The north face of Elephant Mountain is visible from town. It stands near the crest of the Gallatin Range. The peak is broad and rounded, its outline resembling the profile of an elephant, and the north side is wide and steep across its expanse. In spring, as the snow retreats up the mountainside, a couloir that cleaves the western-third of this face stands out. It holds snow long after the rest of Elephant Mountain shows gray, with green patches where the first grasses cling.
Most Bozemanites who consider themselves hardcore skiers have had dreams of skiing the aptly-named Elephant Couloir. It is omnipresent as one moves about town. Look toward the Hyalites and there it is. The brilliant white catches one’s eye and holds it as you consider the task ahead. And, like most, when I first moved to town, I had visions of grandeur: daydreams of carving perfect turns down this steep, narrow ravine of snow. In my daydreams, the sun shone brightly, and the snow was soft. Reality proved to be much less serene.
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I made my first climb up Mt Elephant without skis in tow. I had moved to Bozeman in November of 1979, and Elephant was the first mountain that I climbed in the 1980 summer hiking season. At that point, I hadn’t yet done much research, and hadn’t bought many maps. I just drove my truck up Hyalite canyon road, which was dirt back then, parked it and aimed for the mountain. I hiked across logged out meadows and made my way to Mt Elephant’s northeast ridge. I summited the peak in short order. The climb was a class 3 scramble the whole way, and except for one interesting discovery along the way, was pretty much non-eventful.
While working along the northeast ridge, I suddenly found myself standing in Window Rock, a natural arch that, back then, had a sign pointing to it from the canyon road. As I reached up to get a secure hold to clamber over it, I suddenly noticed that what I had grabbed hold of wasn’t rock, it was a chunk of petrified wood. I looked around. There were chunks of petrified wood sticking out all around. This was really exciting. What a discovery. I felt like an intrepid explorer.
On this hike I hadn’t even considered dragging skis up to Elephant couloir. For me, one season of skiing at Bridger Bowl was not enough preparation for safely making such a dangerous descent. It took a few 50 plus day ski seasons to have the muscle and maturity as a skier to garner the confidence that such an undertaking required. In the Summer of 1980, skiing Elephant couloir was simply out of my league.
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It was July 1st 1982, when Huk, Joe, and I made our first trek to ski Elephant couloir. We hiked the trail up Blackmore Creek with heavy packs that afternoon: our downhill skis were lashed to the outside and our ski boots were perched on top of our big metal frame packs. We made camp in the forest, just below the snow line at about 8,000 feet. Mt Elephant tops out just above 10,000 feet and the couloir at about 9600. From town, only a few patches of snow were visible on the steep upper reaches of the north face. From town, the deep snow on the lower reaches of the mountain was hidden by the forest. Snow that piled up from storm upon storm throughout the winter and spring, and snow that avalanches had swept down the steep north face was deposited throughout the forest. From the top of the couloir to our camp was the promise of 1600 vertical feet of challenging skiing. We setup camp, and set off for an evening ski of the couloir.
It was late in the year to be doing a backcountry ski trip. The snow was melting fast, and there were rocks sticking out of the snow everywhere. On a typical snow year in the 80s, we might be out of luck by now. There would still be plenty of snow in the forest, but there would be lots of big gaps. But the previous winter was anything but a typical snow year. By the count kept in the heads of myself and my ski buddies, approximately 600 inches of snow had fallen at Bridger Bowl. It had been a fine powder season that lengthened our summer skiing window.
To make the climb above camp, we donned our ski boots, and dragged our skis behind us. Bungee cords were used to clip the skis together, and a loop of climbing webbing was slipped over the tips. The webbing was looped like a choke collar on a dog, so that the webbing pulled tighter as we dragged the skis along, and we each looped the other end of the webbing over the waist belts of our day packs. We kept the length of webbing short so that the ski tips hung in the air just off our hips, and only the tails dragged through the snow. This was a technique that we had tested on innumerable climbs to the ridge at Bridger Bowl, and was much more comfortable than lashing skis to a day pack: the skis didn’t crash into tree branches in the forest, and they didn’t affect our balance on steep terrain.
We kept moving higher onto the north face of Elephant. To get to the couloir we climbed through a 50-foot-wide snow filled passage in a rock band that spanned the face. The couloir was above us and off to the right. As we climbed we angled our way across the steep snow-covered face above the rock band.
The climbing was challenging. It was late in the day, and the sun that graces the face at midday at this time of year had long since left us in shadow. Gray moisture laden clouds filled the sky above, and the air had turned cool. A storm was not imminent, but the cool air working its way in here had turned the snow rock hard. Lacking crampons, we kicked steps into the face with our ski boots. Two kicks, and the front of the boot had gained maybe an inch of purchase. Leaning on our ski poles for balance we’d hoist ourselves up to kick the next step. Progress was slow and steady. Two kicks with the left boot, step up with the left leg, then two kicks with the right boot, step up with the right leg.
The slope had steepened steadily, and beyond the rock band the slope was a steady 50-degrees. At this angle, even with our kicks creating only an inch deep platform, our knees were pressed into the face with every step we took. We took turns kicking steps and leading the way, first through the passage in the rock band, then across the steep snow-covered face, and finally into the couloir.
My blood ran cold as we made our way up the couloir. It wasn’t the 50-degree steeps; we had all accomplished controlled descents on slopes this steep before. It was the conditions. Not only was the snow rock hard, but the snow had melted away from the rock towers lining both sides of the couloir. The warm midday sun had been working its magic. It heated up the rocks melting the snow in the vicinity of the rocks faster than it was melting the snow in the center of the couloir. The couloir was maybe 20 feet wide, and the band of snow running down the middle 10 feet was unaffected by the heating of the rocks, while the 5 feet closest to the rock towers on either side dropped steeply toward the towers forming deep wells that threatened to suck a fallen skier into the rocks.
This was before the days when short fat skis were the state of the art. In the early 80s, the mantra among locals at Bridger Bowl was “short skis suck.” Short skis chopped up the moguls, and were unstable floating through the deep powder for which Bridger was famous. In my first year of skiing at Bridger I was chided on numerous occasions for skiing 185cm skis. I sold them at the ski swap at the end of my first season, and purchased a proper pair of 205cm Giant Slalom powder boards.
It was these boards that I dragged behind me today. These were the only downhill skis I owned. Being a poor student with an income well below the poverty line, I had to take a minimalist approach to everything, even my most important gear. I purchased these skis used. The word “DEMO” was engraved into each ski, as my precious boards had lived their first year as demo skis for one of Bozeman’s many local ski shops. Likewise for my boots. They had spent their first year on the hooves of a Bridger Bowl Ski Patroller. That was in the Winter of 79-80. As the Patroller explained, they got an allowance for purchasing new boots each year, and so they made a little cash on the side by selling their old gear. My skis and boots each had survived through about 200 uses by the time I stepped into Elephant couloir that day.
Huk’s skis measured 207cm, while Joe’s measured a barely adequate 200cm. In standard measure, the skis that each of us dragged were nearly 7 feet long, restricting us to turns with a 3-foot radius down the center of the snow band else our ski tips flirt with the air above the snow wells. In reasonable conditions this was doable, but on this ice it was going to test our skills. My skis were now 3 years old, and, at least since I’d owned them, the edges had never been sharpened. Back then, one rarely encountered ice skiing at Bridger Bowl and the surrounding backcountry. I waxed my skis regularly, but I left the need for sharp edges behind when I left the bulletproof ice of the east, ... or so I thought.
In addition to the ice, the slope was badly sun cupped. As the sun melts snow, it leaves the surface looking like that of a lake on a windy day, and this was going to leave our skis with few points of contact as we made our way down the slope. But this wasn’t the worst of it. The Hyalites are composed of a volcanic conglomerate. As the lava poured over this area it picked up rocks along the way. The rocks were rolled along in front of the lava and partially melted because the rocks embedded in the lava are generally rounded in shape. The lava itself, on the other hand, was jagged. A fall would be deadly. The force of gravity is strong on a 50-degree slope. One slip and a skier would plummet down the ice into a rock well in an instant. The skis would be shredded into toothpicks by the jagged lava, and, well..., let’s just say that we couldn’t fall.
We got to the top, and planted ourselves on some rocks for a break. I pulled out a bag of M&Ms, Joe dug up some granola bars, and Huk peeled a few oranges. We shared these goodies around and contemplated the task ahead. Getting down this slope was as much about psychology as it was about skill. We had to believe that we could safely descend this couloir, and then do what came naturally after hundreds of days of skiing: keep our weight pressing forward over the skis, and attack the slope. Timidity would only get us in trouble.
We all knew this, but still I just couldn’t help myself. I had to ask, “You guys think we can ski this?” With this I revealed a chink in my psychological armor. I’m sure Joe and Huk were each asking themselves the same question, but my expressing it aloud could have devastating consequences if each of us started expressing doubts. But this was my way. I have never been good at internalizing my uncertainties. I would have never made it as Jeremiah Johnson, the Sundance Kid, or most any other Robert Redford character. The vision of a man that he portrays is that of a stoic who does not flinch in the face of incredible dangers that left movie goers wide-eyed and gripping their armrests.
Lucky for us, Huk does have a little bit of Robert Redford inside of him, and Joey didn’t reveal whether he was suffering from any such crisis of confidence. “Well shit, Charlie, of course we can ski this,” was Joe’s response. Huk finished chewing on his mouthful of M&Ms and asked, “you gonna walk back down?” “Hell no, man that would be a lot more dangerous than skiing down.” It was true. Skis offered a tenuous grip on the icy sun cupped slopes, but trying to make it down in boots would be suicide. “No, I’m in, I just wanted to hear your thoughts.”
With that we got up, organized our packs, tightened our ski boots and clipped into our skis. Joe went first. He yelled “Let’s turn’em up boys,” and he was off. He made four jump turns and stopped. “Whoa, this is sketchy,” he called to us up the hill. Two more jump turns and he stopped, two jump turns and another stop, and he slowly made his way through the most dangerous passage. Huk was next. He made the first few jump turns and he too stopped. “F*ck me, man this is wild.” He too eased his way through the couloir a few jump turns at a time. He called out, “We’re really turning this thing up aren’t we,” and laughed.
It was my turn. I was comfortable enough planting my poles, leaning with the mountain and twisting my skis downhill to make that first turn. It was the second turn that was difficult. I don’t remember what kind of skis Huk and Joe brought to the top of Elephant, but my giant slalom boards were more at home carving big turns down open slopes, than tight turns down an icy canyon. Here I was barely around the first turn, and I was jumping to twist these boards back the other way. They resisted mightily. It wasn’t graceful, and the skis were skittering across the ice. I stopped after the second turn. “Sure could use a metal file right about now,” I called out, the tone of my voice betraying my building anxiety. “Keep it cool,” Huk called up from below, “you can do this.” “Indeed I can,” and I leaned into my next pair of turns. And that’s how it went. One to two turns at a time was hardly shredding, but I too made it down safely. Below the couloir we opened it up and had a blast skiing the lower reaches of Elephant.
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We didn’t shred Elephant couloir that day, but, I at least, would take another shot at it the next year (Huk and Joe skied Elephant couloir again in June 2000). I came back early in June of ‘83, this time with Peter and Gary. We camped on the snow at the base of what we dubbed “The Breakfast Chutes.” These are a row of short couloirs, offering maybe 3 turns within the couloirs followed by maybe 10 more turns on a short face that flattened out at our tents. The Breakfast Chutes were in the forest at the very lower reaches of the north face of Elephant. Peter was real fond of pastries and coffee for breakfast, and these couloirs offered the chance to catch a run between swigs of the bean and bites homemade cinnamon buns. We contented ourselves to ski these chutes after setting up camp that evening and again in the early morning. This time we waited till the sun shone brightly and the snow was soft before we climbed the couloir. When we finally made our way into the couloir I was ebullient, it was earlier in the year, and as hoped, the wells had not yet formed at the base of the rock towers. The snow was soft, the conditions were perfect. We cranked out one beautiful turn after another.
Peter and Gary made three runs down the couloir that day, I made two runs, and kicked steps down in place of a third run. For the first time ever, the choke collar slipped off the tips of my skis. I was angling up the snow face above the rock band about to enter the couloir, when my skis took off back down the slope without me. Luckily, the snow was soft. They slid steadily down until they smacked into the rock band with a “thunk” and came to a rest so that I only had to down climb a few hundred vertical feet. I kicked steps down the way I had kicked them up: one leg at a time kicking out a small platform to step down to with my knees pressed against the face.
I watched Peter and Gary shred the couloir the third and final time that day. They stopped at the rock band to see that I had recovered my skis, and we cruised down the lower reaches of Mt Elephant together, back to the Breakfast Chutes and our tents. Even though my choke collar fail cost me that one last run, it was a day that fulfilled my visions of grandeur.
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