Journals

winter/spring 2000 
Riding Mt. Troy

4 January 2000
Teri Tibbett

Hiking to the top of Mt. Troy isn't like climbing Mt. McKinley or anything. In fact it’s only about 3,000 feet above sea level, but it does get you into the backcountry for an afternoon when the ski area is closed.

 
Mt. Troy, Douglas Island, AK
photo by Teri Tibbett
Mt. Troy is on Douglas Island in southeast Alaska’s Tongass National Forest--near the city of Juneau. The island is 16 miles long and seven miles wide, with a road running along its eastern shore to a dead-end at Outer Point. A small town and some houses inhabit the island, but most of it is rain forest wilderness, with terrain varying from log-laden beaches to high alpine peaks. You can start your hike from the ocean’s edge, if you want to bushwhack through devils club, blueberry bushes and dense alder, or you can drive the winding road up to the ski area, park your car, and start from there. We chose the road version to keep it a shorter day.

Greg and I don’t have jobs this time of year. We try to keep ourselves free of obligations so we can play in the snow at least part of the winter. He’s a skier. I’m a snowboarder. We met on top of Hogsback mountain last season; he showed me the way down when I was a little lost. 

Mt. Troy rises up from behind my house. The hike is not so much the reason we wanted to go, it’s more for the ski-ride down. It's an addiction we both have, finding fresh powder and making fresh tracks.

At the parking lot we put on our snowshoes and stuffed our packs with water, snacks, survival gear and respective skis and snowboard. Gray clouds hovered over us, but visibility was good and we could see all the way to the top. We walked past the lodge, past the sleeping lifts, and up the Sourdough run.

At the top of Sourdough we veered off the trail across a snowy meadow and stepped over frozen creeks. From there it was straight up. And I mean straight up. It all started easily enough, weaving in and out of the low growing alders, but soon the terrain changed to a 40 degree incline in deep snow. Greg’s snowshoes don’t have the "grab" that mine do, so he was slipping and swearing a lot. He traversed a path, back and forth, and made it up eventually.

The pitch eased by the time we reached the trees, where spruce and hemlock grow thick and dark. The underbrush is dense and scratchy. Fallen logs, carpeted with spongy green moss, criss-crossed the path. Branches reach out like arms for holding onto and maintaining balance. Here you can see the prints of porcupines and rabbits marked in the snow. Cool. 

Past the trees we reached the saddle leading to Mt. Troy and stopped for the view. To the left is the city of Juneau with its tiny little houses and tiny little cars moving on the highway. To the right is the ski area with its carved out runs and familiar territory.


Stopping at the saddle.
photo by Greg Steele
We hung out long enough to drink water and munch Power Bars and watch the clouds come down. As they descended they thickened and let lose a few flakes of snow. The fog was creeping over the valley, erasing the view, and in moments we couldn't see more than a few hundred feet below us.

Across the saddle the terrain changed from trees to open rolling hills covered in white. Greg stayed ahead, marking the trail, and I followed in his tracks. The only sound was the crunching of snowshoes in the snow.


Me Hiking Up.
photo by Greg Steele
I started to think of words to songs. I kept the rhythm with my feet. I sang them in my head, dreaming of new verses and choruses. I thought of my children and the scene that morning at the breakfast table. When I looked up I could see the clouds getting thicker and lower. The snow was now falling like feathers from a popped pillow.

The wind picked up and blew across the open terrain. Snow drifted over the knolls and knobs and settled up against them in frozen waves. The land showed less and less definition. The flat light eliminated all shadows. Each track drifted away into the whiteness. 

Eventually the trail led up and got steeper. The toes of my snowshoes clung to the mountain, stabbing at the crust, holding on. I used my hands to crawl up. First I lost sight of Greg. Then I lost all traces of his steps which had disappeared under the drifting snow. 


Greg disappears into the clouds
Photo by Teri Tibbett

At this point I started to feel a slight sense of panic. An instinct for survival, I am sure. My body was screaming, "HELLO…THIS IS DANGEROUS." If I lost footing I didn't know if I'd fall back into a powder puff or be hurled over a cliff and plastered onto a rock. A part of me wanted the adventure to go on so I could "live" to tell the story. But in the end, my ego had to sit back and remember that I am not greater than all of this, that me and my little body are just a speck on this mountain, in this forest, in this snowstorm.

Soon I saw above me the outline of a plateau and headed for it. The wind was raging. Most of the snow had blown from the surface, leaving it icy and exposed. I crawled and scraped and pulled myself toward the top. As I reached over the last hump, hot and out of breath, I saw Greg standing there, smiling, with a cigarette between his fingers and smoke blowing out his nose. 

"Hey there!" he called. I took off my pack and fell back in the snow. 

Greg at the top.
Photo by Teri Tibbett

I wish I could describe for you a spectacular view, a vision of glaciers and snow-capped mountains going on forever into the Canadian icefield. Or black islands silhouetted against a crystal blue sea. But all we could see through the clouds was snow falling and a faint string of rolling hills below us. Ah! But enough to plot our lines.

We didn't waste any time. Snowshoes off. Riding gear on. Greg noticed a cornice pretty close to where we were standing. Don't go that way," he warned, and moved further down to look over. 

"Are you ready?" he asked. I was. 

He went first, leaping over the top. I could hear his skis scraping the surface and cringed with the same feeling you get when nails scratch a chalkboard. I heard him yell with delight when he hit the powder. I could see him making turns, his arms and poles in the air, a smile radiating from his whole body. 

Then I took off, following a different line, a more conservative one that wove over the hills like a boat on swells. 

The ride down was, of course, awesome. Total untracked powder feeling like velvet rubbing my feet. It's just such an amazing feeling to glide over the contours of the earth, winding through trees, the wind in your face, all on your own power, and the power of gravity. The only bad part is it's over so quickly. But I never care. The hike is worth it just for those few moments of ecstasy and being outdoors for the day. 
In minutes we were completely out of the clouds and back in the forest. It was as if the blizzard and ice and "near-death" moments had never happened. 

Greg kept his skis on through the woods, winding through the brush with great skill; but I had to unstrap and walk, as snowboarders do, over the logs and uneven terrain. He went ahead and waited, skied some more and waited, skied ahead again and waited, and so on until we reached the open runs of the ski area. By then it was almost dark. 

At the top of Sourdough, I took one more look at the valley below, seeing the lights of the airport and a jet coming in for a landing. I took a deep breath and put on my board. We rode the rest of the way to the lodge, reaching the car about 3:30, home by 4:00, just as my daughter was getting off the bus from school.