As the plane touched down on the Alaska Range dropping me and five friends off for a seven-day expedition, I thought back to my youth, religiously rewatching my heroes ripping through Alaska’s steep slopes on VHS.
Every ski movie had an Alaska segment, showing off its jaw-dropping drip of unbelievable mountains, remarkable skiing terrain, enchanting glaciers, northern lights, bald eagles, and even whales. Alaska was obviously the place to ski, and no range more embodies that allure than the Alaska Range.
The Alaska Range is on the map as a pinnacle for skiers and mountaineers to pursue challenging objectives like the enormous rock walls of the Ruth Gorge or summiting Hunter, Foraker and of course, “The Great One,” Denali.
We set out on this late-April trip with the goal of not simply surviving, but thriving. We brought real food and set up a kitchen with seating for six. From there, we could safely explore the surroundings and expand our glacier knowledge and plan out future ski trips. And if the weather turned, we could comfortably wait out the storm.
Weather impacts every aspect of a fly-in glacier ski trip, including if you’ll be airborne on the day you intend, or find yourself stuck in Talkeetna refreshing the weather forecast over another beer at the brewery.
Leaning on the expertise of two friends who had embarked on several Alaska Range trips previously, I came to learn there is a tradition to better your odds: put in your time at the Fairview Inn the night before. Not one to mess with tradition, me and my crew found ourselves belly up to the bar mere moments after staging our gear in the hanger.
We paid our respects to the Mountain Gods through ample drinks, dances fueled by the local band, and some humbling foosball matches. The next morning, we were airborne in a De Havilland Otter, cursing a late night.
The trip was a hit before we even touched down. We flew through the Alaska Range, rendered slack-jawed by the stunning granite peaks.
A remote glacier in a sea of potential hidden hazards will dwarf you in the surroundings. Even to a life-long skier adept in the backcountry, I feel appropriately insignificant as nerves across my body tingle with vigilance. This is a new level of backcountry, the one we were in search of.
We quickly pulled our gear from the plane and started setting up on a sheet of ice in Denali National Park.
We needed to build a basecamp that would be our home for the next week, and it had to be strong enough to protect us during bouts of stormy weather. As a kid who grew up crafting quinzhees and forts, the challenge was quickly accepted and no corners were cut. With camp complete and dwindling daylight, we set out for the first turns of the trip on a nearby chute doused in evening sun.
Gaining elevation, our perspective gradually changed: The Alaska Range continued to grow around us and we welcomed the Broken Tooth as it interrupted the backdrop in snaggled splendor. With the first day in the books, we donned our parkas and retired to the cook tent with smiles and a sense of satisfaction that would hold strong for the rest of the trip.
Camp life came with ease. We’d slowly start the day with coffee and books before gearing up for a late-morning ski. In the afternoon, we focused on glacial travel and crevasse rescue while luxuriating in a steady stream of snacks. In addition to the skiing, the days were fueled by belly laughs and sunsets that turned the nearby peaks purple. Memories of goofing around in the cook tent matched the thrill of the best runs.
Camp was quiet on the final morning of the trip. No one was ready to go home, but in Denali you’re faced with short weather windows. There was a wishful discussion of riding out the incoming snow storm, but the pilot was inbound, so we caught a sunburn on the landing strip as we waited for our ride, which pulled us out two days earlier than we’d planned for. Looking up from my book, I tried to memorize the peaks, ridges, and glaciers surrounding us. Immersed in endless, complex terrain, it was an overwhelming prospect. In the end I was left with only impressions, but they will last a lifetime.
This trip didn’t magically happen. It was made possible over a year of scheming by two friends eager to share their skills to help grow the collective knowledge among friends so that we can return for future trips and play atop ancient ice together. In the end, the lone complaint was an overburdening quantity of alfredo on night one, and with that in mind, I’d say our friends set us up for success.
