Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/26434
From time to time people vanish in the far north, never to be seen again. They fall through ice-covered lakes, sink to the bottom and slowly disap pear under glacial silt. Their planes mysteriously crash in remote areas and only the wreckage is found. They get lost hiking in a low cloud cover, survive on berries for a while, then get eaten by bears. Or they ski into a crevasse to be preserved deep within the blue ice for future culture to study and contemplate the reasons why humans would take such chances "glissading" down such steep and dangerous mountains. We know why. And we went to Alaska to take this chance. We were a small but eclectic group of snow sliders, each of dif ferent inclination: Travis Anderson, a new-wave alpine skier armed with a loaded camera and a credit card; Jeff Lee, the telemarker who coined the credo, "Free your heel, and your mind will follow'" and myself, a snow boarder. Brought together by our passion for the c cp and our desire to make fresh tracks, we embarked on the trip with the idea that the trip would take us. We had three groups of mountains in mind: the Chugach Mountains, which run along the south coast of Alaska, where you go by helicopter for those huge, sickly steep lines usually only seen in the movies; the Talkeetna Mountains, slightly north of the Chugach, where we were hoping to find some snowcat action and good bluegrass; and the mountains of the southern Kenai Peninsula, which are so remote that we would have to go in on foot. This part of our trip would take us far away from helicopters, snowcats, guided backcountry tours and resort life. The Kenai was to be the soul of our adventure. Just before the spring equinox in March, we drove north out of Anchorage on the Glenn Highway, heading for the Motherlode Lodge in the Talkeetna Mountains. Our preconceived ideas about Alaska bounced around the Jeep as we crossed over narrow underpasses specifically used for moose travel. We knew Alaska to be a state that takes the weak, chews them up and spits them south-a state that lacks law and a ski patrol. The average Alaskan ski run puts a double black diamond back home to shame, and has more helicopters than chairlifts. The Glenn Highway starts out as four lanes then gets progres sively narrower. We drove across the Eklutna Flats, an area that apparent ly dropped a number of feet in elevation during the 1964 earthquake. Skeletal remnants of once-healthy trees stood scattered across the salty wet land. The Chugach Range made a sensational introduction on our right, then took off on its journey across southern Alaska. The craggy Talkeetna Mountains skyed out to the northwest. Our jeep was like a mouse crossing the living room of a mansion. Continuing across the Matanuska Valley, a huge loess deposit where strawberries grow as big as blueberry muffins, we exited the Glenn Highway just past the town of Palmer and followed the Little Susitna River up a windy dirt road that eventually leads to Hatcher Pass. Hatcher Pass has been a destination for snow sliders since the late 1930s when miners would ski the pass from work to town. But when the mine went dry, they became the first ski bums in Hatcher's history. Motherlode Lodge is surrounded by jagged, snow-covered peaks; our heart rates climbed as our eyes scanned the mountains and danced down pos sible ski routes. I n southern Alaska, storms come off the ocean and sweep across the mountains dumping feet upon feet of wet snow. This maritime snow sticks to every mountain face imaginable-regard less of how steep. But that first day we found an upside-down snow pack: dense, consol idated snow over airy, less-consol idated snow. This is a key element in avalanches and we were reminded that nature is neither predictable nor consistent. From Hatcher Pass, we hiked to the summit of Government Peak along a ridge line of intricately carved snow and exposed earth. The neighboring Alaska Range began to come into view. Lenticular clouds like stacked space saucers piled up above Mt McKinley, the highest mountain in North America, nearly touch ing the stratosphere. The size of this one mountain dwarfs entire ranges in the lower 48, making it obvious why mountain lovers of all types are drawn here. We paused in awe to admire McKinley's grandeur. End less jagged peaks stretched out to the northeast, speckled lake land meandered to the southwest and a completely untouched bowl lay below us. We drew from our packs our respective weapons for big, high-speed turns and attached them to our feet. We covered our eyes with orange-tinted goggles that gave us fighter-pilot vision. We tightened every strap and cord until we felt like we were wearing heavy armor. Then, one by one, we dropped over the edge and fell into formation, turning and yelling until we ran into the alder trees that coat the lower part of a mountain in thick groves and literally stopped us in our tracks. It was here that we learned our first lesson in Alaska backcountry navigation: pick a route of least resistance from above or as you go up, and stick with it. otherwise, the bushes wi II trap 32