This story follows Visions of Grandeur: skiing Elephant Couloir.
Sharing a basin with Mt Elephant is Mt Blackmore. The north face, viewed from Bozeman, is a beautiful pyramid. It stood covered in its icy cloak all winter and was more prominent taller Hyalite peaks by virtue of it being more northerly, closer to town. Mt Blackmore was another tempting ski destination as we looked south toward the Hyalites each spring. The north face of the pyramid was framed by short couloirs on either side that from town that looked tempting, and what else was up there to ski filled our imaginations.
I first skied Blackmore in each of July 1982 and June 1983 after having skied Elephant Couloir. Joe headed back to town the morning after he, Huk and I skied Elephant, and Huk and I dragged our skis up Blackmore. The next year, Gary and I made our way up Blackmore after Peter, Gary and I made three descents on Elephant. Peter had to get back to town.
Huk and I climbed the east face which we found to be a large steep snowfield. At the top, we peered into the north face couloirs. They were short and less challenging than they looked from town, and it was a long hike back up the north face if we dropped in there. We decided to stick to the east face. The run was spectacular. Just a wide, steeply dropping face where we put in lots of big GS turns. Below the face, the basin runs out for a while then drops again over the headwall bounding the upper basin. A final traverse through the woods got us to the top of The Breakfast Chutes for one last set of turns before we got back to camp.
When Gary and I reached the top the next summer I had one of the devastating headaches I was prone to back then as my yet undiscovered pituitary tumor was starting to make its presence felt. After 3 runs down Elephant, it seems that my pituitary wasn’t up for Blackmore. Something it never told me in advance. Gary was working toward being a chiropractor, and he had developed massage and Reflexology skills that he put to work on my skull and my feet. I laid prostrate on the stone, bandana over my eyes to block the sunlight while he worked to calm my head and stimulate triggers by pressing points on my feet. I was desperately hoping to not have to ski down with every skitter of the skis inducing blasts of pain. It was a warm sunny afternoon. Gary kept working for a long time. At some point I felt the urge to get up and go find a rock to hide behind. It seems that Gary had succeeded in concentrating all the bad humors in my body, preparing them for expulsion. It cleared my head. I returned headache free and ready to ski.
I locked back into my boots and prepared to crank turns down Blackmore’s east face. I followed the same general route that Huk and I shredded the previous year; Gary headed further south down the east face, there was a steep section, outlined in rocks, not quite a couloir, but something more enticing to him than steep open terrain.
Wet met in the basin at the bottom of the east face. Then, instead of dropping down the headwall, we found our way to Blackmore Creek. It was a steep cascade that we could hear gurgling under a thick mantle of snow. “You want to ski this?” Gary asked.
It was tempting. “I’ve never skied down a river before,” I remember saying as I started to get myself into position for my first turn. “If we break through, we’ll be fucked.”
But Gary was already in position for his first turn. “We’ll just have to be light on our skis.”
“Yeah, light on our skis,” I replied as Gary pushed off. I gave him a few turn lead and followed.
We made turns down the middle of the steepest section of the cascade. It was equivalent of couloir skiing with the added risk of the snow collapsing beneath us. We worked our way more along the edges as the creek flattened and the risk of dropping through increased. We popped out in the forest right across from our tent. We howled “Ka-dook-a doo,” we high-fived. We were both stoked. We packed up camp and skied and hiked our way out of the forest.
* * *
I skied the East Face of Mt Blackmore one more time after that day in June 1983. In the Winter of 83-84, Hyalite Canyon Road was kept plowed for the first time since I have lived there. On previous winters, the road would stay open only as long as four-wheel drive vehicles and logging trucks could make the increasingly perilous passage up the canyon as successive snowstorms slowly buried all traces of the road. The loggers had been lobbying the forest service for year-round access to the thick pine forests at the head of the canyon for years, and this year their efforts finally paid off.
Like most locals, I was miffed about the prospect of year-round logging in what we all considered to be Bozeman’s backyard, but opportunities for winter ski ventures into the Hyalites were not to be passed up in protest. It was President’s Day, in February of 1984 when I made my last ski trip up Blackmore Creek. It was a crisp day with the temperatures hovering around 15 degrees Fahrenheit, and it was snowing lightly when Bill parked his VW Microbus alongside the canyon road and him, me and Steve got out and started gearing up.
It was 5 miles and 3500 vertical feet to the top of Mt Blackmore. We put our skins on our skis and were off. Bill and I used Army & Navy surplus synthetic skins that were held onto the bottom of our boards by straps and windings of duct tape at a few key spots. Steve’s were higher tech seal skin stick-ons.
The trail wound its way up logging roads and through logged out meadows for the first 1 plus miles. Logging has been a part of the Hyalites since the 19_0s. While I didn’t find the logged-out meadows to be aesthetically pleasing, my perception was that loggers’ activities were restricted to the flatter slopes of the Hyalites, and erosion of logged out hillsides did not seem to be a problem. The only evidence I had to support this statement were the numerous observations I’d made of the crystal-clear waters of Hyalite Creek which parallels the canyon road for the first few miles.
From the logged-out meadows, the trail entered the forest. Shortly thereafter, the trail dips down to meet the shore of Blackmore Lake, then follows the creek through the forest for more than a mile. It continues past The Breakfast Chutes and then out of the forest up a steep headwall into the cirque between Elephant and Blackmore. The trail was covered with a base of snow that was many feet deep and our skis sliced through 8 inches of fresh snow. We angled across the cirque and cut switchbacks up Blackmore’s East Face. The outlines of Blackmore and Elephant were only a few shades lighter than the whitish gray sky. The light was flat making it difficult to discern small features hidden under the snow. By this time of the season, small trees were being buried by the deepening snow. We uncovered a few treetops as we skied over them.
Ski skins are handy devices that enable one to ski uphill. The skins are covered with a layer of short fur. When the ski slides forward, the fur smooths flat to allow the ski to slide easily. When the ski tries to slide back, the fur stands up and braces the ski. Using skins, one can ski up a 15–20-degree slope with minimal backsliding. Slopes steeper than that require the skier to cut switchbacks to keep the angle of ascent to no greater than 20 degrees.
My skis were a pair of 205 cm Kazama Mountain High’s. I had bought these new at a midsummer sale a few years earlier. They were fine telemarking skis in their day. On my feet were an inexpensive pair of leather telemarking boots also purchased new at a midsummer sale. Like many college students, I was quite proficient at searching out gear in the off season to help keep my passions affordable. The boots were connected to the skis by means of a three-pin binding. Three pins stuck up from the binding and were inserted into three holes in an extension of the boot sole that protruded out in front of the toes. A clamp was then pressed down that held the boot in place.
This binding design provided tremendous flexibility for climbing, we could move uphill quickly, but offered little stability for skiing. A skier simply could not use downhill ski technique with this equipment, but rather had to adopt a telemark stance. In this stance a skier attempts to gain stability by skiing in something akin to a lunge position. To make a turn to the right, for example, one’s left leg is stepped forward and this foot is flat on the ski, while one kneels with the right leg until the knee is but a few inches off the ground and is often dragged through deep snow. Knee pads are a highly recommended piece of gear for telemark skiing. All the ski shops in town sold a variety of pads. Some even had hard plastic surfaces to give the knees maximum protection against unseen objects that lurked beneath the snow. Scrimping as I always was on my gear, I chose to not buy knee pads. This would prove to be a painful error in judgement before the day was out.
It continued to snow as we climbed. The 8 inches of fresh fluff were on top of a soft base that gave the snow a bottomless feel. Our skis never scraped ice or felt any hard features under the snow’s surface--except the occasional pine treetop. These were perfect conditions for telemark skiing. All of this changed a few switchbacks short of the peak. The wind was calm right now, but a sheet of ice loomed just beneath a veneer of fresh powder, as the peak was scoured regularly by raging windstorms.
We made the peak and celebrated with a few snacks. A winter climb of Mt Blackmore was quite a thrill. From the peak, Bozeman and the Gallatin Valley lay at our feet a dozen miles to the north, and the arc of the Bridger Range trended northward to form the eastern border of the valley. The Spanish Peaks were little more than spitting distance to the west. We picked out numerous peaks at close range and in the far distance. The world was white. A hint of green escaping from the deep blanket of snow that coated the pine trees provided the only contrast. The world was silent. Those whose time outdoors in the winter is spent on icy sledding or ski slopes may not appreciate how fresh snow softens sound. Our voices carried but a few feet into the world around us. Even our loudest Ka-Dook-a-Doos were absorbed by the softness before traveling far from the mountaintop. The softness of sound gives one a peaceful feeling, a sense of calm and well-being. We took it all in, and then stripped the skins off our skis and prepared to head down.
I was the first off the peak. The ice underneath made control difficult and so I skittered through the first few turns. About six turns below the peak the ice started to give way to bottomless powder, so I settled into a sweeping right turn with my left leg lunged forward, and my right knee floating through the soft snow. AHHH! Suddenly I was down on the slope screaming at the top of my lungs. My right knee had slammed into a rock outcropping that was hidden just below the surface of the snow. The pain was unbearable. I just laid on my back screaming. My head lifted out of the snow, my eyes bulging out, and my mouth contorted in an open-mouthed grimace of excruciating agony. Bill and Steve skied up, took off their skis, and tried to figure out how to help. They saw the uncovered the rock, they knew exactly what had happened.
As I lay there shrieking, I had the presence of mind to try and bend my right knee to see if I had broken my knee cap. It bent all right and I didn’t feel anything floating around inside. I pounded my fists into the slope. My mind raced. Would the pain ever abate? How were they going to get me out of here? If I couldn’t ski out, I would be stuck on this exposed peak with one of my mates while the other one went for help, probably in the form of a helicopter, and probably not until tomorrow.
The top of Blackmore was a beautiful, though inhospitable place. Great for an adventure, desperate as an emergency camp. We didn’t have overnight gear with us, just enough to keep us warm as we moved through the forest and up onto the peak with a quick exit planned. Freezing to death in a hole dug in the snow as shelter would be a distinct possibility.
Bill and Steve took off my skis. Bill knelt down and put my head in his lap to try and make me more comfortable. I was noncommunicative for a few minutes other than my continued shrieking. Tears poured down my cheeks. “My knee, my fucking knee, AAAHHHH!” I had never been in so much pain. Minutes passed, ...then slowly, ...finally, the pain began to abate. “My knee’s not broken,” I said, and I bent it to show them. Steve asked, “Do you think you can ski?” “Not sure yet. Got to wait until the pain abates a little more, ...fuck this hurts.”
A few minutes later I had Bill and Steve help me to my feet. I could stand, I could shuffle through the snow with some difficulty, but could I ski? I knew that my options were grim. I had to try and ski. I clamped in, and slowly, unsteadily, I slid along the snow. My knee was feeling weak, but getting myself down was my best option. “You want me to save a chunk of this rock,” Bill yelled to me as I skied off. I knew he was being facetious, just trying to lighten the mood. I yelled “Fuck off,” over my right shoulder and continued skiing across the slope.
It wasn’t the telemarking descent of my dreams. I slid along the snow in one direction, then stopped, eased my skis around, and slid along in the other, making damn sure to keep both knees out of the snow. Eventually, when the slope had flattened considerably, and the threat of hidden rocks seemed negligible, I managed a few halting telemark turns.
Skiing through the forest was challenging, as the narrow trail required us to make many quick turns. This takes a major effort in normal circumstances as telemarking gear is much better suited to sweeping turns on open slopes. My right knee was becoming steadily stiffer and more inflamed. I feared that I would reach a point where skiing, even walking would become impossible. I pressed onward, through the forest, down the meadows, and back to the microbus.
My right knee was swollen to twice its normal size by the time we reached the microbus. It was three times its normal size when Bill and Steve assisted me into the student health center. The impact had caused one of the bursa sacks that cushions my knee to explode.
It was dark when Bill dropped me off with a cardboard cast on my right leg and crutches under my armpits. Mt wife, Terry, was less than pleased, but her reactions tilted more toward concern than anger. Ski mountaineering is a dangerous undertaking. In this case I had added to that danger by skimping on a key piece of equipment. This time I had gotten lucky. The injury healed quickly. I was back on skis in 8 days, and I purchased a pair of knee pads before my next backcountry ski outing.
* * *
Now that I am back living in Bozeman, I still make regular trips up Mounts Elephant and Blackmore, though I haven’t been there in winter, at least not yet. I am up there at least once each summer trail running both peaks. I now wait until the snows have mostly melted and until carpets of wildflowers fill the spaces between residual snowfields. Unlike in the early 80s when we were we never saw another soul on our ski ventures, I am now one of many Bozemanites adventuring out on to these peaks. Some hike, others run, still others ride and push their mountain bikes upward anticipating the technical descent that Blackmore trail offers. Not much different than us dragging our skis up these peaks two generations ago anticipating our own technical descents.
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