Matt Hanrahan has been traveling around the West in his van. So far, he's explored Washington, Idaho, Montana, Utah and is currently in Colorado. Despite flaky partners and multiple mechanical issues with the van, he made it over the continental divide and even found a spot in the Rockies for a few ski turns! Keep up with all of the Dirtbag Adventures here.
A year ago today I was in Squamish, B.C., sitting on the tailgate of my pickup and lacing up my shoes for a short hike high above town. It was sunny, 70 degrees, and skies were the same deep blue they'd been for days. Just as I was ready to take off to start hiking, a late 90's work van pulled into the space next to me.
In the span of about 30 seconds the driver had popped out, grabbed a backpack, pulled his skis out and strapped it all to his back. I looked around and saw nothing but a dusty parking lot and dead pine needles on the ground, so I had to ask.
"Going skiing?" - I'm a master conversationalist.
"I ski once a month, no matter what. Have for the last three years." I was intrigued, and we chatted for another minute or two.
The last two summer's he'd been in Chile (their winter) so it'd been easy, but in British Columbia he was sure he'd find a few good corn tours each month. I wished him luck, and he started off ahead of me. Thirty minutes and a mile later I was stomping next to his ski tracks, with beautiful snow all around. I was inspired.
I didn't make a hard plan to ski every month, but I did go out for an early trip skinning up through Timberline on Halloween just to say I skied in October. And today, at the end of June, I made it ten months straight of at least one day skiing. Maybe I'll make it through the next few dry months, maybe not, but today I was happy for a little extra excuse to pursue an out-of-season adventure.
I woke up in my van and drove to Rocky Mountain National Park this morning. There was a beautiful sunrise, epic peaks in the distance, and elk with the biggest antlers I've ever seen play-fighting no more than forty feet from me. Yet my eyes kept wandering to the snowfields above the main road, hoping to find a skiable line that didn't require crossing sensitive tundra fields.
A friendly ranger pointed me in the right direction, on the east side of the park, near Ute Crossing. It was obvious no one had been skiing there for a while, but due to the stable weather a few tracks were visible-they just crossed about five gaps in the current snowfield.
The skin up was short but messy; the isothermic summer snow gave way in the first inch, but was slick underneath. The whole run was maybe 300 vertical feet, with substantial traversing, but totally worth it. At the bottom, I was grinning ear to ear. I took two more laps opting to kick steps rather than deal with the transition and slippery top layer of snow. By the last run I had the line dialed and was feeling great-except for the burning spots where I'd skimped on sunscreen.
After finding my way back through the dry section of the forest below the snowfield and breaking through a weakened section of snow into a frigid stream, I popped out on the road near where I'd parked my van. It was after 1pm and a handful of other travelers had pulled out in the same place.
"Going skiing?" Someone asked with a thick Tennessee accent. I smiled.
We chatted for a few minutes. I told him about Oregon, he and his friend told me about Tennessee. It sounded beautiful, and I left that interaction inspired to go see Appalachia for myself. It turns out there's always something new to get inspired about.
Read all of the Dirtbag Adventures!
