Victor, ID to Lost Trails Pass, MT

I love skiing the Tetons. Be warned, this is the part where I indulge myself by waxing philosophical. When I moved to Jackson in 1999 I knew enough about skiing that I could get from the top of the mountain to the bottom in the most ungraceful of manners but in one piece. After my first ski run in the Tetons, Mr. Toads Wild Ride followed by lower Casper Bowl courtesy of cousins Michael and Richard, I realized that if I were to survive my ski time there I would need to actually learn how to ski, not just get down. The time had come to learn the fundamentals that when adapted to the environment allows you to ski anything at anytime. Since skiing well was something I wanted, I spent hours lapping Casper lift without ski poles to work on my turns, skiing on one ski to work on my balance, forcing a turn to the left because, like Zoolander, my natural tendency is to turn to the right, repeating the mantra “Pole-Plant-Turn, Pole-Plant-Turn” ad nauseum while performing the action to work on my pole plants all the while getting passed (and humiliated) by miniature skiers with an average age of 7 years. Many fears were faced, many bruises were sustained, many tears were shed during those years...all were overshadowed by some of my proudest moments when for the first time I found the “sweet spot” on my skis, made a perfect turn then made several and linked them, landed a kicker. Each time I come back to Jackson Hole, and each time I put on my skis for that matter, it is a tangible way for me to see where I have been and to see where I am now which gives me clarity to know where it is I am going. The clarity comes from the knowledge that if you work hard at something you will get better, that it is the journey that holds the lessons not the reaching of an end point, that when you reach a level look up, because there are always more levels to go. Skiing well is that unattainable goal that keeps me coming back to feel proud, to feel humbled and to feel happiness. Skiing the Tetons is so much more to me then just the feeling of floating down a mountainside on bottomless powder…..although that feeling alone would keep me going back. It has enriched my life in unexpected ways. I wish “ski clarity” to everyone in their own form. And my gratitude to the Tetons for the opportunity to experience them in my own way, on my own time. I couldn't have asked for a better classroom.

Given that it had snowed three feet while we were in Victor, ID, we literally unburied ourselves to begin the trip to Lost Trails Pass, MT. Since we wanted to take the path of least resistance, we took a Montana state highway that winded through Big Hole Valley which is a complete throw back to the days of ranching when cowboys ruled the land and the simple life was a higher philosophy, not a reality show starring Paris Hilton. As usual we left later then we had wanted but somehow this always guarantees us the most beautiful sunset drives with this trip being no different. After Ryan filled up on Montana beef in Wisdom, we arrived at Lost Trails Powder Mountain just in time to completely freak out the two ski patrollers who were preparing their gear to spend the night in the patrol shack. Once they were comfortable that we weren't meth heads or eco terrorists, we found our home for the next few days in the NE corner of the parking area. No electricity, no running water, no charge and no worries.

Lost Trails is a throwback to the old days of skiing much like the valley it sits above. We came to discover Lost Trails when a friend emailed an article from The Oregonian highlighting what we respectfully refer to as "dirtball ski areas." I say "respectfully" because we are the dirtballs I refer to and this is just the kind of place we love to ski. Places where the price of a lift ticket costs less then a case of beer, the locals happily share their powder stash information, the parking lots are gravel, the lifts run on diesel and the ticket lady is an 80 year old local who has been doing her job since Roosevelt was in office which secures her a prominent place on their website as the "featured local." The kind of place where the soul of skiing is palpable. Put it this way, I called ahead of time to find out if they would have the Superbowl playing in the lodge on Sunday, a question that was promptly followed by a thump and fits of laughter. After the woman who answered the phone picked herself up off the ground, she explained that they are off the grid with a radio phone being their only form of outside access and that the nearest "next thing" was a 45 minute drive in any direction. The only thing they have going on at Lost Trails Mountain Pass besides the people is the skiing!

Perhaps the greatest trait of these dirtball ski areas are their one up passes. One up passes buy you one ride up the lift with open access to the backcountry. It usually gets you up the first 1000 or more feet so one can save that energy to venture further and farther out into the backcountry to get the goods. Given it was Sunday and the lifts were running, many dirtball ski areas are open only Thursday through Sunday, we utilized the one up pass to get us to the top of Saddle Mountain. After checking in with ski patrol Bill, we skied off the backside onto a west ridge to ski a north facing slope. Our snow pit results were less then favorable for steep skiing but lucky for us we were poised atop a perfect 30 degree, treed slope that had been blanketed the week before with fresh Montana, powder snow. It was an amazing, goosebump inducing ride down that quickly became a test of our willpower given that the valley we were skiing into did not have an exit. The untracked snow beckoned us to make "just one more turn" leading us lower and lower into the valley while a little voice reminded us that whatever we skied down, we would have to climb back up to make it home. Our subconsciousness finally caught up with us when we were faced with a 1800 foot climb back out only half of which had an established skin track. Given the quality of turns it was worth every bit of pain. Besides, as my godson Sean could tell you, pain is weakness leaving the body.

After earning our turns and our Old fashions, we were able to watch the Superbowl in the comfort of our own trailer which was a stroke of luck with a dash of genius courtesy of Ryan. He had bought some Eye TV computer thingy before we left Portland and boy did it earn it's place in the trailer and our hearts that night. We had no internet connection, barely got a cell signal but the one station that came in clear as a bell was NBC. It was a Superbowl miracle! While the game was exciting and eventful, the highlight was watching Bruce Springstreet and the E street Band do their thing. I imagine that if I had one tenth the amount of energy of Bruce Springsteen I'd have lapped our ski route several times today! That Patty Scialfa is a lucky lady. Between the Old fashions, the entertainment and the Steelers win, the night was a success.

The next day the lifts weren't operating so we would have to skin up to do any skiing. While we were climbing, our minds wandered to just how good we had it the day before when a cozy chairlift carried our lazy selves up the 1200 foot climb that we were now embarking on under our own power. Aaah, modern technology. We again made our way out to the west ridge to ski a beautiful north facing slope. A local ptarmigan apparently hadn't gotten the memo that we would be skiing that day. As I lead the way down the slope and out of Ryans field of vision, I skied around a corner unknowingly disrupting it's nesting spot which caused the bird to fly away. Of course this took me by surprise causing me to involuntarily scream. Needless to say Ryan was not pleased with either us as he had thought the worst when he heard my scream from below. After a few laughs and pictures of the ptarmigan (I don't know who was more traumatized the bird, Ryan or myself), we continued our ski down the deep, light snow until the voice in our heads returned, reminding us of the impending climb out.

We would have loved to stay on a few more days as there was plenty more skiing to be done but, alas, beauty called. We headed out in the morning for a very needed day of beauty in Hamilton, MT. As we pulled away with our souls revitalized, we made a quiet promise to return to Lost Trails Pass someday, the ski area that time forgot. The ski area where airs and attitudes are checked at the door.

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