My last couple of big-ish adventures didn’t really pan out like I expected. A little too much fun of the Type 2 variety, not quite enough Type 1. Skiing Adams (on 6/6) broke the cycle. Lots of things could’ve gone wrong. Nothing did. It was glorious.

To start, I thought I might end up going solo. Not the worst, but not ideal. SheJumps social media came to the rescue, with two gals responding affirmatives to my callout for partners.

Then came the snow. I knew there was still coverage blocking the road to Cold Springs, so when I reached the first patch, I gently eased my front tires onto it to assess its pass-ability.  No go. I would not repeat the Mt Washington experience. But then a RAM 1500 pulled up right as I was bailing and its very kind driver said “Hey, want me to bust a path through that?” How could I refuse? He actually blazed a trail for me through TWO otherwise impassable snow patches. So I got to roadside camp in beautiful near solitude just 1 mile from the Cold Springs TH. What a guy!

The came logistics – Jen and Mal were both meeting me at the TH, and I wasn’t sure I’d have service to communicate any unexpected events (oh these modern times). But against all odds, AT&T gave me cell service in the wilderness. I let Jen and Mallorie know how far up I was. Jen rolled in a bit after dark, and Mallorie-the-energizer-bunny-climber showed up at 3:30am after hauling ass from Bellingham to join us.

Heck yea camp waffles.

We started up at 5:15 and cruised to Lunch Counter for snack time. As my partners continued upward, I deposited a glorious bit of excess weight in an appropriately deep hole under a rock, and practically floated my way to the false summit. (Ski crampons helped too.) Another pause then for snacks and gear fixing, and we busted out the remaining bit to the top. It was loud up there. Lots of flapping.

Summit dancing

We descended at 1pm. Even the summit block was 80% good skiing, better than I’ve seen it before. After the obnoxious but necessary traverse, we were back atop the coveted SW Chute. I slid cautiously into it, to assess conditions. Conditions were perfect. Mind bogglingly perfect. The snow surface was as level as newly poured slab, and as perfectly soft like perfectly spreadable butter. It was nature’s exquisitely groomed corduroy, without the cords. (Thanks for the analogy, Reid.) I couldn’t stop laughing. Swoosh-swoosh-giggle, swoosh-swoosh-cackle. It was 3000 feet of pure pleasure. I was so satisfied that I never needed to ski again. (Note, this feeling always wears off in 2-3 days.)

Stoked out of my mind.

Then there was the traverse out in the heat. Then there was the dropping slightly too low and having to walk cross country back to the cars.

Ran out of stuff to slide on. Time to take the skis for a walk.

And I could’ve hopped over ten times more windfall and been just as happy with our day. High fives to Jen and Mallorie for rallying to join me, and for being rad partners!

THEN, just when I thought the day couldn’t get any better, we stopped in Trout Lake for milkshakes. The nice lady who greeted us quickly voiced a disclaimer that she didn’t normally work there, and was just fillingin that day as a favor. One thing she didn’t have a hang of yet was milkshake proportions. When she handed me what was basically two servings and said “you might have to share this with a friend,” I laughed. Ha! Two milkshakes was just about perfect for my calorie deficit at the time. Cheers to you, nice lady!

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