West Palmer Dad Turns

Weather Hold

6/6/26: Ski area closed for the day. Check back in the morning for lift status.

Read on for the last snow report.

Report 06/04/26: Conditions remained solid on the South Side of Hood with a nice overnight freeze, but a change is in the air. Inclement weather is expected to push through on Saturday. with up to an inch of liquid possible for the mountain. Off-piste aspects are holding great corn, however a little upper elevation snow could help extend the season tremendously. Run of the day was a smooth West Palmer into Tower 12 Headwall. See you on hill tomorrow (weather pending)!

Tower 12 Headwall 06/2024

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My Last Day On Hood Summer 2024

This is a sample expired daily conditions report.

Conditions are generally updated by 7am daily.

08/05/24: "BUTTER" in the words of Tony describing the smooth corduroy on the East Side and Mile this morning.

If you're still skiing Mount Hood this August you are a die hard, straight up.

Between the 70 degree temps, wildfire smoke and mandatory walking between snow patches, the skiing isn't easy but 'you gotta get it while you can'. Timberline has announced a closing date of August 18th, I do agree with the general consensus that coverage is far from the worse we have seen this time of year in past seasons. Laps were pleasant all morning and the traffic on hill was light.

There is a very noticeable melt out at the bottom of the Mile in the past 24 hours now necessitating a few hundred feet of walking above PCT junction. The mandatory slog down the pavement is leaving untracked goodness on the Mile well after 10:30am, so at least that's awesome.

Enjoy the final few weeks Palmer faithful, I'm headed to Las Lenas, Argentina now to score pow turns.

Yesterday we enjoyed airing this rock, now it's a good spot to unstrap.

Bug's 24

Spires, Huts, Views.

(Journal thoughts from my first climbing trip to the Bugaboos July 2024)

After the longest washboard chest rattling drive we assemble the requisite porcupine fencing around the car. If this was simply a backpacking trip, the views alone are stunning, but the elevation gain, weight of packs and minor climbing makes the approach feel tougher. Snow has lasted longer and deeper than expected this summer. The hut is packed, the other strangers say it can be worse. Up higher the Applebee camp is slowly thawing with less room for climbers.

A pesky early 'alpine' start after little sleep. When the early light reveals the mountains grandeur, I'm in awe. We start off on the longest approach for the easiest climb, but today is all-time. Pigeon checked off. Down to the hut and new traditions.

Next day we set off for Bugaboo Spire. Exposed scrambles to perfect granite climbing. Rapping off the summit. What a dream this trip has been. Back to the hut, hot drinks, spaghetti and easy sleep.

Now the rattling washboard drive to Brisco, then Spokane then to Hood.

If we had more supplies I'd would love to come back and tag the Howser, beautiful pitch after pitch of alpine granite higher than the rest of the range.

Spires, huts, views. Oh and a mandatory stop at Tim Horton's.

Drug of Choice

Skiing powder is my drug of choice.

The lengths I’ve gone to ski, the money spent on lift tickets and trips and the direct harm to my body are all reminiscent of a real drug addiction.

Risking jobs for a single rope drop at Alta and losing girlfriends to not run late on a powder morning.

It would seem absolutely crazy to most people.

How could one run on an untracked face be worth so damn much?

Most casual skiers can't understand getting in line 2+ hours before a chairlift opens for first tracks.

I love the camaraderie of the early risers, the countless friendships forged on frigid mornings and first trams.

Bonding with fellow junkies who fiercely debate the absurd intricacies of snow and rehash memories made on a single run at places thousands of miles away.

Skiing powder is the most beautiful high you could imagine.

The unbelievable locations and experiences it will lead you to; all culminating in these fleeting seconds of pure bliss. Dropping into a bluebird sunny steep face, the easy weightlessness of each turn as your adrenaline soars. It’s nearly indescribable the subtle sounds of gliding in deep snow and the remarkable stillness after a spectacularly violent winter storm. When the snow is light enough and above your waist, it becomes patented ‘bouncy magic’. As you catch speed downhill, the cold smoke effect overtakes your ability to see, ice crystals form dramatically on any bit of facial hair.

A bad habit of powder skiers is staring back at our tracks, hyper obsessing over the squiggly disruptions left on a blank canvas. Powder makes even the worst skier look great, those who attack it with fluidity and precision elicit a head-turning refined grace.

Fortunately powder snow does fall in some of the most beautiful natural places you could imagine. Above the gorgeous lakes of Portillo, Chile and Lake Tahoe or on the staggering mountains of the French Alps, Alaskan Chugach Range and Yotei Japan, here dreams come true. The irony of broke dirtbags chasing this high all in the playgrounds of the uber rich. Executives and CEO’s on vacation watch clueless as the locals who serve them rabidly track out the mountain.

Do I bemoan not having more money in the bank or an impressive resume at my age? Sure.

The first chair after sleeping in your car in the ski area lot is better anyways.

Low 2 High

Standing at the lowest point in the United States 242 feet below sea level, I wasn't excited about the bike ride I had planned for the better part of a year.

I think deep down I knew it was going to be hell.

Turning 30

Waking up at Alta, 30 years old and 17" fresh overnight.

The best ski area in the world is just a hundred yards from my bedroom window. Onto first chair after a long wait in the cold and those sublime untracked laps off the High Traverse that will ruin skiing anywhere else.

Nobody wants to wait tables with a college degree or sleep on a twin mattress season after season, but as the snow fell and fell, a season of dreams unfolded. It all started with that cycle on 12/12/22.

Even though it may have been a difficult time to get here, I can't imagine it any other way.

30 years down.

The Big Ditch

Running marathons never really made sense to me. I deeply understand the desire to be personally challenged and push our physical boundaries in the outdoors. However, showing up at a set time and forking over a registration fee to be validated for your effort isn’t me. When taking on a grueling endeavor it’s gotta make sense in some A to B or reaching the top logic. Why climb the mountain? Because they exist of course. Why run 26.2 miles? Because that was the distance from Windsor Castle to White City Stadium?

Hood to Hood

Possibly the biggest obstacle to completing the Hood to Hood is just making sure you stage all your gear correctly, get lucky hitchhiking and nothing gets stolen in between.

The Day Hood Closed

Inclement weather closes roads quite often in snow country, in Little Cottonwood Canyon, UT dozens of days a year are spent battling avalanches which threaten and often bury the road. Even famous destinations like Vail, Colorado become isolated and unreachable when Mother Nature unleashes its fury. On Mount Hood however with almost no avalanche terrain near our highways, the biggest impediment to traffic flow is under prepared Portland drivers. That all changed at the beginning of 2022 when Hood saw a storm for the record books.

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.

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.

Government Camp buried.

The same view in summer.

The Green Room

Scouting the rapid under the warm buzz of the afternoon sun, I couldn't make out the feature we had traveled so far to experience. Thousands of feet deep in Hell's Canyon on the Oregon/Idaho border we were standing above the infamous and intimidating Granite Rapid on the Snake River. Adrenaline still high from our successful run down the first difficult rapid 'Wild Sheep', we knew making it through Granite safely was the key to our whole trip. Most of the year Granite is a nasty pour-over hole, that eats boats and maytags them in a violent frenzy before spitting swimmers downstream. At river flows above 18,000 CFS an unbelievably glassy massive green wave forms, with a narrow margin of entry and real consequences for carnage.

Peeling out into the current I was scared, the thundering roar of the rapid and doubt of my intended line wavered in my mind. With each stroke into the water I breathed, "follow the line, stay calm, be ready to roll" I told myself. As the horizon line cleared and I started to see what was ahead, the river accelerated into a breakneck speed. Glistening in light, the tongue of this mighty rapid gave way to the most beautiful, gigantic wave. I sped down the trough and screamed up the other side of the wave, it felt 50 feet tall. Looking back in the slack water below I was astounded at what had happened so quickly. Through all the doubt and fear I was hardly splashed.

Photo: TriBri1 (Not me).

Losing Friends In The Mountains

Losing friends has become an invariable part of life. Living in the mountains we expose ourselves to so much risk, most of which we feel we can mitigate with good decisions. Even with the best intentions, the right training and precaution, every year it seems I learn another friend has left us.

It's beyond fucked up that I've lost count. Between car crashes on sketchy mountain passes, avalanche accidents and sheer bad luck, everywhere I've lived as a dirt bag has experienced tragedy.

An Argument For Floating Flatwater

Rediscovering the serenity of being on the river saved my sanity. In a season of kayaking that wasn’t scary waterfall running or big rapid adrenaline, instead I found peace in the flatwater. The excitement came in plotting new adventures and exploring remote country with pure self sufficiency.

As the COVID pandemic halted the solitude I once found in backcountry skiing or mountain biking. Ironically the call to shelter in place had driven hordes of new users and seasoned pros alike into the outdoors more than ever. Quiet refuge I once found in the mountains or out on the single track was disturbed. On the river however, just past the roads and the put-in, a stillness was preserved. Miles from suburbia we quickly found our flow state. The river with its pulsing energy replaces the endorphins you release pedaling uphill or skiing down. Put simply by an early kayaking mentor; ‘The river is always alive’. In the sun or the rain, with high flows or low, even in the harshest headwind, the river always meandered on. Eagles scooped fish in front of my eyes, fawn lapped up water from the grassy bank. The river gave me a renewed sense of life, but in every ecosystem it was an oasis for fish, birds, mammals and towns too.

"Lovers come and go, the river roll, roll, roll."

Now in the middle of winter I long for the river more than ever. I hope for my friends and strangers to find that euphoria as well. We all can learn so much from the deep connection water has in our lives and I am forever indebted to protect this treasure. Just my silly argument to go paddle more flatwater.

The Great Alta COVID Lockdown

On a whim I traveled to Southern Utah to check out Eagle Point. I had always heard good things about the Tushar Mountains and was excited to cross another resort off my list, it was special since this hill had been closed for many years. Leaving on a Saturday night, I invited my good friend Josh whom with other responsibilities couldn't swing the trip.

16" of perfect snow graced the slopes at Eagle Point on Sunday March 15th. I was so impressed by how low key this mountain was and delighted to find only a few folks had lined up early. On first chair was weather forecaster Evan Thayer, who in the shuffle up to the loading, fell off the first chair along with his 3 cohorts. What a funny start. The laps were sweet and finally around 1:30pm, I decided to head for home at Alta.

The news had been covering this new virus everyday but we were blissfully unaware how much it would change our lives. Stopping for gas on the drive home I checked social media for clips of the powder day but instead was gutted to hear Eagle Point was closing premature for the season effective immediately.

Walking into the Alta Lodge a few hours later with my snowboard bag, the first coworker I saw joked "Already leaving?" I asked what he meant.

In the past few hours not only had the ski industry decided the season was over, so did Alta. Management posted signs informing the staff of a meeting after dinner service. The meeting was awkward to say the least, Alta was closing and not for a few days but for the season. The Lodge was closing, one of the owners bemoaned how this might affect the business. Our close knit community of staff felt the weight of losing our jobs, our housing and most importantly the last month of skiing all with a few hours notice.

So with no idea of what would happen next, we had the biggest party of the year. We drank the bar as dry as we could and staggered to bed in the wee-wee hours of morning. Still drunk I awoke just after 7am to my bed violently shaking. What the hell was going on. After sleeping in as long as I could, I stumbled down to the employee dining room.

"Morgan did you feel the quake" my friend asked.

I was stunned, first Alta was closing and now earthquakes in Utah? The world was ending.

I spoke with the general managers about what to do next. They urged me to leave, I was defiant. My parents didn't deserve the risk of this unknown virus and regardless I had planned to be in Alta another month.

So we hunkered down. Within a day our crew went from 40+ to less than 10. Each day became more eerie as most folks hung out alone, too afraid to spread the invisible plague. When the hotel realized I had no intention of leaving they plotted a way to make it work financially. I agreed to do 2 hours of labor a day in exchange for room and board.

There were moments of pure bliss in that next 3 weeks. We had no guests, no work, no plans but we did have the best ski area/backcountry in the entire world out the front door. We slept in, ski toured till lunch, ski toured some more after and ate gourmet dinners. One night eating scallops and steaks with a few of my best friends in the same dining room we so long served guests in, we laughed at how lucky we were. This was a fitting end to our season.

At times it was lonely, the idle time was tedious to say the least. Friends became more withdrawn and isolated as they delved into fear.

Hanging with the legendary Tristan Bangs he informed me of a boot pack straight to the top of Eagles Nest. I brought my alpine skis and we kicked step by step. Somehow we were skiing Alta all to ourselves. The public was told not to travel or burden the healthcare system. The ski area allowed us to tour the empty hill and even groomed cat tracks/access points and preformed avalanche mitigation. Everyday was a country club day for that last month.

I will never forget staring down an untracked High Boy with a foot of blower on it. The snow was perfect, not a bump in sight, buffed perfectly by the wind and finished with a velvet pillow of cushion. It was 11am on a Tuesday.

Silverton Spring

In memoriam of Hans Berg: the unofficial mayor of Empire and beloved Berthoud/Jones Pass local.

Corn Chowder

The ski industry faces an unnecessary battle against the weather every year. As the calendar turns to November, the general population rushes our natural weather cycles to start skiing prematurely by means of artificial snowmaking and limited terrain. Ironic that ski areas race each other to open; spending millions of dollars for lackluster results, when the best skiing conditions often come in the late spring (when the snowpack is deepest). Depending on the regional conditions year to year, we pack skis along with our kayaks and bikes to road trip in search of the fleeting 'Corn Cycle'. You can have your summer activities, skiing in T-shirts with soft snow and sunshine totally beats not skiing.

Finding quality corn snow conditions is a complete gamble. You need 99% to go right with respect to weather, sun, snowpack and a million other anomalies for it form. I love skiing in the late spring/early summer because it takes us to ski destinations that are polar opposite of what drives powder chasing in mid winter; we seek sun, lack of storms and high alpine terrain. Visiting Timberline, Arapahoe Basin or Squaw seems to be more exciting, more relaxed and just plain more enjoyable in the closing weeks as opposed to peak winter. Aggro crowds have long gone and the general skill level onhill skyrockets. For high mountain passes closed all winter, spring becomes the waiting game of tackling lines you couldn't reach for months. Often asked where we'll head when the lifts close in Alta, Baker or Taos, it all comes down to snow...

This is my favorite 'Corn Chowder': lines and locations burned into my mind.

One of the coolest jobs I've had was Snowmaking at Arapahoe Basin Colorado. Starting in September we'd watch the weather diligently waiting to pounce on any window to fire up our system. The common misconception is making snow = artificial snow, but simply what we do is blow water with fans at cold enough temps to create snow and that snow is far from 'fake'. The conditions required to make snow is when the Wet Bulb Temperature (a combination of relative humidity and ambient temperature) dips below 28 degrees F.

For the several seasons I made snow I worked with many amazing people, did some sketchy shit and ultimately helped open the first ski area for the North American season every year I was there.

Running snowmobiles on a thin base, the 3am laps skiing over rocks and particularly the sunrise/sunsets are all something I won't forget. I watched snowmobiles tumble down steep slopes, high pressure hoses whip into the air and countless other terrifying moments. After working 12am-12pm I'd curl up in my van and try to rest enough for the next shift.

Going into the 2019 season the big talk was the investment made by neighbor Keystone of millions of dollars to open before Arapahoe Basin. Keystone is the more posh and commercial resort owned by the despised Vail corporation. Needing a couple nights of cold temperatures to open, we watched with anticipation as white began to speckle the slopes of Keystone.

The news broke Keystone would open on October 12th, which seemingly dashed our hopes of being the first to open. Working the early night hours of October 11th I wondered if we might be close to ready as well. After a long successful night we reconvened in our office around 11am. "How close are we, can we open the run today or tomorrow?" our COO Alan asked. In haste a plan was made to open that afternoon for a few hours and beat Keystone.

I loaded the chair with our Mountain Manager Louis and we proceeded down the run pulling our hydrants out of the ground, as ski patrol set ropes and the groomers bulldozed the snow into a ride-able surface. Pushing 14 hours working and feeling exhausted, it was hard to believe we would open this narrow strip of snow today. At 1:45pm we alerted the press and social media feeds, the ski area would open for two hours at 3:30pm and would sell $15 tickets. A commotion was stirred, pundits accused us of being petty. Getting first chair for the season is serious business and the usual suspects began to arrive on a moments notice. At 3:30 with news media gathered, the lift turned and hundreds of skiers began to attack our single run.

I skied a couple awful laps, retreated to the bar and laughed over a beer. We had beat the big guys with all the money and fancy toys. Now it was time for some much needed sleep.

Wasatch 22

Rising as a network of jagged ridge lines in the east half of the valley, the Wasatch mountains are synonymous with Salt Lake City and the state of Utah. Known to many as major ski resort destinations in winter, this big mountain playground on the edges of the city is also host to 22- 11,000 foot mountains. While some of these peaks are only a short hike away from chairlifts, others require grueling approaches and dangerous exposed Class 5 climbing.

Spending two seasons working the Oktoberfest festival at Snowbird resort, I quickly determined climbing the Wasatch 11er's was a great way to spend my down time. Working Friday-Sunday from mid August until the first week of October I had ten weeks to summit the peaks.

Every week I struck out when weather windows presented and chipped away at my objectives. The climb to the ridge lines was always sweaty, but the views to the urban sprawl of the Salt Lake valley reminded me how small this mountain range was. As a budding backcountry skier I learned the topography, names and basic beta to so many incredible areas. A huge sense of fulfillment came when completing this project in September 2016 on the gorgeous summit of Lone Peak after a single night backpacking trip camped in an amazing alpine cirque.

Mount Nebo 11,928
Mount Timpanogos 11,750
South Timpanogos 11,722'
American Fork Twin Peaks 11,489'
North Timpanogos 11,441'
Bomber Peak 11,347'
Broads Fork Twin Peaks 11,330'
Pfeifferhorn 11,326'
White Baldy 11,321'
Sunrise Peak 11,275'
Lone Peak 11,253'
North Peak 11,174'
Red Baldy 11,171'
South Thunder Mountain 11,154'
North Thunder Mountain 11,150'
Monte Cristo 11,132'
Dromedary Peak 11,132'
Box Elder Peak 11,101'
Provo Peak 11,068'
Mount Baldy 11,068'
Sugarloaf Peak 11,051'
East Peak 11,044'

Completed 10/16

Wear Your Seat Belt

After graduating college I faced an easy decision, continue working at my local ski hill Mt. Rose teaching skiing or elevate my position as an intern for a Nevada State Senator into a paying career. I chose skiing.