Success Is Relative.
From ISSUE 105 2023
Words & Images Nick Pascoe.
Some ideas have a way of swirling around in your mind until they become dreams. Ours began with the modern day version of the cliché old mountaineering photo on the wall— a screensaver on our phones. It’s actually also a line in a book, which, in 2018, was out of print and out of mind. But now, thanks to The Fifty video series, it’s the hottest thing in skiing.
The image was University Peak. Tucked into an out-of-the-way corner of Alaska, it’s home to one of the largest and scariest ski lines in the world. Kids can dream, right?
Covid and US visa issues threw us curveballs, but four years later we were finally moving. The crew comprised myself and American mates Tashi Hackett and Alec Getzloff. Contagious optimism led us to agree it was a great idea to drive from Salt Lake City to Alaska—a simple journey of 5000km, or five times the length of the South Island.
"how much guru arse the Wrangell St Elias mountains had kicked, and the dangers of our youthful enthusiasm."
We had passport problems, yet more brushes with Covid, but somehow no vehicle break- downs, and made it safely to McCarthy to meet up with pilot, Paul Claus. He gave us the scheduled dressing-down about how much guru arse the Wrangell St Elias mountains had kicked, and the dangers of our youthful enthusiasm.
I say that with all respect; Paul’s an Alaskan legend and by far the most experienced person in those ranges. He was also very correct. We flew past the sparkling blue ice of University Peak’s south face and promptly moved to plan B.
“Contagious optimism led us to agree it was a great idea to drive from Salt Lake City to Alaska—a simple journey of 5000km, or five times the length of the South Island.”
Plan B had us dropped in an arm of the Barnard Glacier. By Paul’s recollection we were the fourth, fifth, and sixth people to ever head in there, and it looked like a paradise for skiing.
We haggled about where to set up our base camp— a serious debate when three of you will be tightly snuggled into a tent for 10 days—then we went skiing. Which was when we learnt our first lesson: in Alaska everything is further away than you think it is. Turns out it’s also steeper, gnarlier, and scarier, but we had to learn that the hard way.
On our first full day on the glacier we attempted to ski the valley’s headwall, a stunning line that looked a lot more friendly than the spines of the surrounding cirques. Our ‘friendly’ proved to still be 45 degrees and icy. So the lesson-learning continued and we retreated to The Bunny Hills.
The Bunny Hills were the sub peaks behind our camp, named because they were only 500m and 40 degrees, not 2,000m and 60 degrees. They held awesome skiing and the best lines of our trip, but the name was a humbling reminder of the untouchable peaks behind them.
The days rolled over, and we fell into a familiar routine. Wake up to good weather, go skiing, eat, and sleep again. It was simple living. We continued learning. Another attempt was made on the valley headwall, and this time we got three-quarters of the way up before being humbled by rapid warming and 55-degree turns.
We then made it 200m up a beautiful couloir before a loud whooshing sound struck a resounding fear of rock and icefall into us, and we made very rapid turns back down to safety. In between, we skied smaller lines all around the valley, arcing turns in perfect corn in front of huge spires of ice and rock. We had fun.
"arcing turns in perfect corn in front of huge spires of ice and rock."
After six days of constant skiing we were treated to a rest day. A blizzard howled outside, and we were content with ramen bombs and whiskey teas. It was only interrupted by two very lost finches, Jeffy and Jenny, who decided our kitchen tent was a welcome respite from the storm. It was all very friendly until they pooed through our kitchen, but we managed to take the moral high ground and forgive our feathered friends.
The next day dawned with clear skies, no wind, a foot of perfect blower snow, and three very excited boys. It was stable, evenly-loaded powder, and the skiing lived up to the hype. We went until we all hit the exhaustion wall, and even that couldn’t wipe the smiles off our faces.
The consistent weather lulled us into a routine. We attempted a third round on the headwall and accomplished a new record for how early we bailed. The sun was baking and with no wind at all. For three guys wandering around on the glacier, it was like being in an oven. Tashi hid from the sun under his pack, and I just suffered and sweated; it was by far the hottest I have ever been.
Turning tail we chose another new variation in The Bunny Hills and headed for home. In what seemed like a very rapid sequence of events, Tashi began retching, I was desperately trying to avoid pooing myself, and Alec was completely fine, but laughing so hard he was crying. We’d visited one of the largest ice caps in the world only to get heatstroke for the first time ever. Chalk that up as another lesson.
Unfortunately, it had to come to an end. We packed up camp and waited for the ski plane to roar up the valley. Paul greeted us with an admonishment for not being at the precise GPS position we were dropped at, before whisking us into the air.
The tone quickly changed, though—we all had smiles on our faces and Paul wanted to know why. Apparently smiles were uncommon, and so was the lack of an early pick-up. We explained that we bailed a lot, didn’t ski the biggest peaks, had no epics, and didn’t even get dropped at our original objective. But we’d skied nine out of 10 days, everyone was healthy, and we’d experienced some of the best turns of our lives. Success was relative, and all of a sudden it seemed we’d be welcome back to the Wrangell St Elias another time.
