You Win Some, But What About The Losses?

This story is not one that will drive you to dream of big lines in faraway places.

Because I’m a skier, but I’m not that kind of skier.

I own a harness, but besides the one time I rock climbed in the New River Gorge on of all things a work trip, I’ve never really used it. Certainly not for climbing something to then ski. And while I usually feel pretty confident sliding on snow, I’ve been scared shitless countless times looking down a wild mountainside. Not to mention there’s something about a steep snow climb that brings me a certain amount of exposure-induced anxiety. They’re also fun, but Lion of Chamonix, I am not.

I’m this kind of skier: I cut my teeth not climbing but lapping lifts at a ski area; I get out beyond the boundaries, but mostly in the spring when the snowpack settles, and when my dad-bod is sort of in shape from resort tours. That’s when I take to the wilds; half for adventure, half–unavoidably–for misadventure.

Still, this après-focused latecomer to the game has happened upon a few wins in the backcountry. And two seasons ago indeed marked a high point. Highlights of that great backcountry spring included back-to-back Class 3 snow climbs–one up a narrow, precipitous couloir we barely could point our crampons into on ascent, let alone drive a ski edge into descending. The other, a mountain climb and ski that was big, steep, beautifully corned, even philosophical. Every box, checked. 

Except one—the attribute dear to me, whether I like it or not. The aforementioned misadventure.

The following season—last spring—I looked to something bigger, perhaps bolder, and though it resides in the Tetons, it was a mountain I had unknowingly looked at from the time I was a child in Colorado. Its hulking mass was profiled on Firefall’s first LP, a record I had gazed at and listened to countless times, thumbing through my old man’s collection. And I had looked upon its snowfield resembling a frying pan on countless trips up North, usually for a mellow, kid-friendly float on the Snake. It was Mount Moran, and I was going to ski the son of a gun.

At long last, plans were hatched. I would take to the Beast with the older brother of one of my childhood best friends, which, after this trip, would solidify into a friendship in its own right. We met on a balmy spring afternoon, gathered up meat sticks, string cheese, and anything sugary from Whole Foods, then pounded either a late lunch or ungodly early dinner at Sidewinders. Of course, we had one too many happy-hour beers, then settled in before sunrise for, at best, a few hours of sleep.

Colter Bay was our next stop, right on time, 1 a.m. Jackson Lake was wonderfully frozen that April morning, the sky as clear as a planetarium; perfect conditions for a six-mile skate on a cosmic, frozen expanse that felt like the Moon, and we made great time. At the base of the silhouetted megalith, I even worried that we were too early. That was my first funny thought.

Now on the mountain, steps went by in the darkness; blindly over debris and frozen snow, we could barely keep our skinned skis from sliding upon. But along with first-timers’ doubt, every step eventually brought forth thoughts of my kids.

I missed the wild things my three-year-old would conjure; I missed the smile of my daughter, then not quite one year old. Instead of having my eyes on the prize, I mused silently on why I do these sorts of things, especially in the fashion I do. I lamented. I faltered. Indeed, I didn’t have the edge that day.

Soon, slips on kick turns and cramponing in strange snow brought us higher, but still with 2,000 vertical feet left to go. The snow felt weird; my legs were tired, and my distracted mind neglected to realize that everything had, in fact, aligned to make this attempt the attempt. We turned around, me flailing in the telemark fashion on snow that hadn’t softened, tormented from behind by that big, beautiful mountain I had always looked upon fondly.

A few weeks later, another friend and I made our way back North to try again, just a couple naive middle-aged Colorado dudes with a hall pass. Beta seemed good; things seemed to be lining up, but the evening of our attempt was a strangely warm one.

And we found Colter Bay in a new state. With its ice now disintegrated in the spring thaw, the cold, dark water cackled at us as we retreated, having not even put our skis on. We turned around and drove seven hours straight home, arriving in time for a late breakfast. Misadventure: complete.

Never the classic backcountry badass, ever the painfully introspective sort (I write, after all), the ill-fated dances with Moran caused me deep reflection. Had I lost the edge? Did I ever have it to begin with?

I started wondering if this is how I go about these things, maybe I should stay home, stay with those kids and wife I so adore. Yeah, I thought, I’m a lift-served skier, anyway. Why not lean into it?

Instead, the next day I bought a new pair of crampons. Specifically for another go at Mount Moran.

I’m no Lion of Chamonix. My backcountry wins aren’t broadcast by my sponsors on social. They’re so modest I hardly share them at all, but they’re there, perhaps not so grand–and framed by a certain flailing quality–but maybe that’s just part of the beauty of it.

Regardless of not summiting Moran on that first attempt, my ski partner and I found great turns on funky side couloirs. We then drove into town, had a beer, ordered lunch, and while success eluded us that day, atop barstools, a couple of guys tiredly ate wings and wondered about life, just trying to make the most of it all.

In the end, maybe it wasn’t a loss after all. Maybe it was something more complex; another hue on the endless palette of the skiing experience.

Maybe it was just another misadventure.

About The Last Chair Column

This article was written by POWDER writer Jack O’Brien for his bi-weekly ‘Last Chair’ column. Click below to read the previous column, Long Live The Chairlift Chat.

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