Ski September! Blaze Mountain, Montana

Last year, I was blessed to get ‘turns all year’. To a backcountry skier, ‘turns all year’ don’t require fancy equipment. They don’t require expert skiing ability. They don’t require careful planning. Granted, all of these help- but in order to ski every month out of the year, only one thing is really required: dedication.

Most people don’t understand. If you are blessed and cursed with the bug, you shouldn’t expect others to get it. They plan spring fishing excursions, Fourth of July picnics, and elk hunting. When they say, “So, what are you up to this weekend?” don’t be surprised when they look at you like you might have a long term concussion when you say, “Skiing!”

This year, I didn’t plan to ski every month. It just sort of happened. By the time I had skied in the Cloud Peak Wilderness toward the end of July, I started to wonder- well, why not? Last year, I got my August and September turns in the Beartooths. However, this year I knew that the snowpack there was much less, and suspected that there would be few good skiing options there for September- not that skiing in September is ever really ‘good’. Over the summer, the surface of the snow develops deep ‘sun cups’, and drainage beneath snowfields creates deep, linear trenches. On a cool day, the surface of the dirty snow is as hard as ice. Sometimes it is ice. The Beartooths looked like an unlikely candidate, so I began to ask around. A fellow skier recommended Blaze Mountain.

Blaze Mountain is located approximately 30 miles southwest of Bozeman, Montana in the Lee Metcalf Wilderness. This wilderness area spans the picturesque Spanish Peaks. Blaze Mountain is shaped like a big pile of sugar beets. It has a spine summit oriented northeast/southwest, with slopes falling off at comparable angles to the southeast and northwest. On its northwest face, Blaze Mountain has a wide, deep draw that runs vertically, bisecting almost the entire face of the mountain. This draw fills with cross-loaded snow throughout the winter, forming ‘The Blaze’- a steep, deep, linear snowfield. How much snow is on The Blaze depends on the last winter’s snowfall, as well as the season. I analyzed multiple aerial photographs of the mountain and read a few trip reports online, trying to determine if there would be enough snow left to bother in September. Although I was unsure, it seemed that there would likely be some left, albeit very slim.

I began to plan, and soon found a friend who had a similarly odd work schedule, who was interested in trying it on September 1. I planned some more, packed my bags, baked granola, and waxed my skis. As our trip neared, it became apparent that a small window in the weather was closing rapidly. A cold front was expected to hit full force on September 1, not several days earlier as originally forecasted. Regretfully, I called off the trip. Heavy rain changing to snow, and high winds- it sounded like the perfect recipe for hypothermia.

All that next week I thought about skiing. My days off in September started to fill with other plans, and it looked like turns all year would escape me. We planned to hike with some friends on September 5th and 6th. Then, my benevolent wife reminded me that I would be hiking after no sleep coming off a night shift. We canceled.

After a morning of sound sleep, a few games of ultimate Frisbee, and the last ice cream in the park of the season with my wife, September 5th found me driving north through blustery fall weather toward Bozeman. The dimming light revealed fresh snow on the Crazy Mountains and the Absarokas. I arrived at the Spanish Peaks Trailhead after dark, and made camp in the back of the SUV under fiery stars.

I awoke to a few flakes of snow on the car, and hustled to gear up. Heading up trail into the frosty morning, I was beckoned by the vista of Blaze Mountain up the valley, although The Blaze itself was not visible.

As I toiled upslope, I crossed frigid streams and small jungles of ripening thimbleberries beneath a dusting of snow. I hoped that the beautiful new snow was not all that lay on the mountain above. Criss-crossing up switchbacks, I lumbered with my heavy pack to a small lake on the north flank of Blaze Mountain, after finally catching sight of The Blaze.

I made a rapid gear transition, donning a daypack with skis, boots, and jackets after setting a bear cache. Already tired, I was lured by the snowfield above. It was only noon, and I suspected that the fresh snow may be less soggy than on the following day, predicted to be much warmer. I began climbing the steep, rocky flank of the mountain, angling upward and to the south toward the hidden snowfield. The snow deepened to several inches as I climbed across slippery boulder fields and downed logs. I encountered The Blaze at treeline. The strip of white snow shone brilliantly in the sun, with clearing clouds skittering shadows across surrounding peaks.

To the north lay the Gallatin Valley, yellowed by late season grasses. I had foolishly forgotten all my snacks in the bear cache, now over a thousand feet below me. I drank the last of my water and began to eat snow as I gingerly picked my way upward. A cold south wind whipped the snow into sastrugi across the boulders, and spun tornados of spindrift over the saddle at the top of The Blaze. I found it difficult to judge distance due to the blowing snow and the lack of scale above treeline. I suddenly found myself atop the snowfield, standing in a foot of powder.

I made a chilly transition, pulling off hiking boots and wet socks and donning my ski boots. Clicking into my skis, I wondered how the snow would feel. Would it be wet and sluggish? Perhaps wet slides were possible. I looked down the homogenous 35-40 degree slope and picked my line, noting several islands of safety to skier’s left.

As I tried to plan for a safe run, I a verse from the Old Testament struck me. “All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves, for the battle is the Lord’s!” (1 Samuel 17:47). Heartened, I pointed my skis straight down the fall line.

It wasn’t sluggish, it wasn’t heavy, it was pure, fast silky powder! I edged into anywhere from 2 to 6 inches of powder, alternating between sending chest high waves of snow flying and yielding my body to gravity. As I whistled down the snowfield, small ‘rollers’, formed by the slightly wetter snow on the surface, chased me down the hill like millions of happy dogs.

I stopped at a boulder strewn gap formed in the snowfield and booted around. Clicking in again, I jump-turned down a rapidly narrowing chute.

The snow was wetter here, and baseball sized rollers passed me and dashed themselves against the rocks on the north side of the draw. Finally, skidding around shark fin boulders, I came to the bottom. I enjoyed a leisurely transition in the sun, drinking much needed water where it spilled from the bottom of the snowfield.

After a rest, I clambered my way downhill across what would be covered in snow in July. I picked my way down an avalanche runout to the creek below, but not before a wonderful nap on the mountain face.

Arriving back at camp, I pitched my tent, munching granola and peanut M&M’s (my idea of an energy bar). Dusk came rapidly to the narrow valley, and I made a steaming pot of food, marveling at how great food tastes when you are backpacking, even if it looks like gruel. In this case, my gruel consisted of chicken and mashed potatoes mixed with Lipton’s chicken noodle soup- seasoned with lots of chipotle powder, of course.

As full and fat as the bears I hoped would not find my camp, I wallowed to the tent and flopped down. Sleep came quickly, but I slept lightly, awakening several times in the night to read from Prayer As A Place by Charles Bello, a wonderful book about true spirituality. I awoke from a delicious REM sleep at first light, and stiffly packed my gear as the dawn sent purple and red reflections across the lake.

I hiked briskly down trail, but had to stop several times, both to rest and to forage on exquisite red thimbleberries. Casting many backward glances, me, my bum foot, and my heavy pack limped into the parking lot at the trailhead.

A change into some fresh clothes and I was driving north toward Bozeman. My mind considered what I could do in town. Mackenzie River Pizza? Northern Lights Trading? As I hit town, I realized that I did not want to sink into such carnal pursuits so soon. Satisfying my hunger at a modest Chinese buffet, I headed out of town, my soul unscathed by yuppification. I flowed eastward down the Yellowstone River, craning my neck to see what looked like permanent snowfields in the northern Absarokas. Maybe next year.

Soon, late October snow would blanket the northern Bighorns, and I would find myself on the face of Bald Mountain, looking for my 25th consecutive month of skiing.