Photo: The author telemark skiing on Berthoud Pass, Co 1978. Steve Markusen Collection.
Arriving at Grand Teton National Park headquarters, a park ranger is waiting for me at the door. It is 8:30 am on Wednesday January 8th, 2025. My friend Nick, a climbing ranger supervisor invited me to give a 30 minute talk to a group of park rangers participating in a two-day avalanche seminar.
We enter the conference room with morning sunlight flooding through large windows and a world-class view of the rugged snow draped Tetons. Around the conference table sit twenty park rangers in full uniform. Nick introduces me to the group. Nervously I gaze around the room at the professionals half my age. It’s my last day of a six day solo backcountry ski trip. I’m no one famous just a 70 year old geezer from Minnesota here to talk about fifty two years of backcountry skiing. Maybe that’s special. With that thought, I take a deep breath and launch into my story.
The Early Years 1972 to 1980
There was a group of us, students at Colorado State University in Ft. Collins, Colorado from 1972 to 1976. Experienced alpine skiers, we were attracted by the forbidden slopes of untouched powder snow laying outside the ski area boundaries. We made our own skis out of WW II 10th Mountain Division skis.
Photo: Bob McCord applying kick wax on modified WWII 10th Mountain Division skis, Rocky Mountain National Park, CO, 1973. Steve Markusen Collection.
What we lacked in knowledge, we made up in youthful enthusiasm. Our packs carried no avalanche beacons, probes or shovels. We had no cell phones, GPS or avalanche bulletins. As we became more experienced and competent skiers, we ventured onto steeper terrain.
Photo: Bob McCord launching off a cornice, Telluride CO, 1974. Steve Markusen collection.
In the 1975, the north facing bowls south of Vail Pass held untracked powder days after a storm. At the top of the bowl, Bob pointed his skis downhill and shoved off. He made one turn and the width of the slope fractured with a two foot crown and started to slide. I yelled, “Avalanche, avalanche!” I watched Bob struggling to stay upright as big blocks of sliding snow pushed him around. In a matter of seconds, his bamboo poles twisted and exploded. The avalanche swept him into a rock, the snow piling over him pining him to the outcrop. The snowy torrent swept around the rock like a river current finally coming to rest on the flats 300 feet below. Silence. After what seemed like forever, but probably only seconds, I heard a faint voice cry out, “I’m okay but I can’t move.” I skied down to him and dug him out with my hands and ski. He was unhurt.
Photos: Bob’s avalanche. You can see where his tracks on the far right hit the crown. He is pinned against the big rock center covered by snow blocks. Vail Pass 1975. Steve Markusen Collection
Having one of your party totally focused on the objective without regard to risk is one of the most dangerous situations in backcountry skiing as well as one of the most difficult to control.
The Middle Years: 1980 to1989
By the early 1980s, most of our group left Colorado, but a few of us stayed. Backcountry gear improved and we had real jobs so we could afford to buy it. We headed out seeking bigger and steeper lines in the Colorado backcountry.
Photo: The author with Nanda following. Vail Pass, 1988. Steve Markusen Collection
One of our favorite areas was the peaks north of I-80 above Vail Pass. Easy access, great skiing and no tracks provided endless opportunities. My dog, Nanda Devi, joined us on these forays. It was a bluebird day on Vail Pass in March of 1988. Ten inches of fresh snow blanketed the peaks. A stiff breeze sent plumes of snow off the high peaks. Dale, Dave, Nanda and I made our way to timberline to a big east-facing bowl. I made a ski cut and turned. The snow was thick, but skiable. On the second turn I heard the guys yelling, “Avalanche, avalanche!” Out of the corner of my left eye I could see snow on the move. A quick turn to the right and I shot into the safety of trees. I was safe, but Nanda wasn’t. She always followed my tracks down the slope and this time was no different. The wave of churning snow swept her up. The avalanche hit the flats, Nanda disappeared, and the snow came to rest. Silence.
Photo: Dave and Dale gazing at Nanda’s avalanche. If you look closely, halfway down the slide and 20 feet from the left edge, you can see where Nanda dug herself out and then walked down and out to the edge of the debris. Vail Pass, CO. 1988. Steve Markusen Collection.
We had no way to locate her except to start probing. Then we saw it… movement. First a black nose, then a white paw. Nanda dug herself partially out, then squirmed and squeezed her lean body out of the white prison. She shook her body free of snow, trotted over to me with tail wagging as if to say, “How about that Dad?”
The decision to ski the bowl in obvious high risk avalanche conditions was dubious at best. Beware the Siren’s call. It is so difficult to stand at the top of a beautiful uncut powder slope and say no; especially after spending the effort to get there.
The Modern Age: 1990 to Present
In 1990, I left Colorado moving my young family to take a job where I grew up in Minnesota. I gave up weekly trips to the mountains for annual trips to Utah and Wyoming. We skied wider and shorter Telemark skis fitted with cable bindings and plastic boots. Using climbing skins instead of wax, we climbed steeper and faster.
Photo: Author waist deep in Grizzly Gulch, Utah 2006. Steve Markusen Collection.
In 2010, I moved to Alpine Touring gear. Each generation of backcountry gear is lighter and makes turning in powder snow easier. My first AT setup weighed 23 pounds. My current skis, bindings and boots weigh 12 pounds. I don’t think my climbing is faster or my turns better over fifty years, but modern equipment has extended my backcountry skiing career into my 70s.
Has technology and information made the sport safer? For thirty four years I did not set off an avalanche or was anyone in my party, including myself, caught and buried. That changed in 2019.
We regrouped in a copse of avalanche stunted trees. Even though we had just skied two thousand feet of soft, deep untracked powder, smiles were muted. We didn’t need an avalanche bulletin to know the avalanche danger was high. It was January 2019 and my sons Max and Charlie, and I were skiing the skiers left of the Ullr slide off the summit of Twenty Five Short in Grand Teton National Park. Looking around I realized we were off-route.
Photo: Charlie (left) and Max (right) on lower Ullr, Grand Teton National Park, WY, 2019. Steve Markusen Collection
Through the waning light obscured by falling snow, I could see a large open slope that dropped steeply into a gully. I didn’t like it. The slope was south facing. I pushed down my pole and below the new snow was a hard sun crust. Continuing our descent, I was now above the steep slope. Max and Charlie waited. I went another thirty yards. I felt movement and looking down, I saw the new snow fracture and release thirty feet below my track. We watched the deadly snow dance down the slope coming to a rest in a deep debris pile in the gully 200 feet below. We regrouped and made it safely back to the car.
A common characteristic of skiing and climbing accidents is the “cascading effect.” This refers to a chain reaction of events where an initial bad decision triggers a series of subsequent bad decisions leading to potentially severe consequences.
Conclusion
I gazed around the room at the group of rangers. I held their attention for twenty five minutes. I said, “Thank you for having my back.”
Nick shook my hand and said, “Great job. Thank you.”
I said, “You’re welcome it was an honor. See you next year.” I slip out the door and head out to ski my last day. I am feeling lucky.
Afterword
The buried ski track winds through Lodgepole pine and Douglas fir; their branches laden with snow. It is 7:30 am January, 2025. The sun peaks over the Gros Ventre Mountains bathing the Teton Pass ridge in morning alpenglow. The air is cold and fresh. Feathery crystals of surface hoar reflect the early light. Peaceful. No wind. Silence.
I have skied thousands of backcountry runs over 52 years. Each trip I ask myself are you getting to old for this, especially by yourself. I never stress myself or my gear. I am slow on the uphill, smooth on the downhill and cautious in suspect terrain. I answer my own question—no, not too old. I’ll be back next year.
I love skiing the backcountry: the solitude, the views, and the unhurried pace. It is perfect for an old geezer. Two days after the storm, the snow is solid: no collapsing, no cracks, no suspect layers. Below my skis is a 1000 foot vertical and 3500 foot long slope of untracked powder snow; one of my favorite lines on Teton Pass. Taking a cleansing breath, I launch making a ski cut and thinking how lucky I am to be here.
Photo: Old geezer tracks Mt Ellie, Teton Pass, WY 2025. Steve Markusen Collection.
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