Matt and I escaped our misadventures in the Coast Range and drove north to our rendezvous with a small but hardcore enclave of the McGill University Outing Club Alumni.  The landscape along the drive is bleak at best owing to a cataclysmic torrent which swept through here at the end of the last ice age with the melting of a glacial dam, scouring eastern Washington of it's topsoil to help create a desert and exiting to the Pacific via the Columbia Gorge.  The small settlements which punctuate the barren landscape are mostly of mining origin and do little to add culture or even a pastoral sense of well being.  A road sign invites the traveler to tune to a radio station which in turn details the areas "tourist attractions" in a tone which all but openly pleads with passing urbanites to stop and spend money; continually asserting the area is famous for it's fresh air, but the fresh air in this region blows in from somewhere else and leaves just as quickly.

We reached the town of Valemount after dark and slept in the truck at the trailhead.  The next morning we eventually hook up with Phil and some of the crew.  To get to the cabin involves seven miles of logging road and then maybe 3,000 vertical feet of skin track.  The road is best navigated by getting a tow from a snowmobile.  Just then two local boys drive up on snowmobiles and hand Matt and myself cans of beer and offer to take us to the skin track leading to the cabin.  Phil will follow driving a snowmobile belonging to our group.  The next thing I know I'm sitting on the back of a snowmobile with a full pack on and skis sticking up.  I'm top heavy, hanging on for dear life, and doing about 50 mph.
 

The Other Phil

Evidently our friendly yahoos decided to take a shortcut, but a.) didn't tell Phil and b.) took off like gangbusters.  Phil actually needs to take the other route to park his 'bile at a pre specified location.  By the time he catches up to us Phil looks like he's ready to kill someone.  Screaming his head off and gesticulating wildly he curses out the two locals at length.  I've known Phil for a little while and I've never seen anything like this.  I try to imagine what it would be like if Phil were this angry at me, and how complete the feeling would be that I had failed as a human being.

Phil rides off to take the other route and the two snowmobilers (named Matt and Craig oddly enough) proceed to tow Matt and me (Greg) down a winding trail over brushy landscape.  The task of holding on to the rope demands lightning fast reflexes as we ski between, over, and straight through small trees.  Eventually the trail is too steep for towing skiers and the 'bilers leave us to our own devices to reach the cabin.  As the sun looms low we reach the cabin.

That evening there are 11 of us in a cabin measuring about 15 feet by 10 feet.  Amos and gang treat us to smoked salmon burritos and we wrestled with a wood stove that hates fire.  The next morning the skiing awaited.
 

It was a really nice day.
 

The scenery left nothing to be desired.
 

A really big avalanche happened here.  The fracture line is about 2 feet deep.

While the snow above the cabin made for good skiing the avalanche conditions were a serious concern.  The shallow snowpack and cold temperatures created a condition known as "depth hoar".  Basically because the earth retains heat while the air becomes cold, the snow at the bottom of the snowpack is warmer than the snow near the surface.  Consequently water molecules tends to evaporate off snow crystals near the bottom and condense onto crystals near the top.  The effect is greatest when the snowpack is shallow because the temperature gradient is larger (i.e. degrees Celsius per meter of snow).  The resulting snow crystals are highly faceted and poorly bonded, like the sugary snow you can't make into snowballs if you try.  Unlike the slab avalanches that remove a top layer of snow, depth hoar avalanche slide right down to the underlying rock and grass, as seen above.

Members of our party who had arrived earlier witnessed some natural slides and even set off a couple themselves, as well as noticing considerable "whomping" noises.  We knew we would need to stay off the steep open slopes, sticking to the relative safety off ridge lines and tree skiing.
 

Amos ripping.
 

Phil ripping.
 

Mike ripping.
 

Mt. Robson
 

Matt sipping some tea from his beloved thermos as another day draws to a close.
 

The skiing was great.  Then it was back to the cabin for another excellent dinner (we took turns cooking in teams).  Before retiring for the night it was back into our boots for one more moonlit run.  We skinned up about 45 minutes from the cabin and enjoyed one long run back through gentle glades skiing by headlamp.
 

Heading out for more skiing the next day.
 
 

New Years Eve.
 
 

Here's another picture of Amos.  He's digging a snowpit on day 1.  Amos' dad emailed me wanting to see more pictures of Amos.  Unfortunately all I had was a shot of the back of his head - and yet I think this picture shows just what a fine young man Amos has grown up to be: kind, generous, diligent, industrious, respectful and cleanly.  ;-)
 

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