Cheating death on the slopes of the Absarokas

GETTING PSYCHED: Trevor Brasfield prepares to descend Angle Mountain. / Photos courtesy of Trevor Brasfield

Luckily, none of the emotions or premonitions came true. Nearly the opposite, as this day became one of the highlights of my life. As I was perched atop Angle Mountain with the view of the Teton's, the Gros Ventre's and the Wind River's all around me, I turned my attention down the steep slope with an uninterrupted line of fresh powder. I exited the safety of the flat-topped mountain and began racing peacefully down the deep, fluffy powder. The worries of the world floated heavenward as a smile crept across my face … and a shriek of ecstasy bellowed out of my lungs. I was finally backcountry skiing and I was enjoying every second of it.

My brother, Jeremy, works at the lodge where this ski journey began. It is in the Absaroka Mountains at the top of the pass between Alpine Junction and Dubois Wyoming. This resort mainly caters to the snowmobiling crowd, yet four years ago they opened their doors with an agreement with the United States Forest Service to run a full-time snowcat operation. This operation is the only snowcat skiing operation in the Jackson, Wyoming area and it is sponsored by several outdoor companies, such as Smith Optics, Cloudveil, and most importantly BCA or better know as Backcountry Access. The reason for this pairing is that BCA manufacturers ski shovels and avalanche beacons.

My dad, Fred, had been planning this trip for months in advance, sending out numerous emails to coworkers and friends trying to drum up some interest in this trip. If you can get 10 skiers to book the cat then you can have the cat and, most importantly, the mountain to yourself. Much more preferred over sharing this experience with complete strangers. Unfortunately, we did not book 10 friends. This was not for lack of trying on my father's part; there just was not enough interest from his friends. Those who did sign up were true, diehard skiers. Among our numbers we had a local teacher and a married couple from Long Island, New York, my dad's buddies, and I successfully twisted the arm of my best friend Tom to come, which actually took very little twisting. So we all met up in Jackson the day before the big snowcat trip, and of course we convened at the Million Dollar Cowboy bar for some cocktails and conversation. I felt as if these cocktails could possible be our last, so I tried beer and whiskey - just to round out the spectrum.

The big day came, and the intrepid crew of newly bonded buddies arose before 6 a.m. and piled into trucks for the journey up to Togwotee. Once we arrived at the lodge the audible sound of snowmobiles filled the tiny valley surrounding the lodge, and many snowmobilers milled about the lodge smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee also waiting for their tour group to start. We picked up our gear and headed into the lodge for a quick greasy breakfast before our safety briefing - not minding the scowls from the obvious jealous "slednecks" as Jeremy calls them. Obviously we looked out of place with our ski attire, and we did not have full-face helmets or bright neon one pieces like all the snowmobilers had.

During our safety briefing the realization of how extreme this vacation was going to be finally hit home. The guides, Jamie and Brenden (aka "Shovler") passed out avalanche beacons and warned us of the dangers on the mountain, along with the quick safety tips of what we should do "in case" there was an avalanche. I took a quick look around the room at my fellow snow warriors and the looks went from extremely happy to somber. We now understood that this is far different from the normal resort skiing we are all accustomed too.

Once all the pleasantries of the safety briefing were put aside and fear was instilled into all of us, we went outside to board our big yellow chariot. The diesel engine on the snowcat was already humming as we got outside and our gear was all neatly tucked into the back as we climbed inside. The snowcat started to amble up Angle Mountain slowly but surely, meandering around the mountain on its already groomed trails for the twenty-five minute ride to the top. Once we got to the summit we could see 360 degrees of cloudless sky and the views were spectacular. For the first time, I could finally look down upon the Teton's, and in all four directions there was nothing but amazing views of the Wyoming wilderness. We strapped into our skis and off we went one by one down the unimaginable terrain of pines, open bowls of powder - through trees, and down chutes. Terrain I had never done before in my life whooshed by the tips of my skis, and the powder was left to float to the sky as I knifed through some of the best snow I have ever skied.

Now one thing that was playing in the back of my mind leading up to the trip was questioning how good the snow could be in early March. Well, as luck would have it, the previous week pounded Angle Mountain with winter storms, and what we encountered was excellent powder for us to ski.

As a group we would watch our guides ski down one at a time to ensure the mountain and the line we would ski would be safe. Once all of us novice backcountry skiers made it down the required section, the plan was that the second guide would come swoop up any of us stragglers and deliver us to the stopping point. Luckily, we never had any stragglers. We all skied amazingly, including my brother who had not skied all season and has never skied terrain like this before in his life. He quietly took his time and made excellent turns in the powder ­ and did it with a huge grin.

We all had huge grins on our faces; we chatted like school-girls in the cat about each and every turn, we could recount almost every line and every flake we skied over like it would be our last. We were all having the times of our lives, especially my friend Tom. To describe Tom would be to say he is a madman; he drives too fast, skis even faster, and does all of this without knowing what dangers could and do lie ahead. He owns a Porsche GT3 (one of the world's fastest cars), and drives it like he stole it. I have subsequently coined the phrase "Tom makes speed look sexy," due to the fact that he skis with intense speed, but at the same time there is a subtle grace that borders on the line between lunacy and art.

Then, there is the opposite of Tom's madman style of skiing and life: my dad. He was the elder statesman on the trip, and he brings to skiing the old school flair from the days gone by. His skis never leave the boundaries he has set for them and his turns are like a hot knife through butter. He is grace personified when it comes to slalom and powder skiing - a man who has skied for decades and has honed his craft. He is truly a pleasure to watch.

My father's work compatriots could also ski extremely well. Jim was a freeheel hero who learned his craft on the trash mountains of Michigan (Bridger Mountain outside of Detroit is an old landfill turned ski resort), and now skis the resorts and back hills of the Wasatch Mountains.

Carey grew up in Montana skiing his family's own mountain that they ran near his ranch on the Big Hole River, so by far Carey was the best skier, even better than the guides many years below him. His style has a reckless abandon from his youth that somehow makes it into his skiing as an adult. In fact, years ago Carey took me off cliffs at Snowbasin like he had been doing it for years. I, like any wise teen, was scared to death, but Carey and his sons dropped the cliffs like they were speed bumps in a grocery store parking lot. So on this trip, Carey was in his element skiing naturally - the way he always does.

Rick, another of my dad's work buddies, is one of those guys who knows everybody, including the father of the kid who ran into my Subaru a week before (that is another story on its own). He has a stalwart style, perfectly tuned like a metronome ticking away on a piano. He may not win any races but he will win in precession every time. Rick made skiing look easy without even having to break a sweat.

Being clueless can be good especially when you see someone doing something and you guess he is doing it for another reason. Luckily for me during a specific run a specific danger was right underneath my feet, and I was utterly clueless the entire time. So as I watched Shovler ski down the run we were on and dig a trench - I believed he was digging the trench to check and report to the weather service the snow conditions for the day. Little did I know it was an avalanche trench he was digging to see how he could get us off this side of the mountain without triggering a massive slide. I found out all this information later that night. I had no clue that we were very close to danger. According to those in the know, namely my dad and his friends, the snow on this side of the mountain had warmed up considerably faster than the guides had anticipated. It was literally sheeting off under our feet. Once Shovler had dug the trench and surveyed the snow he radioed the results to Jamie and they agreed on taking an alternate route down the mountain to prevent the snow we were on from snowballing into a full-scale avalanche.

It was good that I did not know, or was just blissfully unaware; of the closeness I cheated death by on this fine day. I worry that I might have stopped skiing altogether or freaked out and checked my avalanche beacon too frequently. Ignorance truly is bliss.

Later in the day we were given the chance to ski a new section of the mountain that the snowcat operation had just received permission to ski weeks before. This run was the steepest run I have ever skied. The run took us off the north side of Angle Mountain, into what I believed to be "no-man's land." The pitch was unbelievably steep and the snow was so deep it was almost up to my waist. I cautiously turned my skis downward out of the chute, with every turn I could feel my heart race this was by far the best run I have had in my life. Once I reached the bottom of the chute my legs and body gave up and I fell listlessly into a pillow of snow. Once our guide Jamie made it down he pointed towards a massive cornice at the top of the ridge approximately a thousand feet above me and said, "only a short twenty minute boot path hike to the top." We took off our skis and mounted them to our packs and began the climb.

The amount of snow was unbelievable on the backside of the mountain; the tall pine trees were dwarfed in size due to the immense amount of snow covering them. The lodge claims 600 inches of snow annually in the pass and the sight of these trees made that claim believable. Luckily, the arduous journey was made easy by the boot path that had been made by the Cloudveil pros that had skied this terrain the previous day. Once the hike had been accomplished and I stood gasping atop a cornice on the southeast ridge of Angle Mountain, I looked down into the chutes we had just skied and subsequently hiked out of. I beamed with pride thinking I had pushed myself to the limit and done things I would have never thought possible. The hike, although grueling and rough on my legs and body, was well worth it knowing I had hiked a mountain in winter.

I looked back up to the mountain and saw the tracks that we had made all day from the last remaining light from the sky. I raised a frosty cold beer to the mountain paying it respect for a worthy day. I thanked her for the tremendous day of skiing, the bonding I had with my brother and father. I took a long swallow and it was like nothing I had ever tasted before. It seems that after you cheat death or push yourself to the limit, something as trivial as a cold beer just seems to taste better.

DM
DM