"Published in Daily Mail Ski (U.K.) November 1999. Photos by Tom Evans Chris will make an attempt to ski the West Rib on Denali in May 2000" click on images to enlarge		Skiing In The Shadow of Denali By: Chris Davenport During the brief time it takes to fly from Talkeetna to the mouth of the great Ruth Gorge, one undergoes a transformation, or more accurately an attitude adjustment. We arrived in Talkeetna fresh off ten days of amazing, steep heli-skiing in the Chugach Range and were overflowing with energy and emotion. The fact that we were accompanied by a Warren Miller film crew only fueled our desire for the biggest, steepest slopes we could find. As we were about to find out, everything is big and steep in the Alaska Range, and humbled barely does justice to our attitude adjustment. Paul Roderick, owner of Talkeetna Air Taxi, took off from the glacial runway in his custom Cessna 182 ski plane, taking with him our only connection to civilization. As the drone of the plane’s engine disappeared around the massive granite walls of the Moose’s Tooth, we stood in silence, totally enveloped by gigantic walls off ice and rock. The power and energy of the terrain that surrounded us was indescribable. Five individuals dwarfed by the tallest peaks on the continent, and home to some of the worst weather on Earth. But with nothing but blue skies above the horizon, our eyes finally settled on the summit of Denali; 5 miles away but more then 13,000 feet above us. We were in awe. The Ruth Amphitheater is a massive glacial expanse formed by the confluence of the West, northwest, and North forks of the mighty Ruth Glacier. Millions of tons of ice flow off the East buttress and Southeast Spur of Denali into the broad amphitheater, only to get slammed into the granite walls of the Gargoyle and Mt. Barille. Here the ice gets funneled into the "Great Gorge" of the Ruth. Beneath these shear 2000-4000 foot granite cliffs, the ice is almost 4000 feet thick. The Ruth gorge is known world wide as a big wall climbers paradise. One could spend a cold lifetime here, establishing new routes on the immense vertical playground that is the Ruth Gorge. The area is also a popular destination for flight-seers and fixed wing glacial landings, due to its wild scenery, wide landing zones, and the fact that most of the Ruth lies outside the Denali Park Wilderness boundary. No aircraft of any kind (except official rescue helicopters) may land within the boundaries of the park. Flying into the Alaska Range is a truly humbling experience. Both Swany and I have skied in big mountains around the world; the Andes, the Alps, the Chugach, but this place is different. The size and scale of the terrain is only rivaled by the great peaks of the Himalaya. What sets the Alaska Range apart from the Himalaya, however, is it’s position on the Earth. While most of the Earth’s great ranges lie between 45 degrees north and south latitude, the Alaska Range across 62 degrees north, putting it chillingly close to the arctic circle and the polar jet stream. For this reason, the Alaska Range is considered the coldest, most inhospitable mountain environment on Earth. Many a world class mountaineer has suffered through long expeditions here, only to leave unsuccessful, wondering how a mountain could be so cold. It is for this reason that the main climbing season is in May and June. We were rolling the dice by coming in March. With all of this information regarding the range assimilated, our expedition prepared itself for what we thought would be the worst possible combination of wind, snow, and cold temperatures. Luck was on our side however. As our expedition began, a huge high pressure system had parked itself over central Alaska. This system kept the skies in bluebird condition, but it also sucked every degree of warmth out of the mountains. We found out later that Alaskans call this weather pattern a "mega-block", a high pressure ridge so strong that all storms are forced around it. So we were faced with bitter night time temps of -10 to -20 degrees Fahrenheit, while during the day the sun’s ultra-violet rays would warm the glacier to a comfortable 30 degrees. To be efficient on an expedition, a team needs to establish routines. Water needs to be boiled, food cooked, tents dug out, socks and boot liners dried, and climbing and ski routes planned. Each morning we would awake before the sun in our frost encrusted dome tents and immediately boil water for hot drinks. An hour later we would emerge from our bags to face the arduous task of getting into our ski boots for the long slog across the glacier. Our camp on the Ruth Glacier was surrounded by towering walls which kept us in the freezing shade all morning. It wasn’t until we had traversed the glacier for an hour and climbed another hour up a couloir that the sun would hit us and we could absorb its warming rays. By the summit, that dreaded feeling of frozen feet was dissipating and individual toes could be distinguished. With the return of this tarsal sensation came our desire to savor the magnificent. The section of the Ruth Glacier we crossed each morning was relatively crevasse free compared to the horrendous Great Gorge. Yet we always traveled in rope teams, with the leader probing suspicious areas for shallow bridges and holes. Successful navigation of the glacier brought us to the wild East Ridge of the Rooster Comb, a jagged, heinous peak plastered with blue ice, hanging seracs, Winnebago sized cornices, and lose vertical rock bands. This peak was enticing from a climbers standpoint, but daunting from a skiers view. Prior to landing on the Ruth, out pilot Paul had given us a "fly by" of this face and we had spied several fat couloirs that appeared to have enough seasonal snow in them to allow a sane ski descent. The snow conditions, however, were not like the great maritime powder we so confidently skied in the Chugach Range of south-eastern Alaska. We found various forms of wind slab, wind deposited powder, sun crust, depth hoar, and black ice. While our ongoing analysis of the snow pack often brought up questions, we felt confident in the overall condition of the snow for a ski descent. Had it snowed more than a foot during our trip we would have been to scared of the ensuing slab avalanches to even leave our tents. With our skiing dialed from a season of free skiing competitions and big mountain riding, it was time to focus on the mountaineering side of our sport. With ice tools, crampons, ropes, and screws, we ascended the couloirs we hoped to ski. The largest of the three lines we successfully skied had several tough cruxes. We were first faced with the bergschrund at the bottom. As the relatively flat glacier pulls away from the steeper faces, it leaves a large horizontal crack, or crevasse. As I climbed up and across the "schrund", I was able to see probably 30 feet down into the abyss. It was a committing move but safe with a good rope belay and firmly planted ice tools. We next moved up through a 60 degree gully that bottlenecked to four feet wide and was choked with black ice. Covering this ice was several inches of unconsolidated sugar snow, which is not the easiest medium to climb in. But after brushing away the snow, the ice held the picks of our tools well. I traded leads with Swany as we ascended higher and higher into the couloir. We moved well as a team and made fast progress towards the final overhanging cornice near the summit. From our base camp, we estimated this cornice to be 10 to 15 feet tall at it’s highest point. Unsure of it’s stability, we climbed with one eye always glued to this overhanging monster. The closer we got to the cornice, the more we realized how wrong we had been in our earlier assessment of it’s size. The cornice was more like 30 feet tall and hung out ten feet over the couloir. We were awestruck by it’s magnitude and puzzled by how we were going to surmount it. We determined that barring any earthquakes of great magnitude the cornice wasn’t going anywhere. I was nominated by Swany to lead over the cornice. Apprehensive at first, the vertical pitch turned out to be fun and safe. Arriving on top of the ridge was one of those "white moments" we all search for in life but rarely attain. A vista greater than any we had ever seen opened up before us. With Mt. Hunter and Mt. Foraker in the distance, and the sick north face of Mt. Huntington looming above, it would be impossible to describe how small and insignificant we felt. Yet on this ridge we overflowed with energy and a zest for life. The skies were blue and there was no breathe of wind. As skiers and mountaineers it was here, on this steep, exposed ridge that we felt most comfortable in life. A spiritual satisfaction indicative of true love of the mountain and there sports. There are great things to be said about burning lungs and cramped thighs after a 3000 foot climb and ski descent. I looked at Swany and he at me, grinning from ear to ear, not needing to verbalize his emotion. I checked with the camera crew far below on the glacier. They were ready. "OK, ten seconds," I said. I dropped in off the cornice and the payoff was huge. Turn after turn of steep powder on a big alpine couloir. The run seemed to take but a split second, but gave two minutes of footage for the camera. I dropped to the glacier, exhausted, as my radio chirped. "That was sick! Send Swany", said the cameraman "This is Swany, dropping!" I watched in awe as Swany effortlessly linked mountaineers turns down the powder filled center of the line. With one final jump over the bergschrund we regrouped on the glacier with a huge high five and a hug. We shook our heads in disbelief. Certainly one of the best runs of my life, and captured on film to boot. The rest of the week gave similar experiences. We climbed and skied two more big lines on the Rooster Comb, then, satisfied with our climbing, spent a day finding cliffs and seracs to hurl ourselves off, always landing up to our necks in dry continental powder. We came to the Alaska Range in search of long, steep lines in a big alpine environment. With the right amount of respect, patience, and motivation, we got what we had come for, endless turns in the steep white world.

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