Sometimes, you just need a good smack upside the head to look at reality. When it comes to ski season, that reality blurs and those of us unwilling to let winter go keep skiing until there isn’t a shred of snow left. A few good days of spring corn keep us going back for more, but all it takes is that one bad day – that day that smacks us upside the head and says,”hey dumbass, it’s over” to force us to hang up the sticks and pick up a mountain bike. That day happened.
After an incredible weekend of skiing on Bald Mountain and Hayden Peak, Mason Diedrich and I got greedy and went back for more a week later. But as soon as we drove over Bald Mountain Pass, it was clear that a lot had changed in one week. The Sunday before, the snow was three feet deep at the Highline Trailhead. Now, it was down to a foot, if that. The lines we skied no longer went from top to bottom, and everywhere we turned, not a single line of skiable snow could be seen. Just as we were about to give up, Mason saw it: a thin white line of snow on Mount Marsell.
Based on our topo map, we determined that the Pass Lake trailhead was the closest we could drive to lessen our approach. Large snowdrifts on the trail made us keep our ski boots on for the hike, but there wasn’t enough snow to skin. For two miles we walked the summer trail loop with skis on our packs down to Reids Meadow, then up to Kamas Lake at the base of upper Mount Marsell. A lot of snow was still on the peak’s southeast face, but it was sun-cupped and terraced by the wind, basically in no condition to ski. But the line we saw from the Mirror Lake Highway was on the east face, so we skinned to the top with much difficulty on the sloppy, sun-affected snow, then bagged the summit of Mount Marsell.
The view from the top is among the most scenic I’ve seen in the Uintas. The twin pyramids of Bald Mountain and Reids Peak rose like pillars to the west. The unnamed massif that surrounds Lofty Lake to the south gave foreground perspective to Hayden and A-1 Peaks to the east, and the vast north slope of the Uinta Mountains spread below all the way to Wyoming to the north. Alive in the warm sun, I felt that even if we didn’t find good skiing, I would be happy with this semi-winter, mountain ascent, and the solitude it afforded us.
Good thing I was so positive. After a summit snack, Mason and I traversed down to where we thought the couloir entrance was. But all we could find was fields of scree and boulders. Determined, we skied down the only remaining bit of nasty snow, brown with age, to a place where we could traverse to our chosen line. But once at the top, we were dismayed to find a shallow, rocky, melted-out mank-fest guarded by small cliffs and a ski-length choke. Has we been here a week earlier, this line would have been epic, but now, we were stuck with survival skiing at its worst.
I began by side-stepping down the upper couloir, this after down climbing a rock outcrop into thorny bushes. Finally on snow, I slid down, testing the snow to see if it would slide. It held. With careful concentration, I made my first turn as soon as the thin white line was wide enough and found that it wasn’t half bad. I made a few more turns, then a couple more. And then I was at the bottom. Miles of hiking, a horrendous skin, and a dangerous, exposed entrance on rotten snow got me a grand total of five turns.
The snow gods spoke. The ski season was over. Dejected and complacent, we salvaged the rest of our day by skinning up to Lofty Lake to take in another view, then made the long trek in ski boots back down the dry trail to the car.
I wonder if we should have ended the season the week before, when we were elated with our final ski runs. But then again, it seems I need that smack upside the head to tell me it’s over. And looking back, I don’t regret the final day. I’m stubborn like that. Goodbye 2013/14 ski season.