It was late spring in
the Cabinet Mountains and three of us
were standing below the
Leigh Lake cirque like little ants stranded
at the bottom of an enormous, frozen
toilet bowl. The only thought I could
pull from my mind was, "My god,
what has Paul got us into?"
Bill and I squirmed around in our ski boots, speechless from the great white
maw rising above, and waited patiently for someone to say something.
"Gee," Paul said, a distinct uneasiness in his voice, "good thing
we brought those avalanche beacons, eh?" I looked to Bill, who in turn looked
to me, and together we turned toward Paul.
Two years earlier, I had been standing with Paul on the top of Schweitzer Mountain,
looking east. Mounding up through the horizon like writers' debt was a hulking
black mass of sedimentary rock. "The Snowshoe massif," he announced, "highest
peaks in the Cabinets." Being an avid ski mountaineer, my eyes widened with
curiosity. Paul proceeded to describe a "classic" snow gully that lay
just to the east, in a place he called the Leigh Lake cirque. "Supposed
to be the longest continuous snow gully in the Cabinets," he said. "The
locals call it Bockman couloir. But I've never met anyone who's actually skied
it." My eyes were bulging at this point.
Back at the Leigh Lake cirque - having driven up from Sandpoint that morning,
using a chain saw to make our way through deadfall along Forest Service Road
No. 4786 and bushwhacking for two hours up to the lake - I was beginning to feel
uneasy for having come. Rising above us was 3,000 vertical feet of snow and rock.
The Bockman couloir snaked its way up from the frozen shores of Leigh Lake and
disappeared out of sight over a high horizon.
We had carried in with us one tent, our skis, a satchel of Top Ramen noodles,
and a simple plan: Wake before dawn, slog up the gully, then ski back down to
the lake unscathed.
Four a.m. arrived dark and swiftly. Paul rolled over and jiggled me into consciousness.
Bill was already up brewing coffee. Two hours later, we were deep into the gut
of the couloir, battling up steep snow, straining to keep our motivation in line
with the grandness of the objective at hand. Above us lay a strip of snow, flanked
by granite and wearing a crown of serrated summits: Snowshoe Peak, A Peak and
Bockman Peak, the three highest points in the range, backbone to the Snowshoe
massif.
As the sun crested a high ridge, we heard the day's first rumble. Out across
the open bowl, a white puff appeared, followed by a commotion of falling debris.
A boulder dislodged and cartwheeled toward the lake; ice chunks followed; a funnel
of snow poured down the steep mountain walls like a dragon taking flight. The
sound of busted ice rang out like fireworks. We paused for a moment, none of
us wanting to admit that what happened over there could just as easily happen
over here.
The gully continued to rise, and we continued to follow. After gaining the summit
ridge, the angle of the landscape eased and the rounded bosom of Bockman Peak
appeared to the east. Pushing higher, we saw long views of the Cabinet Range
rolling out beneath us.
The summit of Bockman Peak was a windswept plateau of ice and rock. The entire
earth seemed to drop away into the void created by Leigh Lake - now a tiny white
sphere, a discarded Frisbee laying at our feet.
There was little time to celebrate. The snow was getting fidgety from the ferocious
sun. Another hour and we'd be watching avalanches cascade down beneath us.
We stepped into our skis, adjusted our packs and shot off into the unknown. A
thousand feet of skiing came and went in a blur of snow and sunshine. We stopped
at the edge of the gully to let our breath catch up with us. Everyone was weighted
under heavy smiles. Below us, the gully narrowed into a sliver.
Bill dropped in, his turns perfectly in tune with the fall line. Paul and I followed
close behind. Another thousand feet quickly passed, and I peeled out left and
overtook my comrades. I made long, arching turns I hoped would never end.
Less than 10 minutes later, however, I stopped just shy of the lake. Paul and
Bill flowed down the final feet like wind, their skis pushing against the heavy
snowpack. I craned back my head and howled the news of victory into the sunlight,
then moved in for a round of high fives.
As we stood there, arms tangled in congratulations, mouths agape with success,
another distant crunch echoed out over the cirque. A flurry of white spun down
from the high loft of Snowshoe Peak, covering the walls in a wash of late-spring
patina.
But we were past its reach, beyond those cold, burrowing hands. And our gully
- the nemesis - had been left behind in a swirl of slushy ski tracks. I looked
to Bill, who in turned looked to me, and together we turned toward Paul. Avalanches
be damned, Bockman was in the bag. |
