Was the Journey Worth it?
Sometimes getting the best experience is a question of how much effort you're willing to put in, getting there.
Getting far Away from the Beaten Path
I skated off the unloading ramp of the mountain’s highest chairlift. The tree line stood far below, at the bottom of a wide-open bowl of snow.
Beautiful; but I planned to travel much farther to reach the powder I wanted to ride. I unstrapped my snowboard, and continued to walk up toward the true top of the mountain.
Here, a fence and flimsy gate blocked access to the path. A large sign advertised the region ahead as “Vasquez Cirque.”
Rather than a trail map of the area, the sign featured a faded photograph of a cliffside. Trail names were written on top of the picture.
Over the crest of a small hill, the path turned into a gentle sloped runout, toward a hidden pickup area. At the bottom: the snow cat pulling its enormous passenger sled idled.
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The driver stood by the gate, checking passes. There were only two or three people left in line to embark. They were leaving soon.
I strapped my board back on, zipped down the hill, and waived my hands above my head to get the driver’s attention. He caught sight of me, and flashed me a thumbs up.
Not everyone tips the cat driver. But it’s worth sliding them a couple bucks at the end of a great day of riding. With only a couple people driving the sled, they may start recognizing you. And if they recognize you, they may wait for you.
I got comfortable on the ruined, weather-torn seats with the handful of other passengers. We certainly weren’t riding first class. But with sled passes costing just a few dollars for the whole season, I certainly wasn’t complaining.
The cat engine roared. The sled lurched forward on its enormous skis. The vehicle kicked up chunks of snow that sailed overhead, pelting the passengers.
An older snowboarder sitting opposite me took a long pull from a dented metal flask, before offering it to me. I politely declined.
Going Farther, Still
The sled stopped by a patch of scraggly pines. Most of the riders rushed to strap on their gear, and drop in over the closest headwall. I hung back.
Once the others are gone, I ask the driver: “Where’s the snow?”
He scoffed. “Not on the headwall, that’s for sure.”
“Wind packed?”
“Big time,” He said.
“You get first tracks today?”
“I did.”
“Where did you take ‘em?” I ask.
“Way, way down. Past the chutes.”
I whistle. “Sounds like today might be perfect for hitting Waterfall.”1
“Oh, you want to go way back.” He turned his gaze to the long cornice, snaking its way down the glacial valley. “It’s been years since I’ve been that far. Probably overdue. Bet no one’s hit it in days. Weeks, maybe. All yours.”
“Thanks. Happy trails.”
I sling my board over my shoulder, and begin the long walk toward my destination.
The farther I walked, the more dramatic the trail names became. Sensible things like “West Wall,” gave way to “Certainty, and Eternity.”
At “Destiny,” I felt a bit like I was about to meet mine. The path ended in a huge rock formation and sheer cliff. But it’s this rock formation that makes for such a good drop site, protecting the snow on the headwall from becoming wind-packed.
I threw down my snowboard, strapped in, and leapt over Destiny’s Cornice.2
A handful of tracks crisscrossed the route. But they all led away from the trail I was searching for. Instead, I carved a deep turn toward the thin rope line, marking the ski area boundary.
I followed the rope below the towering face of the Cirque. The snow was deep, fluffy, and unpacked. I leaned forward to preserve my speed, knowing that stopping would mean an exhausting trudge through waist-deep snow.
After almost an hour long journey, I arrived. The run stood completely undisturbed. Pillows of snow cascaded before me to the valley runout below. It really did look like a gentle waterfall, frozen in time.
I took a deep breath, savored the moment, and dropped in.
The trail alternated between moderate-sized drops over ledges, and cushioned splashdowns into fluffy powder-piles. I cut wide turns, wary to build too much speed for the drops, but also hoping to savor the experience.
Despite my efforts, in just shy of a minute, I rocketed out of the woods onto the narrow escape trail all other routes eventually fed into.
“Woah, where did you come from?” Another rider called from a little ways up the trail behind me.
“Waterfall. Last trail at the end,” I called back.
“Was it worth the hike out there?” He asked.
“Depends on you,” I told him.
It was a fair question. An hour journey, all for sixty seconds of incredible riding on untouched snow.
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Another rider I know takes a strong stance against split boards3, side country4, or any riding in general that requires you to walk more than ten paces from the chair lift. His rationale comes down to pure power of numbers.
In his view, 10 good runs is better than only one great one. There’s some truth to this. I’ve wasted hours scouring the mountain for a good spot to ride, only to conclude the first trail I rode upon arrival was the best.
“Remember: These Things Worthwhile do not Come Easy.”
I have this quote scribbled down in a journal someplace. It’s advice given to me by my late grandfather, right before I went off to college.
Waterfall remains pristine days after the last snowfall not because it’s some closely guarded local secret. It’s just hard to get to, and most people can’t be asked to make the trip.
That’s it.
A big part of mountaineering — our lives, even — is a kind of bargain. If you want to experience the world in ways most people don’t, you’ll need to put in the work that others won’t.
It’s not conducive to counting laps or bagging popular peaks. But if you’re looking for isolation, natural beauty, and the chance to feel at one with nature, it’s a deal I heartily endorse.
I Want to Hear from You
What’s something you’ve gotten to experience, for putting in a bit of extra work?
If you scroll up to the first picture in the article, you can just make out the trail map. Waterfall is actually so far away, it’s not even on there. Instead, there is just a line with an arrow saying, “to waterfall,” pointing right.
An edge of hard-packed snow at the top of a mountain. It forms a kind of sheer wall before you get to the actual sloped part of the trail. A cornice can be anywhere between a few inches, and a few feet. You’ll notice: the person who drops ahead just before me in the video flaps their arms to stabilize during the free-fall.
Snowboards designed to split in half to become cross-country skis, employed to make hikes to your drop-in point much easier.
The same terrain you’d expect from backcountry skiing, but is still patrolled and mitigated for avalanche hazards.
Lovely writing, Cole.
I approve.