The Snowboarder's Journal - The Snowboarder's Journal 21.3
IMAGINARY PEAKS: Constant Change in the Frank Church Wilderness Area
Words: Sam Thackeray 2023-12-06 11:10:55
Sam Thackeray riding a couloir called Murphy’s Law. Photo: Jess A.
Spanning approximately 2.3 million acres, the Frank Church wilderness area is the largest wilderness in the lower 48. The vast area is home to several of the country’s greatest multiday river trips, the second-deepest canyon in North America, herds of elk, deer, bighorn sheep, black bears, wolves, bald eagles and not much else. Our plan is to splitboard across its expanse, descending as many beautiful lines as we can along the way. It seems simple enough on paper. Reality will present its own challenges, though.
Established in 1980 by Congress under the Wilderness Act, Frank Church was named for its champion, Senator Frank Church from Idaho, who essentially lost his job to see this area protected. It was not a popular decision among the people of local communities, whose livelihoods depended on cattle, logging and mining. The area’s full name is the Frank Church—River of No Return Wilderness Area, but to those who hold it near and dear, it’s the Frank.
I’m traveling with Brian Peters, the kind of guy who possesses such overwhelming enthusiasm and positivity that occasionally it makes you want to punch him in the face. He is especially stoked on skiing and is tenfold excited about skiing in remote places. If the mission involves a lot of slogging and suffering, so much the better. Brian invited his friend Jess. Jess is mellow, friendly and thoughtful. He’s a bit of a philosopher and as fit and strong as they come, an ultramarathoner and ex-climbing ranger of 15 years. I was quite intimidated by his resume, but he is kind, patient and great company on the skin track.
As with any good adventure, our plans are in constant flux. Before we even set out on snow, we learn that an avalanche is blocking our access road and the county isn’t planning to clear it until late spring. No problem, we’ll just add a day and 15 more miles of travel. On the morning of our departure, I pull up to Brian’s house to pick up him and Jess and am immediately confronted with further complications: The flight company that is resupplying us won’t be able to land at our planned airstrip due to poor conditions. OK, Plan B: We’ll go farther south to a different strip and spend more time walking on dirt. Fully committed.
We pull up to the D3+ avalanche debris pile to two machine operators slowly working on clearing the blockage. With a lot of grunting and moaning we shoulder our 65-plus-pound packs and, one foot in front of the other, head east. Almost immediately the weight of our isolation sinks in. We are at least a day’s walk from the nearest thing representing civilization. The stakes out here are high. A small mistake could be catastrophic and no one is coming to get us. It’s going to take everything we have learned from our decades of experience to pull off this mission.
Our ability to adjust our plans based on what the mountains give us plays a major role in our success. The second morning provides us the opportunity to make an unplanned adjustment to climb and ride a couloir that would prove to be one of the most aesthetic lines of the trip on undoubtedly the best snow. We take full advantage and set the tone—ride for the morning, then move camp.
We stick to this routine as much as possible, but the terrain doesn’t always sync its rhythm with ours. We run into days of slogging. Sixty-mile-per-hour winds leave trees scattered like toothpicks across the mountains. We come across regenerating lodgepole pines so thick that riding through them is concerningly difficult. Terrain so steep and snow so icy that skinning becomes impossible. The snow is also not strong enough to support our weight while bootpacking, leaving us sinking to our waists with each step. Logs and sharp granite create obstacles that threaten to destroy both our equipment and ACLs. These are ego-shattering conditions, especially while riding with heavy packs. Creek crossings and dense brush tear at our clothing and slow our pace to a crawl.
Each obstacle takes a toll on our equipment. Nearly everything I’ve brought is damaged or destroyed, the worst being a broken binding baseplate on day 12. It’s an essential piece for moving in the mountains in any capacity, so I had to get creative. I splint it with sticks and Voile straps, which allows me to complete the trip but brings an end to being able to confidently snowboard anything of consequence.
What these challenges never manage to break is our spirit or positivity. Undoubtedly, we all have gone to dark places at times during this trip as we have been pushed physically and mentally. But no one ever cracks, no one ever melts down. At some point, we’re forced into seeing that the position we’ve put ourselves in is so ridiculous that we have no other option but to laugh. When all is said and done, the traverse will have taken us 16 days, over 130 miles and 67,000 vertical feet. The numbers, however, are insignificant. We have come out the other side knowing we can push harder than we imagined. Our friendships have been cemented in the depths of the wilderness. And our appreciation for our families, friends and a place forgotten by the greater world has grown to previously unattainable heights.
The trip isn’t all beatdowns. We make 10 notable descents, each with its own distinct character. The aesthetic and five-star snow in Murphy’s Law couloir. The thrill of ripping giant turns on the open face of Rainbow. Riding straight to camp after picking my way down the Nautilus Chute and then looking back up a face that easily holds 10 more lines. Party shredding the low-angle burn into Brush Creek, which seems to go on forever. Riding off the summit of the tallest peak in the range. Brian’s unfettered stoke and gratitude after riding the Lucky 13 couloir. Highlights I will not soon forget, each made sweeter knowing it may be the only time I ever ride them.
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