It was mostly naivety that got the three of us to where we were to begin with. That and my Ford pickup. A thousand or so miles of driving had taken us from Texas and up into Montana’s Glacier National Park, where we planned to live out our dreams of winter camping and cross country skiing. Since it was January, we had the place pretty much to ourselves, except for the two Park Rangers manning the Polebridge Ranger Station (where we entered the park) and the plethora of wildlife still out and about, such as elk and Gray Wolves.
Our group included me, of course; regular adventure companion, David Barrow; and Jeff Isom, a “game for adventure” summer camp friend who somehow stayed gung-ho for the whole thing, despite being on the tail-end of a flu/cold/fever event. We ended up selecting the destination at least partly because of Texas friends who lived nearby, figuring that we could combine some winter outdoor adventure with a visit. In two short words, it was our concept of a “ski trip”.
We arrived out our campsite in the full, mid afternoon, dead of winter and paltry sunshine of the Northern Rockies. Thankfully, the road to Bowman Lake had been plowed in for a short distance from the entrance station, which allowed us to drive right up to our site. The foot of snow and empty camping spaces combined with the strange lighting and magnificent mountain views to create at least the feel of being in the real backcountry.
Since most of the park is actually closed in the winter, I’m not quite sure how we got into the campground to camp to begin with, but we did. It may simply be that, at that point in time, none of the park employees had ever thought about the possibility of having campers that time of the year. I remember getting the camping permit from the two men manning the entrance station and getting the feeling that we were doing something that was legal only because no one had thought there to be a need for making it illegal.
The temperature was still well up into the teens as we brushed the snow off of the picnic table and got things set up for cooking supper. By the time it got dark around 4:30, we were finishing up with our evening meal and by 5 we were “snug as bugs in a rug” in the relative warmth of our sleeping bags. Since we hadn’t slept all that well on the trip up from Texas, we were ready for a good 14 hour night’s sleep that awaited us.
I first awoke around midnight, ready to get the day started, but realized it was a bit early and went back into my semi-conscious trance. By 8 am it was starting to actually get light and I was by then really ready to get up and moving. And so, since I’d not yet learned the value of waiting to do so until the sun was actually beginning to warm things up, I climbed out of the tent and into a breathtakingly fresh morning. The nice part about the cold temperatures was that the snow on the picnic table and elsewhere did not melt and get things wet, unless you somehow got it on the inside of your clothes, so we’d learned to avoid touching anything in order to avoid that possibility and thus, any potential problems related to hypothermia.
Barrow and Jeff, soon joined me outside in the morning air. We didn’t bother with a campfire for various reasons, which ultimately helped us speed up our breakfast preparation and get ourselves geared up and ready for an exciting and full day of cross country skiing, which we assumed would warm us up. None of us really knew anything about the activity, although Jeff and Barrow had both been downhill skiing before, I’d once spent a couple of hours cross country skiing in Wisconsin during a seminar and each of us had been reading and studying about it. It simply sounded fun and after doing all of our research, we felt well prepared and speculated positively about “how hard could it be”?
We’d each purchased and brought along brand new waxless cross country track skis for the trip. The same road we’d driven in on into the campground, kept going, although unplowed past the campground, toward Bowman Lake and appeared to be an exceptional ski route. We were able to put on our skis, despite the fact that there was no real external heat other than the bits and pieces of muted sunlight that were beaming our way through overhanging tree limbs. We weren’t about to let the finger numbness or cold toes get in the way of our plan, because we were having a good time winter camping in the wilds of Montana and were about to go cross country skiing. As far as we knew, the pain we’d been experiencing with our hands and toes was just a part of it and was to be expected. I was almost amazed and somewhat surprised when I looked down at my feet and saw the skis actually attached to my ski boots. At that moment, I concluded that my vision of camping in the snow and cross country skiing was fulfilled. It was happening. We were geared up, in January, in the mountains and about to ski into the wilderness. It didn’t seem to matter to any of us that the verbalized part of the winter cross country ski trip plan stopped at that point, because each of us assumed that one of the others did in fact know things like how to operate the skis, what frostbite looked like or how to repair a broken ski if it hit a rock, 3 miles into the backcountry. Since that trip, I’ve often wondered if had we realized at the time what we didn’t know, would we have done it anyway.
Once outfitted and ready, we stood motionless on the snow for a moment as if we weren’t quite sure what to do next, and soon began to realize just how cold it was. That fact, combined with our excitement for seeing where the road/trail went as it left the campground, brought us to the abrupt conclusion that it was simply time to get moving. Conveniently, ski tracks led on down the road almost right from where we stood and within only minutes we were on our way.
Thankfully, I guess, the first half mile or so was almost flat as the road meandered into and through an ever-thickening forest. The low angle allowed us to cover a significant amount of distance relatively effortlessly. We were going uphill, but only slightly. The forest was thick to either side and soon framed a distant and particularly magnificent peak. The only noise we heard was the swooshing of our skis as their sliding surfaces bit into the track, allowing us to move forward. It was just how it’d been described.
Those first few minutes were subtly profound for me. The world around us was on the one hand muted by the winter light, quietness of the snow, lack of wind, low temperature and the fact that there were no other people around. But on the other, I was struck by a strong sense of enormity, complexity and sharpness as I found myself in the midst of what I came to recognize as true wildness, for what very well might’ve been the first time in my life. I recognized that the track we were following had been made by some anonymous and long-gone skiers and was one that would soon enough melt away. But, I was struck by the realization that actual trails were permanent and didn’t depend on who or whatever made them to continue to exist. In this case, I concluded that it was a good bet that while there were not likely any other skiers up ahead, there was undoubtedly a dynamic and vibrant world, crisscrossed by a trail that very much was.
I could almost feel eyes staring at us, invisibly from far-off back in the trees. Clouds began rolling in and thickening up the sky. The air warmed, but not in a thawing way. Some sort of animal tracks came in from the side, followed alongside the manmade ones for a while before veering back off again. A hawk screeched off in the distance and we came around a corner and were treated to a whole new vista of big peaks filling in the forest/picture frame.
It was just as I was coming to that recognition and had just risen to the top of a small, persistent, long, straight and flat section of trail that we decided to turn and have some downhill fun. We’d worked for a good while kicking and only slightly gliding as we kept going essentially uphill and it’d finally become time for some payback. And that’s exactly what we got, although it wasn’t the fun kind we’d envisioned. We stopped and turned to retrace and slide down 100 yards of our path and get in a little downhill. Slot cars are what come to mind as I reflect on that first descent. Thank goodness the trail turned and flattened out when it did, forcing us to crash before we could reach terminal velocity, because we certainly had no control of the skis. In fact, I don’t recall having any notion regarding how to manage downhill speed to begin with and just reckoned that part of it would all just come naturally.
Those first crashes began the process of dashing any hopes we’d been harboring regarding staying dry and hypothermia. The cold air kept much, but not all of the snow in a frozen state. We were initially relieved to discover that, other than the physical pain associated with flexing each muscle to its full extent while trying to stop followed by the trauma caused by the inevitable ground impact, once we got back up on our feet each time we were still essentially all in one piece. The snow that entered every crevice of our tightly bundled bodies each time was of no consequence and was easily brushed away, at least until the bits that were somehow trapped within our clothes began to melt. After only a couple of crashes, I was beginning to get noticeably damp and chilled and when I combined that with the physical pounding I was taking, decided that falling and that kind of downhill was not all that fun.
The other two came to the same decision and we decided that the tracks were the issue and that we needed to find a slope devoid of any of those for doing our downhill runs. And so, we proceeded on up the trail now equipped with the new mission of looking for a better place to slide out of control and crash.
We kicked and glided for another quarter of a mile, looking all the while to either side for an untrodden, open and suitably sloped area for some more downhill. Instinctively, a good landing area had also become a prerequisite, although it wasn’t openly mentioned as a point of consideration.
Suddenly, the narrow, tree shrouded roadway that we’d been skiing up came into a humongous meadow and an almost perfect downhill ski embankment appeared just off the road and to our south. At first sight, any apprehensions we were beginning to develop regarding finding the right spot evaporated and we didn’t even hesitate as we worked our way over to its base.
It was about 20 feet tall with a moderate grade and long and open flat area, or run-out, at the bottom. The forest stopped well back from the top, meaning that it stood mostly away from the big trees. There weren’t any visible obstructions along a broad area of its slope, which meant there was plenty of space for maneuvering, or whatever it was that people did, as they slid blissfully downhill. One quick look and we knew it was just the spot we’d been looking for.
Instinctively, we sidestepped our way up and along the side to the top. Once up there, the entire meadow came into view. We could see a tremendous herd of elk almost overwhelming the northern edge, some 500 yards away. Steam rose in sporadic whiffs around the animals, coming from elk bodies warmed by playful bantering or massive exhales. Thin clouds had taken over the sky and a few flurries fell harmlessly and since there no wind to speak of, almost straight down. I marveled at how the scene was getting more perfect all the while.
First, the timing had worked out for the 3 of us to even be there. Jeff had miraculously recovered from his flu, or whatever it was he had. The road had been clear and the driving fast and easy all the way up, as calculated, until the last few miles when just the right amount of snowpack had developed. We’d had the campground all to ourselves and had learned a lot about winter camping in only our first night out and we’d figured out how to cross country ski. And, to top it all off, we were about to do some real downhilling, now that we’d figured out what kind of place we needed for that. It was lightly snowing, a bunch of elk were meandering around off in the distance and undisturbed, and we were warm. It was all going so well, that I began contemplating writing a magazine story about it—sort of a “how to” on winter camping and skiing, I was thinking.
Since I had the least idea about how to ski down the hill, I got in position to go first. Jeff had time to burn until his turn and since he was really intrigued by the sight of the elk, decided to take the opportunity to see if he could ski up into the trees and get a closer look. While I prepared for my run, he simply disappeared into the thickness of the forest.
I was a little surprised by just how long and steep the slope appeared from my vantage point on its upper edge. I looked down at the bottom once again and felt better as I once again noted the wide open and long “slowing down and stopping area” at the bottom. And so, with no further thoughts, I pushed off. I was amazed by how quickly I gained momentum as the slide got underway. There was no time to consider turning or controlling speed. I crouched into a full downhill, Katie bar the door, tucked position with skis pointed straight down toward the bottom. The 20’ downhill was over in seconds as the run-out thankfully took over and brought me to a stop. Somehow, I hadn’t fallen. And, as a bonus result of it all, I’d learned that there was no need to worry about anything with the going downhill on skis other than keep them pointed downhill.
Once I came to my stop, I turned and looked back up to the top, where Barrow was getting into position for his run. “Perfect” was all I needed to say and all he needed to hear.
And then, in another instant, he went over the edge, taking a similar line to mine and using the same technique. He, too, made it to the bottom unscathed. Success and more information for my story, I concluded. I could add a whole box or something about downhill cross country ski technique, I reckoned. I realized that I was really going to have to be aware of the various details of how we were doing it, during our next few runs, if I was going to come off as an expert.
Once at the bottom, the two of us congratulated ourselves on making it down and on how awesome it all was and immediately began heading back up for another go. It took a few minutes to get up there, but there was no hesitation as we got to the top and almost immediately headed back down. The second run was almost even better than the first, since by then we knew what to expect and would waste no time technique trial and error.
Just as we began side-stepping back up for our third descent, Jeff appeared at the top.
We both yelled up at him, “the snow’s good. Just point your skis down and you’ll come to a stop at the bottom. You don’t really have to do anything”.
He didn’t appear to need our encouragement and just seemed to get up to the edge and go over without hesitation. From our new vantage point to the side we were almost startled to see just how fast he got going as he zoomed past. He reached the bottom still upright on his feet and skis and, just as expected, slowed to a stop.
“Wow, that was good”, he said.
And then Barrow asked, “Did you get up close to the elk”?
“Not really”, he answered. “But I skied up on some wolves, I think”.
“Coyotes, probably coyotes”, I was relatively sure in my response.
“No, they were way too big for that”, he confidently responded.
We ended up playing on the hill until we just got too tired to make another climb back up to the top and finally just headed back to camp, skiing and crashing our way back down in way less time than it’d taken for us to get up to the meadow. We spent one more night out winter camping and then decided it was time for phase 2 of the trip which would include staying in a warm house with running water and a chance for me to test out my newly learned downhill techniques at the local downhill ski area.
Other than Jeff getting cutoff from getting to ski up closer to the elk by the pack of coyotes or wolves or whatever it was, we had a great time and learned a lot. All in all, it was an almost perfect trip.