Gettin' Blazed

Amanda, Jen, Tyler, Brett and dogs Marley and Tero ready to get rad after hiking about 13 miles in two days with loaded packs. They're definitely not thinking about the seven more required to get out.

Bridger Bowl’s opening day is close enough to put a little twinge of excitement in the bowels of any degenerate skier. But right now we’re in the thick of the summer, and a getting turns in requires enough determination to hoof through a 20-mile round trip into the mountains.

Which is what we did in July, hiking out to ski the 10,400-foot Mt. Blaze. It’s the fifth highest mountain in the Spanish Peaks, a small range within the Madison Range just about 40 minutes or so out of Bozeman depending on how comfortable you are bombing down the well-maintained dirt road that traverses one of Ted Turner’s vast properties.

The Blaze is a popular backcountry spot, and one that was suggested by John Graves — a hardcore skier I ran into on Sacajawea in June who had a 5-year stretch where he skied every month of the year. The only questions were just how much snow was back there and how the hell to actually get there. It seems like a large portion of Bozeman’s backcountry aficionados have skied it, but none could provide any more detailed directions than, “hike about four miles, take a right across a creek, take a left across the same creek a while later and then you should see it,” which is roughly how John described the trek. In his defense, the directions were tossed out while he was gearing up for some conference or another in Puerto Rico.

The first question was answered while driving back from the Missoula Marathon on July 14 on I-90. A long tongue of snow ran slightly left of the peak almost to the tree line.

I figured that we’d play the second one by ear after getting a group of four others — Amanda, Brett, Jen and Tyler (and two dogs, of course) — together. We set out at the crack of 10 a.m. or so and reached the Spanish Creek trailhead an hour later.

If you squint just right, you can see the silhouette of Marley (a black lab) on top of the packs

 

Four-and-a-half pretty flat miles later we found ourselves where the trail diverged. We chose to head up to Mirror Lake, half because we weren’t really sure where to go and also it just seemed like a good place to figure out what to do. The last couple miles up to the lake were switchbacked and steep and took their toll on the group. When we got up there and realized how tough it’d be to scale the Blaze from the backside, the decision was made to set up camp and think it over.

They did not taste like boots

Amanda and I hiked up a rise on the way up to Summit Lake and scouted out two potential routes for a backside approach. One was up a scree field capped with a small snowfield and then along a ridge to the top. The other followed an avalanche path up to a northern ridge, which looked like the most do-able from our vantage point -- except for one section that looked awful cliffy for our climbing gear-less party. On the positive side, we found some morels hiking back to camp, thanks to my expert analytical yell of, “Hey, aren’t these sorrels or something?"

After some discussion, we decided to wake up at dawn and hike down, around and up the mountain for our turns.

A fine campin' spot

It was a chilly morning, but we were quickly warmed by the hike back to where the trail split. We ditched gear to lighten the now excessively heavy packs and headed toward the Spanish Lakes, after a brief panic when Tyler’s dog, Marley, disappeared. He popped up on the trail maybe a quarter mile and several minutes of quiet freaking out later.

Miles into the trail we ran into a wild-eyed teleskier I met coming down Sacajawea (popular spot!) who gave us somewhat more specific directions on where to start bushwhacking. Basically, it was dead ahead and marked by a cairn. Of course.

Just over the next rise!

We bushwhacked our way slowly uphill because the miles were starting to add up on everyone’s legs, except for the dogs and Brett. When we were most of the way up a skier and snowboarder made their way down the surprisingly wide and long track. The snow looked like prime spring corn, even if they didn’t return our radness yell. He had a GoPro on, so he was probably concentrating really hard on not screwing up on camera.

But we finally reached the peak around 2 p.m. and geared up for the descent. The snow was a little slushy on top, streaked with dirt and pocked infrequently with the tips of rocks. After all the requisite pictures were taken, we pointed out skis and went for it. I noodled down last and the odd pain that had developed in the side of my left knee disappeared with a few wide, easy turns done in an attempt to savor each slide as much as could be done.

It was tempting to just rip down, but knowing we had at least a seven mile hike out helped keep the inner hardcore ski bro safely hidden away deep inside.

Not so bad for July!

The hike out was a pleasant suffer-fest as the knee pain returned and migrated into the hip. Even the dogs were worn out by the time we reached the car. It took Marley a minute of coaxing to jump into the truck bed for the ride home.

But hey, it was turns in July. Can’t wait to make some more in August down in the Beartooths. We’re planning on hitting up the Whitetail Couloir.

-- Jason Bacaj

Peak baggin' in the Tobacco Roots

Atop Mt Jackson, the sixth highest peak in the Tobacco Roots, during a brief break in the clouds

June brought us into the heart of the summer with the passing of the solstice, the longest day of the year. One primed for hedonism and vague pagan rituals.

And, surprisingly enough, great skiing.

I was lucky enough to get invited up to a friend’s cabin about 11 miles back in the Tobacco Root Mountains, just about an hour or so west of Bozeman for a party celebrating all of those things. Well, all right. There weren’t any pagan rituals or anything. But we climbed a mountain and skied down it and tried to drink a keg of microbrew — certainly enough to cause anyone to dance around a fire and make wookie noises.

I drove to the cabin relatively late Friday night not entirely sure where I was going. My friend Tyler gave directions the night before after we were both a few beers deep: take the Cardwell exit off I-90, a right onto a Forest Service dirt road that you follow about 10 miles until you pass the mine tailings, then it’s a left and you’ll drive over a chain and past a ‘keep out’ sign. Just follow the road until you reach the cabin. Of course.

Sunrise from the cabin door

Directions that seem strange at first always make sense once you get out in the country, however, and I reached the cabin as the sun was setting. Tyler, Michelle and Phil were all drinking around the stove with a pair of dogs mulling around underfoot. We all sat and drank and talked and waited around to see if Little Phil would show up. More beers were had while everyone watched rain begin to fall. Little Phil arrived and talk turned to how great it’d be if snow was falling at higher elevations before turning in for the night.

The day began around 5 a.m. Saturday with Phil whipping up a manly breakfast of eggs and potatoes. The four of us set off into the morning chill astride a four-wheeler dirt buggy contraption shortly after breakfast. It took about 30 minutes to make it from the cabin to the end of a trail not far from Sailor Lake at the base of Mount Jackson. It took about 20 minutes of bushwhack straight uphill, roughly paralleling a stream, before we reached the snowline.

Montana cat skiing!

As luck would have it, a few centimeters had fallen overnight. We took this and the wide bowl at the base of Mt. Jackson in, eyeing up lines and listening to Phil talk about the good stuff that lies even beyond the surrounding ridgeline.

Then we gathered ourselves, talked it out and decided to bootpack up the main north-facing chute coming off the peak, to summit and possibly ski down, depending on the conditions, before hoofing it along the northeastern side of the mountain. Scrambling up a scree field just below the chute made things interesting, and apparently tore a buckle off one of my boots. They were crappy old Scarpas that I bought for about $20 at the ski swap last year, so I wasn’t all too broken up about it, but I was a little worried about how the break would affect the whole skiing aspect.

One happy effect of the boot breakage was that it was a little easier to hike up the chute, even as the slope angle, wind and snow started to kick up a bit.

The low-vis boot pack up

We peaked out after a decent hike and took the requisite summit photo. It was cold, cloudy and snowy while we munched on pepper slices and cheese. But then the sun broke out for about five minutes to give us a partial view of what the Tobacco Roots looked like from 10,400 feet. Brother, it was a nice way to see the first weekend of summer.

We decided to ski down the chute we climbed — shit, it was a possible first descent, why pass that up? Little Phil claimed firsties and we all took our turn before scrambling across the scree field again to reach the ridgeline and find some more fine lines down the bowl. By the time we reached the bottom, it was pounding snow in near whiteout conditions.

Fresh snow on the first weekend of summer? Sure, why not.

We down climbed back to the buggy and headed to the cabin again to set up for the solstice party, rather than take more laps.

Tyler and Little Phil (orange jacket) lead the hike back down

GPS route from top to bottom