When I went to bed the night before, my mind was racing. I was fearful and reluctant. Was I a good enough Snowboarder to be in a line like this? I was pretty sure no one is, and it’s what someone would call simply an experiment in how far the human mind and body can go before it shuts down and fails. And well there’s really only one way to find out if I’m one of those people who can control my mind in times of extreme danger.
That night I had nightmares. I had one where I fell down the Couloir and off the cliff, waking up moments before hitting the ground 300 feet below. My other nightmare left me stranded above the cliff in the Couloir, frozen and unable to continue for some reason. I sat there on the cliff for what felt like days, only to wake up still feeling vertigo and the fear as if it were real. At 5am, I woke up and was unable to get back to sleep, so I went upstairs and made my morning coffee and eggs. After one bite of the eggs, I knew I was too nervous to eat anything. This was usual for me on a morning with a big mission. My stomach was just a knot of stress and so I drank the coffee by itself. While I sipped it, I reflected on my year thus far. We had ridden The Hairy Banana with tremendous success, but that line didn’t even hold a candle to this one. The Banana was cruxy (a puzzling or difficult problem) for sure, but it didn’t have the risk this one did. Which feels ridiculous to say considering The Hairy Banana is a life-threatening line from top to bottom.
During my second cup, I read up on stories from others and looked at my beta-photos for our mission. We would be going for a line called The Heaven’s Eleven, one of the most notorious ski lines in North America. Ski mountaineers often called it the ultimate test-piece for anyone wanting to call themselves a real ski-mountaineer. It was first descended in 1994 in an unlikely and unplanned descent by Andy Sawyer. It stunned the local ski community and within weeks other skiers pushed out on the rest of the face, making first descents on Oblivion Bowl and The Grandfather Couloir. Sawyer said he was planning to ski another route, but once inside the Elevens he realized his mistake too late, and had no choice but to continue down.
The Couloir starts with a large hanging bowl, which feeds into a tight Couloir. The transition can reach pitches of up to 58 degrees, some of the steepest in the area. Once in the Couloir, it’s possible to enjoy some nice turns as you creep closer and closer to the end. At the end of the Couloir is a notoriously high cliff, about 300 feet, and the Couloir leads you within feet of the edge before being able to slip out the side, hike up 20 yards, and traverse out to safety.
My beta photo with marks to coordinate our planned safety locations
My partner Chauncey and I met at the base of lift 4 at 8:45 as we went over our gear. We brought no ropes with us that day as our observation on the previous day showed that there was likely no required rappels. There was a large chockstone, but it seemed easily maneuverable. Plus, ropes don’t help with a 300-foot cliff...
After reading the reports and making our own observations as we made our way toward lift 15 and the backcountry gate, we agreed it was still as good a day for it as it was gonna get, so we tried to keep our optimism high and our fears in check. 3 hours of skinning and hiking later, we were standing on top of the Wasatch ridge. My panic started to set in and I played some music while we changed over our Splitboards back to riding mode. I looked toward Chauncey during it all and voiced my concerns, I’d had 3 hours to think it over while skinning and at this point, I felt pretty nauseous and had no interest in dropping the line anymore.
Looking across the valley toward the ski area as Chauncey calmly talked his way through our route and plan, reminding me that nothing had changed and things still looked good, I noticed the typical crowd gathering along the catwalk between chair 14 and chair 6. There were about 100 people lined up, some of them were hollering but most were just watching, waiting for us to drop. I wanted to tell them to go away, that we weren’t dropping; but of course, they could not hear us.
Our partner on radio taking photos from the resort said everyone was stoked on us and that we looked great, right on top of our target-line. But it didn’t help. I let myself enter a deep meditation as I stopped listening to Chauncey as well as the radio, and tried to pretend there was no one on the ridge watching. It was just us up here, and we had to decide what we wanted to do.
It’s interesting bringing a partner on a line like this. Typically we ride in pairs or in three for safety; if anything goes wrong the others are there for the rescue. In an avalanche, your partner can dig you out. But on a line like this, they’re really just there for emotional and moral support. When I drop in and ask Chauncey to “keep an eye on me”, we both know there’s not a damn thing he could do if something did happen. I’ll be dead before he can even say the words “Search and Rescue”. But it’s definitely often needed to have the emotional support regardless. I’ve had times when I’ve frozen up from fear and been talked out of it by Chauncey, and there have been times when I’ve done the same for him. We’re a team unit and as long as we don’t both panic at the same time then hopefully we’re riding the gravy train all the way to powder station.
With a bit more encouragement from Chauncey, we decided that we knew we could always hike back out if we ran into any issues so we would take it one pitch at a time. I kinda knew this was a lie, it was much too steep to hike out of. Plus, if one of us fell, it would be near impossible to stop the fall. But the lie did make me feel better so we prepared to drop.
Chauncey made first turns. I watched as he threw up powder that spun, floated and drifted behind him like cold smoke as his sluff (The snow that is set into movement when snowboarding or skiing in steep terrain) rushed down like a raging river, eventually hitting the Couloir and sliding off the cliff. Within 4 turns he was out of sight, behind the first rock outcropping, and radioed up that he was safe. I followed down through our first crux and met him at the top of the bowl. I then leapfrogged him and made my turns large and arching down one of the steepest faces in the San Juan’s. The snow was variable, powder in some places and crust in others. I was cautious as I eventually made my way to our next safety before we entered from the bowl into the Couloir. Chauncey came down behind me, cautious as well due to the variable conditions, and we collected ourselves for a moment in what I knew was our last moment of anything close to resembling normal snowboarding.
It’s hard to explain the feeling you get in a line like this. And it’s even harder to explain to someone who wants to know why we would want to do it in the first place. My answer is usually “because we can”, or maybe it’s me testing my own mind; I’ve always been impressed with what the human mind can do when there is trust and confidence. Or I explain that it’s a feeling so close to total chaos that the mind has no choice but to shut down everything but instinct. I literally can’t even try to think about the stresses of my jobs, tax season, or the fact that my grandfather was dying when I’m inside a Couloir like this. All I can think about is survival and how I’m going to get through the next pitch. It is the ultimate form of meditation; shopping for groceries and picking out health-insurance plans are stressful, whereas riding a Couloir, your only focus becomes survival. There isn’t any room for stress anymore. Stress will get you killed, and your mind doesn’t know this, so you just have to shut it down and let your body do what it’s made to do until you’re out safe.
As we edged into the couloir, it got even steeper. I started to feel the fear set in, but it didn’t have me yet. As Josh Geeter once said “it’s okay to have the fear. Fear is how we stay alive. You’d have to be crazy to not have it. But the question is, do you have the fear or does the fear have you?”
Chauncey followed me in and I let him pass as he worked his way down to the chockstone, our biggest crux of the day. The Couloir was only 4-feet wide maybe, but he was able to make turns regardless. I watched him disappear around the chockstone when I heard him yell up.
“It’s kinda a bit bigger than we anticipated. Ummm..... I’m not sure, dude.”
Then I heard scraping. Metal on rock. Then I heard nothing for a moment, followed by the sound of a collision, metal and snowboard hitting rock....and hard. Then I heard nothing at all, and my heart plummeted to my stomach. If he wasn’t able to self-arrest immediately on the icy, 57-degree Couloir, he would have slid about 80 meters before soaring off of the 500-foot cliff. If it took more than a fraction of a second to self-arrest, he’d have gained too much speed by then to be able to anymore.
I hit the radio, “Chauncey, copy? Chauncey, copy? Are you alive? Beep the button if you can’t talk but give me some kind of a sign. Out”
A few moments later, my radio crackled to life, “I’m good. Fell off the crux, it was solid blue ice and I lost my edge and couldn’t stay on. Had to self-arrest pretty quick after the fall but I’m okay. Just a heads up though, it’s 5 feet of blue ice before at least a 10-foot drop, so I’m honestly not sure what you should do right now. If you want to hike back out that wouldn’t be a terrible idea.”
Fuck. I turned and looked behind me. I couldn’t hike that safely even if I had 3 hours to spare. Before I had time to let my mind wrap itself around my reality, I made some turns toward the crux. I know myself well enough that when my mind takes over I can panic and if I just listen to my body things usually work out. Plus, it was way too icy to hike out and I didn’t have crampons in my pack.
When I reached the blue ice, I used my ice-axe to slowly creep toward the edge to get a better look. It was at least a 10-foot drop, and not a clean one either. I’d bounce off another rock before falling into the Couloir below. To my left was more blue ice, all over the rock, making it impossible to down-climb.
Chauncey came on the radio, “dude it might be best to just let yourself fall off. There’s no way to down-climb it with the ice.”
God Fuck Dammit why was I here, what was I thinking! I wasn’t a good enough rider and I shouldn’t have been here. This right here is how I would die, I realized to myself slowly. I wondered how I would be remembered. Probably as a reckless snowboarder who got in over his head because of some Alpha-male bravado bullshit. Fuck that, I’m not letting that be the legacy I leave behind. I am not dying here, not today. I tried to chip away at some of the ice but it was rock solid. I tried to grab onto a natural ice-bollard, but it was much too slick to put weight on. I unclipped my back foot and tried to stem it against the opposite wall to lower down, but it was just far enough away that it wasn’t possible. I strapped back in and tried to catch my breath. During the scrambling around, I’d let myself get caught up in the moment and was desperately exhausted now, still just hanging on my axe. My muscles were fatigued and I was needing oxygen. Focusing my breathing and trying to calm myself, reality eventually sank down on me that the only way out was to simply let myself drop and hope I didn’t break my leg or worse. Too bad we left the rope at home.
Chauncey came back on the radio, saying something about who the fuck knows what, but I couldn’t do both the radio coupled with my ordeal right now. I had to get my head in a good place and so I shut the radio off. Not the best idea but survival was paramount to communication with my partner who I knew was in a safe place and simply waiting. I knew there wasn’t going to be a time that came when it felt good, so I just took a deep breath and pulled the axe out of the ice. I slid quick, and as I went airborne I made it a point to get my axe away from my body. I bounced off the rock below and into the Couloir, sliding fast as a cannon pretty much as soon as I landed. I dug my axe into the snow and it didn’t bite, I just kept sliding. Putting my whole body weight on top of it, I felt it suddenly start to bite as I began to slow. When I finally came to a stop was when I realized how fast my heart was racing. I needed to sit there for a minute, it didn’t matter how dangerous a spot it was to sit. I had no choice. For 10 minutes I sat there focused on my breathing techniques, pushing away all negative thought.
Here I am letting my adrenaline fade before continuing
After a bit, I remembered my radio was still off, so I switched it back on. Chauncey and Josh, our photographer on the ridge across the valley, were frantically having a back and forth. There was talk of getting a heli-evac underway, but that a heli wouldn’t be able to get in there anyway. Josh had seen me fall and then lay there so figured I must have broken a leg.
I clicked my radio button, “I’m okay, guys. I’m okay. I had a bad scare and needed to just collect myself. Sorry for the radio mishap. 5 more minutes and I’ll ride down to Chauncey.”
As I began riding down, the Couloir was fluffy and powdery and I began to have actual have fun again. The walls of the Couloir has protected the snow and made for an incredibly aesthetic and pleasantly soft hallway of joy. I met up with Chauncey and kept riding to our final crux, the traverse out. As I neared the precipice to the cliff, I could feel it’s size and power. I couldn’t see down it, but you could literally feel the power it held. My good friend Scotty, who had skied this line before, told me that this section was like being a painter and standing on a rooftop. That you feel okay standing on the roof, but as you creep up toward the edge you start to feel the fear. It’s like walking up to the edge of a roof, getting slower and steadier the closer you get.
When I got to the spot I could finally pull out of the Couloir, I was only 4 feet or so from the edge. I could see down it now and the adrenaline hit me like a shot of epinephrine. It charged me full of energy and the stoke was back in full force. The 75 ft tall trees were like blades of grass underneath me, and I let it all soak in before traversing out, unstrapping my back foot, and starting my hike up 20 feet. Chauncey was soon right behind me as we trudged up the mountainside, still hanging over the 500-foot cliff and far from out of the woods yet. Once I’d climbed up 20 feet, I strapped back in and confirmed with Chauncey that we were good to go. We took a hard traverse across and thankfully came right out at the top of the Waterfall Chute, a common egress out of Bear Creek for most skiers skiing the easier Upper runs like Nellie and The Wedding Chutes. It was tracked out and nearly a mogul-field, the most reassuring thing I’d seen all day.
Radioing back up to Josh, we let him know we were safe and out and thank you for all the help. He replied saying the everyone on the ridge was cheering and stoke was high; that people were glad I was okay after my scare at the chockstone. Chauncey and I sat and reveled in our adventure before continuing our ride down to town. I had packed cheese and French bread, and together we broke bread and swapped personal experiences and reflections of the day. A short length of rope with some webbing would have been nice to have, we both agreed. It looked fine from observation but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. I made note of how powerful the mind is, and how I let it get the better of me on the crux and how much that actually ended up making for a more dangerous situation. I wasted so much energy hanging on and trying to down-climb when really it may have been best to just let myself fall off the chockstone from the get-go. I made special note that another one of my fuck-ups was not charging my GoPro and so I ended up with footage from only the first 4 turns, but it was okay because the experience is what really counts. We also agreed that conditions made a huge difference, and next time we would certainly be waiting for powder.
Coincidentally, it was only a few days later that Mattheis Giraud, self-proclaimed “Super Frenchie”, arrived in town with plans to claim first ski-base descent of Heaven’s Eleven. When watching his video you can clearly see where they struggled with the crux as well. It felt nostalgic and stress-inducing to watch him work through it, and a beautiful thing to then watch him ski-base off the cliff rather than be forced to traverse out like we had.
I walked away from that line proud that I’d tackled one of the most infamous couloirs in North America, I felt I could finally put my name up there with the rest of the great ski-mountaineers who had descended it first and paved the way for us; all of us of course were likely crazy, but also mixed with a bit of skill too to go along with all the crazy. But I knew I’d be back, even though it is a line that not many repeat for obvious reasons. It wasn’t a clean descent by my standards and I definitely needed redemption. Hopefully, next season snow conditions will allow for us to work away at the Wasatch Face once again and I can give it another shot. Until then, I’ll just have to deal with more sleepless nights and an addiction to adrenaline that would only continue to grow.
I’ve attached below Giraud’s video of his descent due to my GoPro issues, to give people a sense of what kind of a line this is.
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