Colfax South Couloir

Original trip report: https://engineeredforadventure.com/colfax-south-couloir/

Background

The south couloir of Colfax Peak stares at you every time you climb the Easton or Squak route. It's got that it's right there vibe, yet it's much further away than that. I've heard tales of harrowing experiences on the line for such a 'roadside' attraction, of steep icy to a large runnel to huge avalanches running from its upper hourglass feature. Still, it's been on the mind but the alignment of stars had been fickle.

Earlier this year, Nick, Lane and I went to try and ski it in January but found icy and just generally shitty conditions. Last week it saw a lot of traffic and Nick shared an Instagram post from local climber Eric Gilbertson that stoked the fire again to try it. Porter and I had blocked off Thurs-Fri to go into the hills and we were psyched to line it up with Nick. Back we went...

Trip Report

We met up on the road to Schriebers Meadow the night before, making it within ~0.5 miles of the trailhead. We agreed to wake up around 5:15A the next morning and leave by 6A, budgeting ourselves 6 hours to get to the top of the line for a ~noon drop-in time. We'd read that the ascent routes were in good shape and we forewent trail runners, skinning from near the car with a brief section of dry booting in the forest.

The walk up the Squak was quite normal, with rhythms of chit-chatting, bantering, and venting (sorry Nick). We traversed over beneath Sherman towards Pumice Ridge and followed the nice broad ridge to top out Colfax. A lingering summit cloud rolled in high above just as we were reaching the top of Colfax but the snow had already been softened, pre-cooked corn.

We snacked briefly on the summit of Colfax; Nick and I were psyched to rest our behinds atop the peak, never having made the trek over.

In terms of 'the line', our plan was roughly as follows:

• We'd take a high-drop into the line from the summit; there's a little chute looker's left / skier's right above the saddle.
• That would lead us into the upper 'hourglass' feature, which eventually narrows down to a choke point lower down that often runnels out.
• We would push skier's right onto a panel to avoid the runnel, which had some rocks to navigate but looked to go clean. From there it'd be plumb down to the schrund', which looked bridged in spots.

Seemed simple enough.

And honestly, it was. Until it wasn't.

Porter and Nick went first, navigating down the upper chute to the upper hourglass with ease. I followed, enjoying great corn in so-so light. The conditions were superb though, that lovely flavor of corn where your tails clear the surface like a butter knife, greasing the toast beneath with the perfect schmear. The upper pitch was enjoyable, albeit steep! We all remarked how steep the line was, one of the lines that feels steeper than it looks (I often feel like it's the opposite but maybe that's just wrong). I leapfrogged past Nick and Porter down to where we would veer skier's right onto the panel to avoid the runnel. I pulled up at a 'decent' spot, radioed up, they then followed to me.

Perched atop this steep panel out skier's right, I asked if anyone wanted the rest. Nick pushed in front, making a few turns then braking quickly. Huh, this snow is really weird, he remarked. He got his ice axe out and began side-stepping and side-slipping. He noted an inch or two of soft, mushy snow over ice, not a delightful sundae. There were some moats and rocky features to deal with too, it all seemed a bit funky.

To be honest, Porter and I stood up there a bit perplexed. The surface looked okay, but clearly was causing pause. Hmmm... Nick made his way carefully down, then skied out the bottom and radioed up.

It'd been a few minutes waiting up on the perch, watching an excellent skier carefully make his way down the slope; I needed a few turns to get the juices flowing again. I made a few hop turns above where Nick had been, finding good snow still. Then I made one that raised the same hairs, I see what he's talking about, I called up to Porter. I got my axe out too, shushing around and finding weird patches of ice and slush. I re-shouldered it though to make another turn, I never feel like I can make good steep turns with axe in hand (and no, I don't like Whippets).

My memory of the rest is all a little fuzzy, but I'll recount what I remember at least, acknowledging that there may be moments of blur...

I made one more turn to get my skis back around, pointing towards the runnel. Then I hit a patch of ice, finding the harsh flavor of Slushee that gives the brain freeze. I started to wash out while still standing upright, my edges not biting into the ice. . . yes, you can call it an 'uncontrolled slide'. My skis stayed beneath me, the only thing going through my head: don't tip. Whatever you do, don't tip. If you do, you're fucked. Thankfully most of the line was above me at this point, but there were still some rocks and slopes below. I slid maybe ~10 feet or so to my skier's left, then came to rest when my uphill ski edge finally bit on some softer ice.

Is Sam okay?, Nick asked over the radio, seeing the situation unfold below.

Yeah, I'm okay. Just getting my axe, I responded.

My axe was a little tricky to get from my shoulder in the position I was in; I went for it, realizing that my ski edge was gonna give way at some point. I looked down, thinking about what I'd do if my ski blew again. Keep your weight into the slope, skis below you. Don't tip.

In shifting my weight to get the axe, my upper ski edge blew again and I had another ~5-10 foot slide further skier's left onto a small little rock island, where finally I felt secure. Edges grabbing on the rock, I had a little sigh of relief, although I know that this one looked scarier to Nick and Porter. From this perch, I could hop my way off the rocks and get down towards the runnel, which would get me down safely. Phew.

I made my way down to Nick, where we both had a moment of fuck man, that was. . . scary. Porter made his way down carefully, sidestepping/sideslipping with axe in hand closer to the runnel, giving us a chuckle when he reached us as well. The tension was pretty palpable though, with the cloud cover above amplifying the well shit feeling.

So, unpacking this all. . .

The buzz of emotions settled as we ascended back to the Squak. I felt a few waves of emotion, the first being frustration and anger at myself. Why did I have to make that one turn?? Why did I not just follow Nick's lead and sidestep down with axe?? Fucking idiot! I talked this one through with the group, apologizing for what I felt like was an avoidable series of turns. They tried to assuage me, saying that it seemed like one of those situations where someone finds conditions different than the other person. Regardless, I felt culpable for being the one to take the skitter, uncontrolled slide, whatever you wanna call it. It was a fucking close call, with toes locked. Not how I like to operate.

The second emotion I went through was being bummed; I felt so good on my skis for the upper 2/3 of the line, making turns on the steep corn and feeling confident, glued to the line, in tune with my movement. Chest down the slope, lean, push, tip the skis, clear the tails. The mental motions of a steep turn, echoing through my mind. Yes, that's the dopamine talking. How it could go from feeling so good to being the one to skitter, damn. I was glad I kept it together and stayed on my skis, but still, I don't like fucking up a turn.

Finally, the feeling of 'this is a free lesson, learn from it' as we unpacked it more and more. We talked through it, acknowledging that when one of us goes down a slope, we should really entrust that person with the slope assessment and follow suit accordingly. Seeing Nick make his way down that slope, I should have just followed in the same way, axe in hand, taking my time and not gaining speed, not adjusting my center of mass unless necessary. Easy to say in hindsight, a little harder in practice.

--

Overall, the line was great, but a little too close a call to just chock up to 'I had an icy turn'. I wish I could say differently, but I'm not going to lie to myself. The mountains remind you, hopefully infrequently, that you're not perfect, and Thursday was one of those reminders. I'm not perfect, I found a patch of snow where I shouldn't have been making a turn and thankfully it didn't bite me, just my edges. . . eventually.