Working late nights at the Timberline Lodge I watched with enthusiasm as the snow piled up, my bellman job often a front row for gazing out as the storm rolled in. Driving home at 2:30am down the notoriously sketchy Timberline Road, it didn't feel any more dangerous than usual, but the snow was falling fast and heavy. A few hours later the DOT would report the Highway closed, icy conditions and mangled semi-trucks created an unprecedented situation. This was a devastating blow to our chances to ski on my day off, but I still salivated over the weather reports. 32" had fallen in under 24 hours and we were forecasted to get several more feet.
Bummed on the notion we would spend the day locked inside and that the temperature might spike before the chairlifts would turn again. I knew we had to get on the mountain somehow.
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| The view out from Timberline Lodge 1/4/22. |
After hours of morning cabin fever we received a call from hotel management just before 11am, the State would allow a one-time convoy of employees to drive up the mountain to relieve overworked staff. The ski area was closed for the day and 4x4 or AWD vehicles with snow tires was the minimum for safe travel, they even warned to throw chains in the trunk in case we encountered sheet ice.
Quickly hopping in the car with my roommate on his way to work, we were blown away by the mile long backup of 18-wheelers parked on the highway. At the head of the traffic line an Oregon trooper stood defiantly. We rolled down the windows, flashed our credentials and he waved us on in silence. The diligent work of the plow drivers had left much less snow on the road than we anticipated but as we climbed toward 2000' we entered the most gorgeous winter wonderland (for grey overcast PNW). Bending around Silent Rock, a usual gorgeous view of Mount Hood was nothing but chicken feathers of falling snow. The only contour we could recognize was the silhouette of the 12' tall snowbanks tunneling the road. I was stunned at the difference from my drive down the Lodge access road just 10 hours before. Slowly we crawled up the road, the wind had left deep drifts in corners and the vehicle maneuvered more akin to a bogging snowmobile. In the final mile the engine squealed, tires spinning trying to push the bumper deep snow. Somehow we had made it to 6,000 feet and the typically jammed parking lot was deserted.
After gearing up I entered stealth mode and began to boot pack up the few hundred yards to where I could drop-in on ski area runs. With the dense cream cheese snow I struggled with post-holing up to my chest, heavily breathing and needing to remove layers. At the top of the Pucci chairlift just a stones throw from the historic lodge, I put on my skis and began breaking trail downhill. This was in fact downhill hike skiing even for my modern fat powder skis. Arduously I traveled little by little down familiar runs till I reached the turn off for the Alpine Trail ('Pine).
To locals the best section of the 'Pine is colloquially called "The Pow Field". It's a special place to many, but for me among many reasons it's the final resting place for my dog Garth. Whom like many dogs before, Garth giddily bounced down the Pow Field alongside me on our lap to town. While the snow was heavy, the slope provided enough pitch for some fun turns and before I hit the bottom of my first lap I already knew I needed more. For the next two hours I skinned lap after lap. The snow continued to fall in spectacular fashion and I felt awestruck in the glory of having the slope all to myself. I spooned track on track until my soaked climbing skins and the snow degrading to Cascade Cement pushed me to ski out.
Unsure if I could get home with the roads closed, I skied all the way down the shoulder of the Govy Loop Road. Standing on Highway 26 was surreal, this major artery was empty, quiet and snowed in. An hour passed and I saw no cars anywhere. Finally a beat-up pick appeared coming down from Govy. Thumb raised to the sky, the driver slowed and asked where I was headed. "Anywhere downhill, I live in Welches sir" I barked to him. He was a squirrely looking plow driver, several days into a battle to keep up with the ferocity of the storm. The truck seat was a mess of cigarette packs and Mountain Dew bottles. We bitched about the highway department, ski area management and the difficulties of trying to stay awake after days of not sleeping. Secretly I didn't share my tales of epic skiing on the forbidden mountain, but thanked the stranger as he dropped me at the grocery store just blocks from my house. I shouldered my skis and grinned knowing I was the only one to ski from Timberline that day.
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| Government Camp buried. |
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| The same view in summer. |