Goldpan Ski

12/14/24

Generally December is the start to most winters across the northern hemisphere, but this year in Alaska it was the death of our winter. After an incredible October and November with lots of snow up high in the Chugach and Kenai mountains, warmer temps and persistent rain began to come down as December came around. Luckily, the rain stopped at around 1,500 feet meaning the storms continued to fill the mountains in. Luckily, a break in the weather allowed for a group of us to go take a look at just how well the mountains were filling in.

Mitch and I loaded up in a car together in Anchorage and took the familiar drive to Girdwood where we met up with Raven and Jordan. Together, we all headed into Turnagain Pass where we parked at the Bertha lot. A few weeks prior, I skied PMS bowl via the Bertha lot so I felt prepared for whatever bushwhack the creek threw at us. Luckily, the path up the creek felt easier than the last time, and a short walk with our skis on our backs soon led us to skinable snow. As we left the trees and headed upwards, the snow began to build. This was becoming a trend for the season, walking on dirt, then ice, then bottomless powder. 

As we approached the base of Cornbiscuit, we contoured around to enter the Bertha valley that would provide us easy access into Goldpan. Moving up valley, we watched the snow slowly stack higher and higher on top of itself, leaving us frothing for some skiing. The long walk in come-and-go lighting eventually got us to the moraine hill at the base of Goldpan. 

From here we strapped our verts on and climbed a steep panel that led us to the rib separating the main Goldpan bowl from the bowl off of Pastoral (if someone has a name for this bowl, please let me know). Upon reaching the rib, we continued our way up the spine-like feature until I heard and felt a whumpf come from under my feet. I pulled over and dug a quick pit where I found propagating results on an isolated layer of buried surface hoar. With this in mind, we transitioned and elected to avoid anything that seemed protected from wind, assuming that the strong winds that had come through before the snow had blown off all the surface hoar. I chose to ski the rib and follow our bootpack back down to the moraine, the other three chose to enjoy a wide open face in the bowl.

We sat at the top of our lines for a couple minutes waiting for a good lighting window, but it seemed that the good light might have been behind us. With a marginal window of light open, I began down my line. All it took was one turn for my cheeks to begin hurting from how big my smile was. Each turn provided incredible float with a layer of blower snow on top, exactly what us skiers spend our days searching for. I giggled my way down my line, but when it was time to ski the steep panel above the moraine, I realized all my light was gone and I could not see any contrast in the snow. I did my best to link my turns, but in reality I was not skiing it pretty. At one point, I felt myself drop and heard the horrendous sound of my edges scraping against rocks; I found a small cliff that had just enough snow to hide it but not enough to ride it, but remained on my feet at the bottom. After this experience, I warned the others of how flat the light was, but they all remained steadfast in their decision to ski the bowl.

One by one, I watched my partners do their best to find the fall line as they skied with zero contrast. I could tell they were struggling to tell which way was up and which was down, but regardless they each met me with a stoke tank filled to the brim. Sometimes good snow is enough to counter any frustrations from flat light, and I think their faces settled the debate of good snow vs. good light in my mind (I didn’t move out of Colorado for more blue days). 

Upon regrouping, we all agreed that our window to ski might be behind us, so with just the one lap, we kept our skis in downhill mode and began traversing the south face of cornbiscuit so we could reach the road without another transition. A few alder schwacks and variable snow moments led us to the creek that we had started the day on. We dropped our skis and walked the last few minutes to the car.

By the end of the day we were all surprisingly worked for one lap of skiing, and I had to admit the schwacking and wallowing had worn me out. To reach the car both satisfied and tired is the goal of most days, so I was grateful to have shared another great day with close friends.