May 25, 2008, Grays Peak (14,000'), Remarkable Couloir
5/25/08
3080
4
Day 48
5-23-2008
Grays Peak, 14,000 hp, The Remarkable Couloir
11:00 a.m., 14,000 feet with less than 300 to go. Decision time.
I stood on the spine of the ridge surveying the scene. Above me was a series of steps in the rocky, barren ridgeline leading shortly to the summit, while below me in blazing sun the smooth snow of a new line. I had hoped that the direct line on the NE ridge would yield a ski descent right from the summit, but the wind had blown the route dry, leaving an enticing white canvass on the southeast face. One could, I surmised, ski down the SE face and regain the ridgeline from down in the bowl. But with the heat of the sun, I was not inclined to get caught on that side of the mountain. I could, by contrast, climb to the summit, ski the traditional route N and then try and traverse to the top of the Remarkable Couloir below me, but that felt too¦too¦contrived. No, I wanted a straight ski down the ridge to the couloir, just as I imagined it from afar. I felt great - plenty of rest during the overnight bivy at the trailhead - and would have enjoyed another summit, but I knew every minute the sun cooked the couloir below would make this particular run that much scarier. No, the time was now to ski.
What the heck, no ski from the summit so lets just ski!
Skiing the perfect cure for the common summit fever.
***
The climbing had gone easily; the toughest thing was deciding which route I wanted to ski. I had driven up the night before, arriving at the Bakerville exit around 11 pm. I had visions of driving my Subaru slowly up the 3 mile access road, but the 130% snow pack put a quick end to that delusion. I made it ¼ mile up the dirt road and encountered deep washouts and hints of solid drifted snow remnants. Oh well, I eased back onto a convenient shoulder at 9,800 feet and called it a night.
My alarm went off at 4 a.m. and I was walking along in the pre-dawn light by 4:30. Trucks and SUVs littered the road in a series of dribs and drabs, significant obstacles weeding out the tourists from the passion fruit. At the very end only two remained: a very old Land Cruiser and an equally ancient Land Rover. Next to a few of the cars lie quiet camps, while near others people assumed their morning rituals. No one fell in line behind me as I passed so I had the route to myself all morning. Somehow this seemed significant - solitude, so to speak, even on Memorial Day weekend. Good omens for sure.
I finally reached the base of the Torreys-Gray cirque at 7:30 am, and dropped my pack, digging for my breakfast. I settled on a grassy patch, ogling the routes that surrounded me. In the previous few days, I had batted around a number of ski options with friends. We had talked about skiing the Dead Dog couloir on Torreys and then as an added bonus skiing the North Couloir on Kelso and back to the car. I really liked that plan, but felt I wanted to enjoy that route with the ideas founder, Mitchell. And Wayne would certainly jump at the chance to ski that thing. Looking up at the Dog, I had mixed emotions. It looked awesome. But¦.no, lets save it.
Crossing the Dead Dog off the list, I focused on the couloir dropping off the upper Grays plateau. Im not sure the name but Jesus - look at that - it was even more spectacular than I remembered it. With the decent snow pack it even looked like you could force the route all the way to the summit from the top of the couloir up the NE ridge. Hmmm, a direct ski from the summit down that? Lets see¦.
***
I side slipped along the ridge crest, careful not to get too close to the edge for fear of collapsing a cornice and taking a long slide down the south face. Once the snow finger presented itself, I skied more freely onto the wider shoulder of the east face. The snow was absolutely perfect. The high plateau reminded me of Birch Mountain down in the Sierra, the snow on the huge white expanse oblivious to the effects of sun and wind noticeable only a short distance away. I carved sweeping turns for a bit, then played on the wind waves along the ridge proper, slowing to a stop where the horizon fell away before me. It was not difficult to find the top of the couloir.
Butterflies churned in my stomach. I pictured the east side of the top of the couloir would be an easier entrance, but from my vantage, it looked fall-away steep and exposed. Drats. I shimmied closer to the top of the couloir and realized the side closest to me afforded a pretty easy entrance and allowed a couple test turns before the route turned left and fell away in earnest. Just to be certain I shimmied a little further down the slope so I could look down beyond the entrance. Holy cow it looked AWESOME. Rock wall lined, sssstttteeeep, and no bottom visible beyond the first turn.
There is no feeling on this Earth quite like skiing a route for the first time. Flashing a rock climbing route comes the closest, but there is a familiarity about skiing that I lack with climbing. I mean, I feel like I grew up with skis on my feet. The same cannot be said of sticky rubber. Looking down a ski slope stuck precariously on a mountain side for the first time, there is a rushing, tense and vivid excitement. Seeing oneself complete the task, and then executing, present in the moment expecting¦anything...all the while taking in the spectacle of life.
I slide from right to left and ski out onto concave slope, testing the most sun drenched aspect I could find. I stopped. Jumped up and down slightly. The slope was a sheet of 10 of soft corn, slurpee and smoothies on top of a firm base from before the last storm cycle. The slope was warm and wet, but stable. For now. I was glad to be skiing it now, any while longer, and¦at least only the top surface would slide. Right, and right off one of the cliffs below. Great.
The somewhat mellow upper slot veered right and fell away dramatically below, down the main headwall of the cliff band. Now for the business.
I stopped once more on the high side of the couloir, perched perpendicular to the slope, setting my board with my weight on my heel side, and feeling the air between my toes. I fumbled into my shirt for my camera. I suddenly had a vision, a flash of fear as I realized the consequences of dropping my camera while I fiddled with the lens cap. Jesus. I could feel gravitys pull down out onto the snow below, seeing the camera cart wheeling from the right side rock wall and back to the left, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing down the double fall line of the couloir. Below me to my right were the rock walls of the big cliffs, and to my left and above me more rock walls, diving almost straight down to merge at my sightlines. It was terribly steep and I was still above the turn.
I sucked in air, snapped my photo, and calmly slipped the camera back down the front of my shirt for safe keeping. My focus only on the slope below and the hidden rocks the 50 degree slope hid so well from above. Halfway down the couloir, and I still could not see the bottom. I worked from smooth patch to smooth patch, carving easily in the corn mashies.
And the bottom! Below me the couloir opened up to reveal the slide fan, now mottled with avy debris from my descent. I cut right when I reached the mouth of the couloir and find smooth sections of corn down onto the glacial benches below the Remarkable Cirque.
I opened it up, cruising the mile wide snow slope at top speed, my arm out the window, tunes cranked up to maximum volume, ninety miles an hour in my rag top Eldorado.
5-23-2008
Grays Peak, 14,000 hp, The Remarkable Couloir
11:00 a.m., 14,000 feet with less than 300 to go. Decision time.
I stood on the spine of the ridge surveying the scene. Above me was a series of steps in the rocky, barren ridgeline leading shortly to the summit, while below me in blazing sun the smooth snow of a new line. I had hoped that the direct line on the NE ridge would yield a ski descent right from the summit, but the wind had blown the route dry, leaving an enticing white canvass on the southeast face. One could, I surmised, ski down the SE face and regain the ridgeline from down in the bowl. But with the heat of the sun, I was not inclined to get caught on that side of the mountain. I could, by contrast, climb to the summit, ski the traditional route N and then try and traverse to the top of the Remarkable Couloir below me, but that felt too¦too¦contrived. No, I wanted a straight ski down the ridge to the couloir, just as I imagined it from afar. I felt great - plenty of rest during the overnight bivy at the trailhead - and would have enjoyed another summit, but I knew every minute the sun cooked the couloir below would make this particular run that much scarier. No, the time was now to ski.
What the heck, no ski from the summit so lets just ski!
Skiing the perfect cure for the common summit fever.
***
The climbing had gone easily; the toughest thing was deciding which route I wanted to ski. I had driven up the night before, arriving at the Bakerville exit around 11 pm. I had visions of driving my Subaru slowly up the 3 mile access road, but the 130% snow pack put a quick end to that delusion. I made it ¼ mile up the dirt road and encountered deep washouts and hints of solid drifted snow remnants. Oh well, I eased back onto a convenient shoulder at 9,800 feet and called it a night.
My alarm went off at 4 a.m. and I was walking along in the pre-dawn light by 4:30. Trucks and SUVs littered the road in a series of dribs and drabs, significant obstacles weeding out the tourists from the passion fruit. At the very end only two remained: a very old Land Cruiser and an equally ancient Land Rover. Next to a few of the cars lie quiet camps, while near others people assumed their morning rituals. No one fell in line behind me as I passed so I had the route to myself all morning. Somehow this seemed significant - solitude, so to speak, even on Memorial Day weekend. Good omens for sure.
I finally reached the base of the Torreys-Gray cirque at 7:30 am, and dropped my pack, digging for my breakfast. I settled on a grassy patch, ogling the routes that surrounded me. In the previous few days, I had batted around a number of ski options with friends. We had talked about skiing the Dead Dog couloir on Torreys and then as an added bonus skiing the North Couloir on Kelso and back to the car. I really liked that plan, but felt I wanted to enjoy that route with the ideas founder, Mitchell. And Wayne would certainly jump at the chance to ski that thing. Looking up at the Dog, I had mixed emotions. It looked awesome. But¦.no, lets save it.
Crossing the Dead Dog off the list, I focused on the couloir dropping off the upper Grays plateau. Im not sure the name but Jesus - look at that - it was even more spectacular than I remembered it. With the decent snow pack it even looked like you could force the route all the way to the summit from the top of the couloir up the NE ridge. Hmmm, a direct ski from the summit down that? Lets see¦.
***
I side slipped along the ridge crest, careful not to get too close to the edge for fear of collapsing a cornice and taking a long slide down the south face. Once the snow finger presented itself, I skied more freely onto the wider shoulder of the east face. The snow was absolutely perfect. The high plateau reminded me of Birch Mountain down in the Sierra, the snow on the huge white expanse oblivious to the effects of sun and wind noticeable only a short distance away. I carved sweeping turns for a bit, then played on the wind waves along the ridge proper, slowing to a stop where the horizon fell away before me. It was not difficult to find the top of the couloir.
Butterflies churned in my stomach. I pictured the east side of the top of the couloir would be an easier entrance, but from my vantage, it looked fall-away steep and exposed. Drats. I shimmied closer to the top of the couloir and realized the side closest to me afforded a pretty easy entrance and allowed a couple test turns before the route turned left and fell away in earnest. Just to be certain I shimmied a little further down the slope so I could look down beyond the entrance. Holy cow it looked AWESOME. Rock wall lined, sssstttteeeep, and no bottom visible beyond the first turn.
There is no feeling on this Earth quite like skiing a route for the first time. Flashing a rock climbing route comes the closest, but there is a familiarity about skiing that I lack with climbing. I mean, I feel like I grew up with skis on my feet. The same cannot be said of sticky rubber. Looking down a ski slope stuck precariously on a mountain side for the first time, there is a rushing, tense and vivid excitement. Seeing oneself complete the task, and then executing, present in the moment expecting¦anything...all the while taking in the spectacle of life.
I slide from right to left and ski out onto concave slope, testing the most sun drenched aspect I could find. I stopped. Jumped up and down slightly. The slope was a sheet of 10 of soft corn, slurpee and smoothies on top of a firm base from before the last storm cycle. The slope was warm and wet, but stable. For now. I was glad to be skiing it now, any while longer, and¦at least only the top surface would slide. Right, and right off one of the cliffs below. Great.
The somewhat mellow upper slot veered right and fell away dramatically below, down the main headwall of the cliff band. Now for the business.
I stopped once more on the high side of the couloir, perched perpendicular to the slope, setting my board with my weight on my heel side, and feeling the air between my toes. I fumbled into my shirt for my camera. I suddenly had a vision, a flash of fear as I realized the consequences of dropping my camera while I fiddled with the lens cap. Jesus. I could feel gravitys pull down out onto the snow below, seeing the camera cart wheeling from the right side rock wall and back to the left, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing down the double fall line of the couloir. Below me to my right were the rock walls of the big cliffs, and to my left and above me more rock walls, diving almost straight down to merge at my sightlines. It was terribly steep and I was still above the turn.
I sucked in air, snapped my photo, and calmly slipped the camera back down the front of my shirt for safe keeping. My focus only on the slope below and the hidden rocks the 50 degree slope hid so well from above. Halfway down the couloir, and I still could not see the bottom. I worked from smooth patch to smooth patch, carving easily in the corn mashies.
And the bottom! Below me the couloir opened up to reveal the slide fan, now mottled with avy debris from my descent. I cut right when I reached the mouth of the couloir and find smooth sections of corn down onto the glacial benches below the Remarkable Cirque.
I opened it up, cruising the mile wide snow slope at top speed, my arm out the window, tunes cranked up to maximum volume, ninety miles an hour in my rag top Eldorado.
A wonderful descent and TR. ;)
:). I opened the post, mind already digging through cobwebs for Grays' true summit elevation, and found something better than a simple TR from the standard route - good job :).
Enticing TR. A remarkable couloir indeed, well done! 8)
Good to see a new generation of folks grabbing those 14'ers...the Rockies still ROCK!
Go Buffs...Class of '90!
-Bill
Go Buffs...Class of '90!
-Bill
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