Skiing Argenta as a Cure for Grumpiness

A decent view of Argenta's upper reaches and mid-section. Skiing from the headwall isn't uncommon, but summiting Kessler provides far better views. Well worth the extra minutes.

Facing a time crunch but yearning to get on the two new feet of snow, I headed for a quick, late afternoon lap up Argenta.  When I write, ‘yearning’ I’m being less than specific.  Several people besides myself have noticed that I get grumpy if I haven’t

been out skiing for a while.  This probably makes me a load of fun to be around in late summer, by which time the majority of skiable terrain has melted away.  Moving from the ridiculous to the sublime, however:

Midway up Argenta, moments before the snow rolled in.

Being in a real hurry in the mountains is somewhat akin to asking for trouble by hanging around with a drunk.  Something is bound to happen eventually, and that something will be unpleasant.  This was no exception, as, bringing not one shred of extra gear in keeping with the light and fast ideal, I quickly regretted it.  I headed up wearing only a short sleeved Smartwool shirt with a paper thin coat over it, to rebuff any wind I might encounter.  My pants were also paper thin with no additional benefit beneath them.  This was perfect as I left the car, skinning upward at my version of a sprint.  Not thirty minutes later, dripping sweat and breathing like Super Saver who was simultaneously in the process of winning the Kentucky Derby, I noted the blizzard which had rolled in.

I'll smile in any weather conditions! A view down the line as the snow rolls in.

I’m not one to complain about snow, but based on my clothing selection, I could venture salubriously that I wasn’t expecting adverse weather.  The temperature dropped almost as fast as the wind speed increased.  The good news is that as long as one is headed uphill, it’s hard to get exceedingly cold.

The uppermost, final pitch.

Stopping at the top to field two coordinating phone calls and transition – including removing my skins, switching my Dynafit bindings to ski mode from free heel mode, and pulling on a helmet – even from behind a wind sheltering lip on the ridge, I was quickly numb.  More incentive to get down the mountain fast, in powder!

One thing that’s nice about starting your ski day at 4:12 is the distinct lack of crowds.  It’s similar in some ways to alpine starts which often begin at the same time number, just 12 hours earlier, except in this case, someone else has already broken the trail, so it’s a lot easier to focus one’s efforts on speed.  As happens often for me in the Wasatch, I didn’t see another person during my visit, despite the vast amount of light, generously portioned snow.

Edging off, my first turn scraped ever so slightly on hard material where wind had moved some of the latest bounty.  From there though, it was pure new snow touching my skis as I made fast, fun turns through a small gully in the trees.  I skirted the tracks of earlier users, and headed onto the open main field.  ‘Open,’ as applied in the Wasatch, often means no big trees, but plenty of shrubbery.  I am frequently reminded that Roger the Shrubber, of Monte Python fame, might have retired after that film and spent the next thirty years planting shrubbery in Utah’s mountains.

A nice pitch leading into Rogerland.

As I was in a hurry, I glided large arcing turns, avoiding Roger’s handiwork as best as possible, until the burning in my legs was too much for me.  A moment of rest to allow the sting to fade, then off again, eventually feeling the snow change to a creamy, heavier sort as the lower elevation temperatures had warmed the lowest section.  Heavier snow plus abundant shrubbery makes for awkward turns, but I was quickly at the creek crossing regardless.  Snow from the abundant face shots clung to my frontside up to my chest, and my hands were still numb, but the car and its heater were moments away.

The last pitch. Skirting other tracks by heading skier's left was the ticket for more untracked.

Satiated, any potential former grumpiness now a thing of the past, I smiled as I climbed up to the road, and walked back to my car.  There aren’t too many places one can live where squeezing a quick backcountry ski run in between commitments is possible.  The Wasatch, as usual, provided the opportunity to create some good cheer in myself.