we leave the lakes behind and gain elevation. Again, there are fat and happy marmots everywhere.

The huge winding river of ice rises over the horizon as we approach the pass. It's jaw dropping. 200 yards below us we see the big fuzzy golden blob of a grizzly bear. Then another comes ambling out of the bushes. They're yearlings. We spot their mom about the same time she spots us, and the trio goes running out of sight in the rolling terrain.

The wind is blowing off the glacier and it's chilly, but we sit down for a half hour in the cold breeze to take in the monstrous icefield and eat a snack. I've been looking forward to visiting this view forever and it's everything I hoped it would be.

Refueled but chilled, we move back towards the camp at Twin Lakes. This time we walk higher on the valley wall and stay above the brush; travel is easier here and a few hours later we're back at the tents.

We pack up, eat PB&Js, and retrace our steps along the little trail to the pass that brought us to the Twin Lakes Valley. High on the hillside above us, a big black bear digs for food at the brush line as we hike.

Over the pass, we stay on the bench above Benjamin Creek as we hike north. The hiking is fast and easy here, and we look for the big bear we saw the day before. He's gone for now, likely just out of sight behind some indiscernible feature in the terrain. He's been replaced by a bull caribou who watches us as we watch him.

Adjacent to Peak 4738, we cross Benjamin Creek and climb gradually sloping meadows of wildflowers to a pass that we hope will give us entry back to the Cottonwood Creek drainage.

At the pass, the fog swirls in and out and around us as Nyssa searches for a safe way around the overhanging cornice that doesn't seem to know it's summer. We decide the steep snow, scree, and cliffs at the pass is too dangerous to safely descend, so climb Point 4100 to find a way around.

On top of 4100, we startle a rock ptarmigan hen with her flock of 10 miniscule chicks who tumble after her. We tiptoe away to give the fragile beings their space then start down towards the basin.

The descent is alright - some loose talus mixed with tundra and not too steep. The strip of snow next to us is tempting, but it's steep and we wait before boot skiing.

Off the snow, we follow rolling old moraines carpeted in green towards our campsite on a ridge overlooking Skilak Lake. The angular evening sun is poking under the cloud deck and golden rays are refracting off the lake towards us. It feels like heaven to me.

At the campsite we set up our tents and boil water from a questionable tarn for dinner. The water has a brown tint and I'm careful not to scoop too many swimming beetles into our pot. It tastes funky.

The mosquitoes and flies try to eat us alive while we try to enjoy our dinner. It's kind of funny listening to the clouds of them bouncing off our hoods as we turtle away from the little pests. Across the crick a black bear is also eating dinner in the tundra.

As soon as the last bite is down our throats we sprint for the safety and sanity of our tents. Our camp on ridge may have been picturesque, but it's exposed and we pay for it with winds that batter the tents against our heads all night.

The winds are still howling in the morning which means we get a break from the bugs as we heat our oatmeal and pack the tents for the hike to the trailhead at the lake. We wade thru hemlocks dwarfed by the incessant winds and crash across the creek for the last short climb to the trail.

Back on the Cottonwood Creek Trail, we take one last look at the aquamarine lake before diving into the green jungle below us.

The walk down the maintained trail is quick and after an hour we're stumbling over the slippery lakeside cobbles to the boat.

The sight of the boat brings a sinking feeling to my stomach. At least it's there, I guess, but the back end is swamped, and waves are breaking inside of it. Somehow the battery is dry. We try to bail it out with our cooking pot, but we can't get ahead of the breaking waves. Nyssa has the good idea to use the life jackets as a damn and we get it bailed out.

We throw everything on the boat and push off. The Honda starts right up which is a huge relief, but the boat really struggles to get on step. The back is heavy - one of the air chambers must be full of water. The boat gets on step, so we keep going even though we're riding low. In what seems like the damn center of the lake the main motor dies and won't restart. There's water in the fuel from the swamping.

We run for the kicker and get it setup, but the heavy back end means the kicker is partly submerged. Somehow it still starts, and the little motor pushes us across the lake. It's slow but we make it to the north shore. Its about one mile from the boat launch and we're starting to think that we're home free when the kicker runs out of fuel.

Ethan and I paddle the weighed-down boat for all we're worth while Nyssa does the manual bilge pump and somehow we make it to the ramp. In drenched clothes I run to grab the truck and trailer. As we pull the boat out of the water we see the culprit for our problems - the plug has fallen out of the transom air chamber and now all that water is pouring back out.

Arctic to Indian Skiing - 2.5.2017

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Wed, 12 Jun 2024 02:00:00 +0000

Updated below on 1.21.2023 to include an extended version of Arctic to Indian (A2I+), and then again on 3.9.2024 to include Indian to Glen Alps.

Almost everyone around town has done Arctic to Indian. Shoot, most people have done it multiple times, even multiple times each year. However, I unreasonably prioritize backcountry skiing above everything, so I miss out on a lot of other fun things. But, after starting out the weekend by skiing Byron and Wolverine, I was willing to try something else.

The descent down to Ship Creek was one of the most exhilarating things I've done in awhile. It also made me wonder why cross country skiers don't wear helmets. And hockey pads. And how anyone could consider cross country skiing safer than downhill skiing.

We reached Ship Creek and began to follow it upstream just as the sun was starting to touch Temptation Peak. It might be covered in beautiful couloirs and spires, but I still haven't been tempted to brave the bushwhacking and slogging to get there.

First light along the creek was absolutely magical: clouds of mist with each breath, huge crystals of hoar frost formed from the creek's unlimited supply of moisture, and the sun sparkling in the trees. Temps around -5 F were also very similar to those of the previous morning on the way up Byron.

At the confluence between the two forks of the creek we turned south towards Indian Pass. I think that's Mount Ewe in the background.

Stringing together meadows above the river was quick work and highlighted by countless tracks from wandering ptarmigan, moose, wolves, foxes, and wayward yuppies. Also, at risk of stating the obvious, this stretch is way better on skis than postholing thru bushes and swamps in summer.

As the sun got lower in the sky Alex took over and broke trail towards the pass. Alex usually seems to end up breaking trail when the sun is getting low in the sky. That's Avalanche Peak to the right, and Bird Ridge Overlook to the left.

Moonrise over the peaks that separate the forks of Ship Creek. This is roughly where we came thru when we did our weekend hike from Girdwood to Anchorage. Lots of sheep up there!

By sunset we were at the top and ready for our long descent to Indian. Early February in Alaska would put sunset right around 5:20, so still plenty of time before bed! That's Indianhouse Peak to the right of Alex, lots of good skiing up there.

6 miles of downhill may seem like the ideal way to finish a day. Add cross country skis, impending darkness, and temperatures rapidly dropping back towards the negatives and it quickly becomes memorable. Next time I will bring fresh batteries for my headlamp.

1.21.2023 Update:
Between a wasteland of sastrugi at Hatcher and a plethora of persistent weak layers at Turnagain, the last month has required creativity to make the most of backcountry skiing in our winter wonderland. As such, the Eye of Sauron has turned to the mountains around Indian Pass, where we have slowly worked our way deeper into the zone.

First, it was days of digging pits and testing the snowpack in Falls Creek before we were confident enough to wind our way up Indian Creek to the hidden gem of Bidarka tucked amongst the bigger peaks of the zone. All week we've been anxious to get back out there, but with this week's set of windy storms we knew we'd have to deal with a recently loaded snowpack with little beta.

With what seemed like the first clearish day in a month, we settled on an extended version of the classic Arctic to Indian route.

In the netherworld of dusky first light, we chased John and Eric's tracks into Ship Creek then took our turn breaking trail for them as we passed under the spires of Temptation's north face where goblins certainly lurk. At the confluence between the north and south forks of Ship Creek, we bid adieu to the Airport Heights sloggers on their way back to the hood via Ship Lake Pass, then broke trail into the unknown woods of the north fork.

With ten miles of trailbreaking down, I started to realize just what a chore A2I is when the trail isn't in. Finally reaching the roots of The Sail, we crawled onto the bench above the creek and clawed our way thru the alders to the alpine. Reaching the alpine, the cold north winds were finally pushing the clouds off the Chugach.

With baselayers drenched from miles of sweaty trailbreaking and bushwhacking, we felt our clothes freeze into crispy sheets of ice as the cold north wind pilfered the precious heat from our bodies. 200 yards below the summit of The Sail, we clipped our skis to our packs and followed the exposed brown Frangewhacke rock to the summit while the clouds evaporated around us.

Soaking in the midwinter sun, we drooled over the south faces of the huge peaks at the headwaters of SoFo Eagle River. We've skied, run, and climbed some of these over the years. Others remain on the list - maybe this year will be the year for them for us!

Looking south, our attention turned to the immediate surroundings in our group of peaks. I'm looking forward to skiing Tail Feather Peak, and for that matter, The Wing.

Finished scrawling notes in our mental beta notebooks, we ripped skins and watched as Ben dropped into the south face painted gold by a midwinter sun rising 9 degrees above the horizon.

Shivering in the heatless sun, we waited our turn then ripped down the fresh snow to where he waited at the col.

Photo: Ben Americus

As the face rolled into steeper and complex terrain, we found the windloaded snow that had kept us off the higher peaks for the day.

Skiing thru the loaded features, several small slabs broke off around our skis.

Tony says avalanches always happen when he skis with Austin. I wonder if Austin thinks avalanches always happen when he skis with Tony??? Austin:

Skiing to the valley floor, we slapped on skins back on under the big, shady faces of the wild basin for the next climb up Shaman Dome.

Passing fresh wolverine tracks in the new snow, and with seven hours of trailbreaking down, we were all thankful to have Ben pull us up another skintrack.

Behind us we looked north at the last sunlight of the day on The Sail. Lots of lines there to go back for.

With the sun setting over the Neacolas to the southwest, we rounded the corner for the last push to the summit.

On top of the Shaman Dome we made sacrifices to our all important winter deities then clicked into ski mode for the long descent towards the dark valley hidden under the north face of Bird Ridge Overlook. If Neil had been here I bet he would have sacrificed some tater tots for Ullr.

We cautiously tiptoed through the sharks of the thin first turns, before opening it up in creamy turns under civil twilight. Nyssa:

Austin:

A cold wind was blowing in our faces as cold hands fumbled through the icy transition for our the last climb of the day to Bidarka Pass.

Following Nyssa and Tony as they broke the last couple miles of trail, I was again reminded that A2I and especially A2I++ is a lot more work when your group is breaking trail the whole way.

Under a sky filling with emerging stars, we ripped our skins and raided our snack bags. Then, under the questionable lighting of our headlamps, we began the long descent down the rolling alpine, past bent alders, and along the sinuous trail winding through the hemlocks to the truck.

3.9.2024 Update:
Saturday morning started with the purchase of a really old, really expensive project. My- coworker tells me that my life is just one big project. Jeff says each cylinder you add to your life takes 10% of it. Dan says that's how you know you're doing it right. They aren't wrong.

Back in Anchorage, now burdened by less money, but more projects, we brainstormed what to do with the rest of our day.

A quick call to Carolyn and we were driving up the hill to meet her at the Glen Alps parking lot bustling with intro to avy students, snowshoers, and dog walkers. We dropped a car shuttle, made sure the keys came with is, then drove the Subaru towards the trailhead at the back of Indian Valley.

Skinning out of the small parking lot tucked into the big trees, the snow was littered with pine cones from the recent high wind events and crusted over by dripping trees as we started to climb towards Indian Pass.

As we skinned higher along the winding trail, the valley opened up around us. To the west were memories of many days in Falls Creek, a spring day on the Yuyanq' Ch'ex Peaks, and a day of golden January light linking up the deep and snaking north couloir of North Yuyanq' Ch'ex to Homicide to Hope Point.

To our east were memories from Peak 4055, BRO, and Bidarka:

At the pass, we started to meet the first groups of the day on their way from Arctic Valley to Indian.

I thought about how beautiful this pass is in the summer. Clear from underbrush, its carpeted by soft fields of wildflowers furnished by small trees.

We coasted for a mile down the slight grade of of upper Ship Creek before our turn towards its namesake lake.

Climbing towards Ship Lake, we followed the waddling trails of porcupines and the occasional snowshoe hair.

From the lake, we were dwarfed by Avalanche Peak. Hiding up there was the Thin White Line which Nyssa, Tom, Carolyn, and I borrowed our way up on a surprisingly deep spring day in 2023.

I wondered about the tantalizing north face of Avalanche where there is a ski line tucked amongst rocks covered with flutes of snow.

Approaching Ship Lake Pass ravaged by arctic winds from the north and coastal storms from the east, we ran out of snow and walked across rocks exposed crowberries - they actually tasted pretty good.

Cresting the pass into the powerline valley, our fair ski city spread out below us. Past the Anchorage bowl and across the Cook Inlet, were the glaciated giants of the Tordrillos highlighted by Mount Spurr.

We walked down until the scoured scree was replaced by sastrugi then clipped back into our skis for the bouncy descent down the packed waves of snow to the valley floor.

The glide towards towards the South Fork of Campbell Creek was another dive into our memories. To our left we first looked up at the lovely north chute of the Wedge that pairs well with TWL, the Ramp, or more of the Wedge. Next, was the classic S-Coulior.

Past Ptarmigan, the grade of the valley disappeared, and we switched to skating on the firm windboard formed by the persistent winds that howl down the channeled valley.

Five hours after leaving the peaceful trailhead in Indian Valley, we passed the last dog walkers and slid back into the Glen Alps parking lot.

Tikishla, Knoya, Kanchee, Nunaka Dome Skiing - 4.14.2022

noreply@blogger.com (Mike Records) — Tue, 11 Jun 2024 02:00:00 +0000

Note: updated below the original post to include another great afternoon above Muldoon on 4.7.2024.

There is a short window each spring in the Anchorage Front Range as the willow-choked valleys leading to the windswept faces of our peaks transition from bottomless facets and scary windslab, to fast and stable melt-freeze crust, before access is slowed by bare ground and emerging brush.

When the strong April sun began to metamorphose our ever changing snowpack into an efficient and stable crust, Bob and I were focused on taking advantage of it. We both had morning chores to attend to, and corn takes soften in Southcentral AK, so it was early afternoon by the time we were walking out of the Dome parking lot, sliding down the terrifying ice in the shady gorge, then crossing the footbridge into the North Fork of Campbell Creek. From here we hoped to link up Tikishla to Knoya to Kanchee, and if we were lucky, ski all the way back to the neighborhood.

The North Fork doesn't receive much precip to start with. Then you add in the strong downslope winds that pour over the Chugach and scour the valley floors. It doesn't take much sun to vaporize what snow is left. Fortunately dead grass and blueberry bushes are still sort of slippery.

Reaching relatively continuous snow, or as much as that's a thing in the Front Range, we stopped for lunch. Bob ate delicious looking hummus wraps, while I probably ate something gross like old frozen pizzas - I need to hire Bob as a backcountry baking sensei.

We were well past Knoya and about 4.5 miles from the car when we left the valley floor behind and started to climb towards the south face of Tikishla. As we climbed higher Anchorage came into view below us. What a place to live.

We followed sheep tracks across the hanging basin below the peak before climbing the incline towards the summit. At this point it was probably 4 PM and the sunny slope was just starting to soften - I don't think I'll ever get used to how much later this happens than in Colorado.

Climbing higher we switched to efficient booting on corn that had spent the last week ripening thru a series of daily melting and freezing.

Now above the valley walls of Campbell Creek, the other icons of the FRange began to rise around us. I looked past Bob at the seemingly impossible Lightning Bolt Couloir striking through the cliffs of O'Malley's north face. There are some other "ski" lines tucked in there too - Brady and Brandon are still working on convincing me to try em out.

To the east of the unreasonable cliffs of O'Malley were the chutes of the Ramp that would appeal to more people who call themselves skiers, as opposed to alpinists.

The firm snow was fast and we zoomed up the east ridge to the summit.

The ridge brought even more views and memories. We looked into the heart of Ship Creek and the craggy ridge dividing it from the South Fork of Eagle River. There are some lines in there that some people would consider skiing. Scott and I skied, but mostly jogged, Calliope a few years ago, he has more slogging ideas back there that I'm looking forward to.

We talked about past and future adventure and misadventure ideas and slogs in Ship Creep, then dropped from the summit into nicely cooked corn.

The summit bowl wasn't anything special, but getting to ski off the summit of a peak is special in and of itself. Once down the bowl we shuffled past the sheep tracks in the hanging basin, then I chased Bob down the long ramp to the valley floor where we would start the climb up Knoya.

We slapped our skins on and climbed up the south gullies of Knoya. I was about ready for dinner, not more gross bars, and it was nice to just put my head down and follow in Bob's tracks. Above Bob is the west face of Tikishla, as well as Tikishla Pass which we've taken to access Temptation and Tanaina; I'd like to ski that west face sometime too - it looks tasty from town.

From the top of Knoya we watched the waxing moon rise above Ship Creek and past the south face of Temptation which Nyssa, Erin, and I would ski the following week.

Then, with the snow starting to glow in the evening light, Bob aired off the peak and into Knoya's west face.

With Kanchee still on our agenda, we didn't ski that far down the basin below Knoya; in the future I'd like rip its surfy gully that continues to descend past Kanchee.

With the evening light getting more magical as it cast lengthening shadows across the skeletons of the peaks, we finished our last climb of the day up Kanchee. Like I often talk about, every summit is special because it brings with it slightly different views into the nooks and crannies of these extraordinary places. After years of staring at it from the Glenn Highway, someday I'd like to ski this curved banana chute dropping north from Tikishla - its nice the bucket list is a bottomless well always refilling with more ideas, obscure ski lines, and unnecessary bushwhacking.

Complex, steep and sloughy, the turns off the summit of Kanchee were my favorites from the day. I watched Bob easily navigate a series of rock shelves then carve a huge slashing turn across the blond snow of the face.

With the setting sun cutting through the haze over the Tordillo Mountains then amplifying as it bounced off the waters of the Cook Inlet, the mountains lit on fire as we started to ski towards the South Fork of Chester Creek.

When we slid onto the road there was still plenty of snow left, and we were jazzed thinking that we'd likely be able to ski all the way to town.

The road was a hilarious Mario game as we skidded across and hopped over patches of dry ground, mud, manky snow, and moose tracks in an effort to ski all the way to the neighborhood.

We crawled over the fence, looked back up at our golden tracks on Kanchee, shouldered our skis, then stepped onto the street.

Five minutes later we were back at the house with a new mountain memory hanging outside the living room window.

4.7.2024 Update:
Saturday morning found Nyssa and I in the Peters Creek parking lot with the unfortunately reality of a day planned around our sled, but a freshly locked closed sign in front of us.

How did we know it was fresh? Well, the CSP trail status website listed it as open that morning. And, it had been unlocked just one hour earlier when Seth and his powder pony had departed the parking lot in front of us.

Peters Creek does not provide easy ski access without a sled, nor were there other good ski conditions close by, so it was time to call an audible and jump back in the truck.

Having burned a solid chunk of the morning, and gasoline for that matter, on the tow out to Peters Creek, we needed something close to Anchorage.

The peaks above our old haunts of Muldoon were just what we were looking for. Once done returning the sled to our driveway where it was less likely to be stolen (or attacked) than the trailhead, we were eventually skiing out of the Dome trailhead.

The falling snow of the previous night began to clear above us as we crossed the gorge and skinned away from the creek and into a winter wonderland.

The wonder of the new snow soon became a drag as the strong spring sun began to bake the fresh snow. With each step we accumulated what seemed like pound after pound of storm snow super-glued to our wet skins.

It is incredible how these evil, high-heeled, snow anchors can shred hip flexors and morale. In the pain cave of the weighted slog I was reminded of a particularly hilarious glopping incident with a middle-aged birthday-boy friend. His meltdown on a similarly beautiful day climaxed in a frantic announcement that he just wanted to be at home on his deck drinking beer.

After a couple miles of redlining with 20 pounds on our feet, we gave up on our nonfunctional skins and switched to booting as we reached the south face of Knoya.

It was a sign of the times that breaking trail up the mellow slopes with skis on our backs was a relief from skinning.

At the summit ridge, the clouds closed around us and winter returned. Following Nyssa's tracks thru the drifted snow as wind-driven snowflakes bit my face made me feel free in a wild world.

Peering west over the summit of Knoya, we looked down to find another group of skiers enjoying the loaded gully below. We watched them rip the deep snow, then followed suit.

Nyssa:

With the sun obscured by clouds hanging from the peaks, the catalyst for the snow-epoxy was weakened and glopping reduced to level safe from sending us to the insane asylum.

On top of Kanchee, we picked our way thru the wind-scoured rocks and into the steep northwest headwall.

I like this line - its steep and complex - a bit like a scaled up version of Peak 3.

Nyssa:

We farmed powder turns until the bowl ran out of slope, then began our last climb of the day up Nunaka Dome.

The northwest face of Nunaka Dome holds snow much better than its wind-ravaged compatriots on the Anchorage Front, and for no particular reason I've wanted to ski it for years.

I was psyched to stand on top of this little dome and look down at the sheltered slope below.

Not too bad.

The blue-square turns brought us to the military road which we'd follow back to the old hood.

Skiing down this road is a funny little treat that tickles me just right - there's very few reasons to end up here on skis and you have to get it before it melts out for the year.

Skating, shuffling, and noodling down the road we came across a rare sight in the Anchorage Bowl. Appearing out of the woods from all directions were the fresh tracks of a pack of wolves rendezvousing on the trail.

With the overnight snow, these big snowshoe footprints were no more than a handful of hours old.

Souls filled by the rare tracks of this wild pack of ghosts so close to our city, we crawled through the Charlie Brown trees of the Muldoon Swamp to emerg at Little Dipper Park where our car was waiting.

Another great adventure above our one-of-a-kind ski town.