The Snowboarder's Journal - The Snowboarder's Journal 21.4
HUMBLE PIE IN TUCKERMAN RAVINE
Words: Ralph Kucharek. Photos and Captions: Nathanael Asaro. 2024-01-29 10:53:23
Ralph Kucharek, John “JG” Gerndt, and John Murphy enjoying a party lap at the top of Hillman’s Highway.
Standing at 6,288 feet, Mount Washington, NH, is the tallest mountain in the northeastern United States. I live in nearby Vermont, yet it took me until last spring to finally go ride Mount Washington and its iconic eastward-sloping glacial cirque, Tuckerman Ravine. That’s because—in all honesty—it never sounded too appealing.
I’d heard numerous stories that never resonated with my approach to snowboarding. They involved waking up at 3 a.m. to score a parking spot at the trailhead, crampons and ice axes, no-fall zones, high avalanche danger, a crowded bowl and potential peanut gallery by lunchtime. But toward the end of last season my skepticism finally faded. I ventured to Tuck with a group of close friends to experience this side of East Coast snowboard lore. Our crew consisted of first-timers, several-timers and decorated ravine veterans.
Nestled on the backside of Mount Washington, Tuckerman Ravine receives some of the gnarliest weather on the planet. From 230-plus mph wind speed records to minus-50 degree Fahrenheit temperatures, Mount Washington is temperamental at best. The ravine itself is a bowl with several different aspects. It’s steep, like don’t-fall-because-you-won’t-stop steep. On top of that there are gullies, snowfields and open faces, water features and terrain traps. Simply put, Tuckerman has some serious, and seriously good, terrain. Unfortunately, due to its size and harrowing weather, it is often too dangerous to ride during the winter. To do so requires proper avalanche training, a trustworthy crew and rare weather windows.
With such high winds, snow blows down consistently from the snowfields above, slowly filling the bowl. Eventually the rocky gap from the bottom and top becomes bridged and the main stage takes form. During the middle of winter this area can be deadly due to poor snow stability, but as our annual spring warm-up hits, the snowpack transitions to a corn snow cycle. That’s when the masses start migrating to Mount Washington. April 2023 had 70-degree temperatures in store for most of the East Coast, and one of those days forecasted light winds. We were looking for our window and we found it.
At 4 a.m. Tomas Ruprecht and I were on our way to pick up John Murphy and Holly Greenleaf to drive from Vermont to the Granite State. We fought early morning fatigue and discussed what we’d include in our day packs, if we’d hike in boots or shoes, how much water we should carry, and ultimately if we had chosen the right day to execute this season-capping adventure. Upon arrival in the lot, it was 50 degrees and sunny. That’s where we found the rest of our crew: John “JG” Gerndt, Toby Parke, Sam Watson, Jeff Rawlins, Josh Merson, and Nathanael Asaro. We assembled our gear and headed toward the trailhead with boards on our packs and poles in hand. Within 20 minutes we’d reached a waterfall and multiple groups of hikers with similar intentions. By the time we’d gotten halfway up the 2,000-vertical-foot climb to the bottom of the bowl we’d encountered more than two dozen people. JG told us this was a mellow spring day as far as traffic was concerned.
The bowl appeared out of nowhere. It was lit up like a brightly glowing light bulb and you could almost feel the sunrays bounce back from a half-mile away. Backdropped by a bluebird sky and with not a hint of wind in the air, I knew we had made the right decision. I even started to question why I hadn’t come sooner. Nathanael’s and Toby’s eyes said, “I told you so.” My first snack of the day was a hefty slice of humble pie.
I continued hiking behind JG and Toby, who led the push forward after our crew rested, recharged, and got water at the Hermit Lake Shelters, a campsite on the eastern slopes of the mountain. Toby is more than 10 years my elder and has visited Tuckerman Ravine numerous times. JG has been riding Mount Washington since the late ’70s and early ’80s, even testing some of Burton’s early prototypes there. Because I find the coolest part of snowboarding to be how well we share knowledge and experiences between generations, it felt fitting to hike with them as I learned more about this iconic place.
We meandered to the base of the aptly dubbed Lunch Rocks where we regrouped for a closer look at Tuckerman. JG pointed out different routes like Left Gully, Right Gully, the Chute, Hillman’s Highway, and the Wall. Thanks to some late-season storms the snow looked incredible, the canvas virtually untouched. No big runnels, no sluff at the bottom of each run, and seemingly very rideable from top to bottom.
As we scoped, we saw the familiar faces of Eli Olson and Bar Dadon begin to hike up the bootpack, which looked like a string of ants climbing up a ladder. Some folks riding down delivered a slushy report, so we decided to drop the ice axes and make our ascent. We hiked Left Gully because it was a more gradual pitch, rather than going straight up the center of the bowl. Halfway up and looking back, my semi-sickening instincts reminded me that I’m afraid of heights. As I inched toward the top my second helping of humble pie was well digested, this time I accepted firsthand how gnarly of a place Tuckerman is. It turned out I wasn’t alone as most of our crew felt more proficient at riding than hiking.
Atop the bowl, all we had to guide us were some photos we’d shot on our phones and a few mental markers we’d made on the way up. Nathanael insisted on going first so he could shoot all of us riding down. We lost sight of him shortly after he dipped over a butterfly-inducing convex roll, but he buzzed the radio a minute later and reported the snow was great. By then it was 50 degrees Fahrenheit, the sun was beaming on us from every direction, and it was still only 10 a.m. We knew the snow wouldn’t hold up for long. JG led Holly and Tomas toward Center Gully and the Lip, which they all ripped together. Toby and Sam rode a line together through the icefall straight down the bowl. Watching as everyone disappeared into what felt like the great beyond, it became even easier to sense why people flock to Mount Washington every spring by the thousands.
I was next. I reached down and ratcheted my straps one more time, pulled my backpack’s chest strap tight, then signaled my drop. My edges ripped into the face of the chute, allowing me to turn on the flank I’d scoped from below. Regrouping with the crew at Lunch Rocks, we quickly set off for another hike to the top. We were excited to take the next run all the way to the valley floor.
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