"Free Range" in Denali National Park

As we boot closer to the top of this fluted couloir I bump my face into the snow. I break stride to wipe the snow off my glasses, which confirms how steep and deep this slope actually is. I have climbed a lot of steep slopes in my day, but I don't recall actually bumping my face on the snow. I'm not sure which one of the Morrison brothers suggested we bring the Verts on this mission, but without them, on this slope pushing 60 degrees, we'd be wallowing to our waists and quite possibly facing the reality of not getting to the top of this couloir. Chris Davenport, John Morrison, Jim Morrison and myself are in the middle of the Alaska Range, about 48 kilometers as the crow flies from Denali and not too far from Mount Foraker looming some 3,900 meters above us.

Just days ago we were sitting in the town of Talkeetna waiting for the storm to clear which seems to be the norm up here in Alaska. As the clouds parted in the morning we got the go ahead from our pilot that we might be able to head in that day. He warned us to have snowshoes and shovels on hand, ready to dig, as he expected the plane to get stuck in the deep snow. After a reconnaissance flight and picking up two climbers who'd weathered the storm, the plane was finally ready for us. On the runway the climbers told us about their epic getting out of the mountains in the storm. It had taken them two days to cover ten kilometers, skinning through waist deep snow to get to the pick up zone.

We had some comfort knowing that our skis were much fatter than theirs. I was supposed to be in the Alps with Chris Davenport working on another ski project, but the past two months had been pretty dry in Europe so we had to come up with a plan B. Alaska was in the middle of an above average snow year, so naturally it was an obvious choice. We'd both been keen on the idea of chartering a ski plane and getting dropped off on the glacier, setting up camp and ski touring from there. About ten years previous I'd spent a few weeks in the Wrangell Mountains with friends, trying to ski one of the bigger objectives there, getting our asses handed to us. These bigger mountains create their own misery and weather.

At some point as we got down to the lower glacier, a light had gone off in my head: the best skiing in these mountains, I realized, is on the smaller peaks in the lower elevations. One can set up base camp at one of a thousand basins and from there take advantage of the best quality and quantity of skiing in the range. Less than a week from our scheduled departure, Davenport started calling the different plane charter companies in both the Alaska Range and the Wrangell Mountains. Both ranges offer more than a lifetime of skiing. But our choice was made for us when we found out the operation in the Wrangell's was full. One phone call to the Morrison brothers and they were in. Three days later we were on a plane to Anchorage.

Airplane-assisted ski touring in Alaska is like car camping. It's a necessity due to the gigantic distances, unimaginable to most city dwellers or people living in the Alps or the Rockies. Getting to your chosen base for some serious ski touring or hiking is not a matter of finding the right road or train connection. A plane is pretty much the only means of transportation, especially in winter. Chartering a small airplane for your mission, you get dropped wherever you want to go with as much gear (and alcohol) as you want. Around $600 per person will get you in and out of the mountains, give or take a few hundred for food, a few nights in hotels, and a plane ticket to Anchorage to start with. You do the math.

Once you get dropped off, you are camped out in the heart of the mountains, earning your turns and your solitude. The clouds parted and we lifted out of Talkeetna into a wilderness of sky and mountains. Like a little leaf floating in the air we flew past mountains towering thousand of feet above us, sometimes only 30 meters from the granite walls. We landed on the glacier, and stepped out of the plane into a surreal fantasy world. It was as if a Magic Genie had granted us one last wish after the fabulous riches and fortune and we got this: the perfect ski trip. 100 to 120 centimeters of new blower snow, blue skies, cold temps and no wind for a week. And no one else around to make tracks except for a lone wolverine.

Over seven days we skied everything in sight: the steep fluted couloirs right out the front door of the tent, the beautiful peak down the valley, and numerous tours up and down the glacier. The cold Alaskan nights kept us in our cozy bags until the first rays of light hit our tent. Most days we would ski in the late morning then return to our fortress tent for lunch and a siesta, then head back out for the afternoon into evening adventure. At siesta time on our seventh day, we were sitting in the tent, reflecting on how lucky we were to be there, and how perfect the trip had been. I happened to mention the word "wind" and how there hadn't been a breath of it, and then suddenly, of course, a gust of wind shook the tent – and then was gone again.

We took it as an omen that the mountain gods were looking over us. Knowing better than to push our luck, we made the call to pick us up the next day. At the top of the fluted couloir we enjoy the brief comfort of being on flat ground. I step into my skis, my nerves settle down, and my skier instincts take over. We stare down at the run dropping away beneath our skis. This is the last run of the trip. In a few seconds, one after another, we drop in and ski to bottom, not stopping once for a photo. Sometimes the richest images are best left to memory.