Unbound & Determined

Finding redemption on the north face of Blackmore.

Looming over the Gallatin Valley, the north face of Mount Blackmore beckons to be skied. We’d been talking about it around the O/B office for years, but time and again, plans fell through: high avy danger, road closed, not enough snow, loss of inertia. For several spring seasons in a row, we planned a tour but never made it happen.

Finally, in May of ’22, the stars aligned. Heavy late-season snowfall made for solid coverage after Hyalite Canyon Rd. reopened, while the typical pattern of warming temps had healed weak layers in the snowpack. We had a stoked crew, consisting of myself, Adam, Corey, Ian, and Caroline.

At risk of deterring anyone who might have been on the cusp of bailing, we slated our start-time for a peppy 7am. It was then, as the chilly open water of Hyalite Reservoir basked in a wondrous alpenglow, that the wheels started coming off.

Extra lenses? I was astounded. Here we were about to schlep up nearly 4,000 vertical feet over a half-marathon distance round trip, and Ian was carrying extra lenses?

I slipped into my boots, slung on my backpack, clicked into my skis, and switched on my beacon. This sequence occupied the timespan of approximately 90 seconds, after which the discrepancy in each individual’s level of preparedness became immediately evident. A harbinger, if you will.

“My skins are stuck!” Adam whined. “Can’t get the damn things apart.” Ian set down his skis, which looked to weigh just shy of a metric ton—prehistoric, metal-laden things—and lent a hand. Corey, hung over, took swigs from a thermos of coffee. Caroline and I exchanged a sideways glance.

“Pull! Harder!” A tug-of-war had broken out in the parking lot. Adam and Ian were each holding an end of the skin, pulling with all of their might against each other. Slowly, one fraction of an inch at a time, the glue gave way, and after a several minutes of tugging, the skin was fully peeled. Yeah, they may as well have been jerkin’ off.

Leaving the trailhead, I was certain that more debacles would come. So when we paused after half a mile to regroup, and Ian was nowhere to be seen, I was perplexed—but unsurprised.

“Should we go back?” asked Caroline. “He won’t be long,” assured Corey. The assuredness was momentary, as concern over Ian’s condition began to fester. But after a while, he emerged from around the bend—huffin’, puffin’, and sweatin’.

“Whew, I gotta take a layer off!” Ian bellowed. He peeled off his bright-green Gore-Tex shell and tried to stuff it into an already-full backpack. “Ian, whatcha got in that pack?” I asked.

“Well, you know, a few extra layers, a couple extra lenses for my camera...”

Extra lenses? I was astounded. Here we were about to schlep up nearly 4,000 vertical feet over a half-marathon distance round trip, and Ian was carrying extra lenses? But it was too late—going back to the car would set us back substantially. He’d have to tough it out.

We were moving at an average pace of one mile per hour. Couldn’t go 15 minutes without a stop. Ian’s feet were sore from skinning with non-AT boots. Adam’s splitboard bindings were falling apart. Corey was running off into the woods to retch. Caroline was growing impatient. I was trying to keep it together; trying to grin and bear it as a layer of grey cloud slowly swept across the bluebird sky.

We reached the summit ridge of Blackmore after four hours of slogging—in a full-blown whiteout. Snow swirled in the air and piled up on the ground. We were nearing the cusp of summer, but it might as well have been January up there. Low visibility called for restraint, but snow conditions were excellent.

“What do we think?” I queried the group. “Is it worth skiing the north face if we can’t see anything?”

“I could go either way,” Adam chimed. “I’m good for it,” said Corey. Caroline didn’t have much to say.

“You’re kidding, right?” asked Ian. “You can’t be serious. If you go up there, I’ll see you back at the car.”

It was decided. We were turning around. At least the skiing would be good on the way down. In fact, it was amazing. Cold-smoke face shots all around—on the last weekend in May! I didn’t bother polling the crew about going back up for another run. We were falling apart.

Beers always taste good back at the trailhead, but I was brooding. Our time-wasting debacles could’ve easily been prevented with a bit of foresight. We all should have checked that our equipment was in working order.

With a click of my poles, I dropped into the north face atop a foot of fresh, dry powder. 1,200 vertical feet of pure bliss, overlooking Bozeman the entire way.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s always great to get out with the crew. We make memories and we make stories. Heck, it’s how we come up with half the stuff in this magazine—case in point. But I didn’t want the north-face story to end on a flop. I wanted a different ending. Besides, conditions would be immaculate.

That evening, I set my alarm for 4am. I awoke in the dark and tossed my skis in the car, then drove to the Hyalite Reservoir parking lot and started up at first light. I hit the summit ridge at dawn, as golden sunlight ripped through a layer of wispy clouds, setting the north face alight. Standing on the summit alone, my shadow stretched out across South Cottonwood. I paused for a few minutes in the silent air.

Then, with a click of my poles, I dropped into the north face atop a foot of fresh, dry powder. 1,200 vertical feet of pure bliss, overlooking Bozeman the entire way. If I had gone merely an hour later, the snow would’ve turned to mush from the powerful near-solstice sun.

I skinned back up to the ridge, skied down the east face, and rallied back to the car. I was hooting and hollering out loud—by myself—the entire way back to town. A quick stop at home to change, and I was at my desk by 9am.

No one suspected anything; they had no reason to. My ecstatic mood balanced out any tiredness from the early start and major effort. So I played it off like nothing happened, and didn’t tell anyone.

Until that afternoon, when I found Ian snacking in the break room. “We’ll have to go back for it another time,” he said. I broke my silence with a wry smile.

“Actually... I went back and skied it this morning.”