I returned to Roger’s Pass Lake on April 16. A two-day storm had dropped three fresh feet on James Peak Wilderness. The storm was still dumping snow as I parked my truck at the Moffat Tunnel. Big fluffy flakes were falling so fast that I couldn’t see the tunnel from where I parked — less than a hundred yards away. With my snowshoes strapped to my feet and my snowboard strapped to my pack, I started off for Roger’s Pass. Roxy and Powder paddled through the deep snow to blaze the way. A mile up the trail, the storm broke to release the sun’s hot rays upon the mountainside. I was way overdressed — especially for shouldering the weight of my snowboard, snowboard boots, helmet and goggles, lunch, water, extra layers, dog food, and an assortment of winter survival supplies crammed into my pack. Even after shedding every possible layer and opening every vent, including my fly, I was a sweaty mess long before I made it to the lake.

It took four backbreaking hours to reach Roger’s Lake, rather than the two hours the prior trip took. My shoulders ached. My legs were shot. The sun had baked the three dusty feet of champagne powder into two feet of sloppy mashed potatoes. And the steepest climb was yet ahead. I considered stopping to eat my lunch, but I knew I’d never go any further. And the possible turns-to-be-had by dropping off the ridge above seemed to somehow brew a strange new energy from some reserve tank that I never knew I had. I made Roxy and Powder “Stay” at a high spot above the lake, where I was certain they would be safe if I happened to trigger an avalanche, and I continued to climb.

The last pitch was steep. Every straight-up step was heavy with quickly melting powder that stuck to my snowshoes like wet cement. I dug a pit to find that the new snow, now melted to a sloppy six inches, to be weighing heavy on a fragile five-foot wind slab — atop a foot of sugary snow with no integrity. The conditions were prime for a slide. But I just had to climb higher. The upper ridge spilled into a valley where the wall on either side climbed to a flat that I considered safe from any avalanche path. I figured I could ride close enough to the southern edge that I could race up and over if I happened to trigger a slide — a foolish notion, I know, but when those chemicals start swirling around the brain, common sense seems to take a back seat.

The cornice at the top of the ridge was curled like a tidal wave. I so badly wanted to drop off it. I was less than a thousand feet from the top when I realized I would be an idiot to consider it. The next wave of the storm was blowing over the Divide as I laced my snowboard boots. I put my snowshoes in my pack, strapped my snowboard to my feet, and I dropped into the slushy heaven. I floated an epic line into the valley, where Roxy and Powder barked their disapproval of my careless ways. I looked back one last time to make sure I hadn’t triggered a slide, and then I let out a whistle to let the dogs know they could follow.

We ate a very late lunch after I reached the cover of the trees, but not before I dropped a nice ten-foot cliff that I spotted on the way up. The storm had settled right on top of us. The temperature plummeted. As fast as I scarfed my sandwich, almost as fast as the dogs inhaled their kibble, I still wasn’t able to strap-in and make my final descent before the slushy fresh snow started to freeze. It was a wild and sketchy ride down through the tight trees. I nearly sailed over the edge and into the river at least a dozen times. It was a great ride. It took nearly five hours to hike to the top. It took less than an hour to ride down — and that’s counting a ten-minute lunch break.

This descent was far more thrilling than my previous hike down — I’m sure the dogs would disagree. Grappling a foot of icy sludge, at full sprint, with a dog’s determination that wouldn’t allow them to fall behind, they chased my tail at a pace that would make most men’s heart explode. And they didn’t give up until I slid to a stop before the train tracks. They were sound asleep in the bed of Betty White Truck before the Moffat Tunnel faded in the rearview mirror.

They weren’t the greatest turns of the season, a few epic powder days at Steamboat this year can’t be matched, but the work to get them will make them some of the most memorable.

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