A ski story from a few years ago. A shorter version appeared in Outside Bozeman last winter (https://outsidebozeman.com/activities/skiing/backcountry-skiing/tootle-loo) and the original draft appeared on this blog.
The Joys of a Long Tootle
Not long ago, backcountry skiing for me was all about challenging tours with steep slopes and demanding terrain. My mind focused on elapsed time, vertical feet, and miles covered. I captured the stats on electronic devices and announced my radness on social media. And I returned from these outings feeling burly, my ego inflated.
Over time, however, I’ve found pleasure in tootling—leisurely outings with little concern for how long or how far or how extreme. While I still strive to ski stellar conditions and challenging terrain, sometimes it’s nice to be out for the sake of being out. During a tootle, I leave my devices at home and stop counting. I find it easier to enjoy the moment, revel in the simplicity of backcountry skiing, and clear my mind of extraneous thoughts.
Last winter, my partner Mike and I discovered that not all tootles are effortless jaunts, and some may require miles of travel, survival-skiing skills, and the willingness to push through tough conditions.
The Ultimate Tootle
Our tootle came when Southwest Montana had gone over a week without snow. After several days of above freezing temperatures great ski conditions were elusive, so our options were to sit home and sulk or to get creative.
After studying maps, Mike and I found an outing for the conditions at hand. We had explored the area before, so we didn’t expect too many steep spots. If conditions were bad, we wouldn’t be committed to risky terrain and we’d enjoy the scenery. The weather forecast called for sunny skies, calm winds and a temperature inversion.
The day began in the comfort of our favorite breakfast place. The dreadlocked baker, often inefficient yet always friendly ski bum staff, and colorful interior haven’t changed since my first visit two decades ago. I ordered the same breakfast sandwich I’ve been ordering forever, and Mike and I lingered while we enjoyed our food. We were getting in a tootling frame of mind.
At the trailhead were pleased to find only one car in the parking lot. As forecasted, it was perfectly sunny. My hands tingled, and a chill penetrated my ski pants as we set out in the minus seven-degree air. Sun wasn’t at full force as we began the rhythmic shuffle across the long, wide-open expanse but constant movement helped keep us warm.
A creek meandered through the silent flat valley. Animal prints dotted the snow, yet ours were the only ski tracks. We skinned along the creek breaking trail with ease and the minutes passed effortlessly. We soon came to the first uphill section of the day and began climbing through the trees before reaching a long ridgeline. Here, we undulated in and of the timber and passed through a few open low-angle meadows as we gained elevation.
Fire-charred trees appeared in intermittent clumps. Their foreboding, mangled forms added a blackness seldom found in the white, blue, and green landscape of a sunny winter day. Evergreen trees, also scarred by the fire, sported crisp ginger needles. The destruction of the forest fire brought a haunting multi-color beauty I hadn’t expected.
We reached the saddle and pleasant weather persisted. Skies were a stunning cerulean, and Wyoming’s Teton Range protruded off in the distance as we approached treeline. Red rocks jutted off a nearby ridgeline, mountain ranges appeared in a 360-degree panorama, and snow abounded. At high noon on this clear day, the glittering snow produced shades of white only a paint manufacturer could name.
We headed toward the windswept summit, a short skin above us. Conditions turned to sastrugi, winter’s equivalent of rippled sand dunes. We skinned up the irregular surface without trouble and were soon on top. The long, undulating, wide-open ridgeline stretched out in front of us, and grass poked through the snow, standing proud and remarkably still. A few mountain goats stood lumplike and solemn.
We lingered in the stillness and silence before heading down. I was not stoked to ski the sastrugi, so I proceeded gingerly, pulling out the best survival-skiing skills I had. To call my maneuvers turns is an overstatement. I skidded, side-stepped, and focused on staying upright. A series of “oh shit” and other expletives ran though my head. Luckily, it wasn’t steep, and I made it to the saddle. Mike and I linked nice turns on the steep pitch off of the saddle and were soon back at the long ridgeline where we connected delightful, effortless turns in the first of the low-angle meadows.
Mike and I regrouped after some shuffling and pushed on to the next low-angle meadow. Mike skied first, and the sight was stunning, burnt-black trees and stark white snow against a backdrop of cloudless skies. I knew my camera skills wouldn’t allow me to do the scene justice, so I left my camera in my pack. This magical moment lingerers in my mind alone and is my special souvenir from the day.
We came to the last patch of trees where we wallowed in unconsolidated snow. Like a trap door pulling the floor from beneath our feet, we found ourselves jerked around and eventually up to our knees in sugary facets. Luckily, the terrain soon opened, revealing a wide and untracked hillside. Here we linked turns in the shade knowing that the sun-protected slope would keep the snow consistent. We were rewarded with a sweep payoff, a series of effortless, excellent turns back to the flats.
Back on the pancake-flat valley floor we began the long slog out. Mike and I proceeded in the dwindling daylight as the mountains began to blush. Just when I thought the stunning palette of colors had peaked we moved past the bottom of a hillside, both charred and healthy trees bathed in gold.
Although it wasn’t a super demanding day in terms of climbing, a dull creakiness settled into my hips and my enthusiasm was dwindling. The kick and glide across the field was getting monotonous, and I was ready to be done.
We were almost there. One more creek crossing, one small uphill, and a quick skin through one last stand of trees brought us back to the car with minutes of daylight remaining. I was tired but not exhausted, my body ready for a rest. I was stoked but in a subdued way, not the ecstatic bursting-at-the-seams enthusiasm I sometimes have at the end of a great ski day.
Back at the car, I slipped off my shell and a chill bit sharp before I cozied up in my warm puffy coat. I noticed black marks littering my ski jacket, pack, and new yellow ski pants. Rather than be bummed over the messy clothing, I just smiled. I was content. We had tootled through the winter woods. I had not measured anything, nor would I post anything. And the day was perfect.
Reflections on a Long Tootle
Our outing would not be considered an epic ski tour. You won’t see this trip profiled in any Strava reports, and you won’t read about it in a glossy ski magazine or see it on any top-ten lists. It was a lot of trudging for not many turns. It was a long tootle for sure, but we loved it.
Perhaps that’s the beauty of reaching the half century mark. All of the things I knew in my younger years, that I should spend less time concerning myself with others and wondering if my day was hard-core enough, I’m finally ready to accept. I now have the wisdom to take what comes my way and am more willing to be content with perfect weather, a stunning landscape, and the serenity of having it all to ourselves. I’m gratified by the simple joy of skiing, and know a whole slew of conditions, not just powder and steep terrain, make a memorable backcountry tour. The Ultimate Tootle was one of those perfect memorable outings.
While I dream of ski tours to come, I simultaneously dream of powder days and long tootles. I can't wait for both.
If You Go…
• Trailhead: Southwestern Montana
• Trailhead elevation: Above sea level
• Elevation gain: A bunch of feet
• Summit elevation: Still above sea level but higher than where you started
• Distance: Flexible, you can measure in miles or kilometers
• Overall ascent grade: You mean like on a report card?
• Estimated ascent time: Varies, note where the big hand and little hand are located
• Maps: One you can fit in your pack
~
Want to read more about backcountry skiing?
- Skiing the Sphinx: http://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2016/04/powder-day-on-sphinx.html
- Skiing The M: http://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2018/01/skiing-m.html
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