{"id":1557,"date":"2019-12-20T12:54:30","date_gmt":"2019-12-20T19:54:30","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.voile.com\/blog\/?p=1557"},"modified":"2020-02-24T12:31:32","modified_gmt":"2020-02-24T19:31:32","slug":"climate-change-and-skiing-across-the-wrangells","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.voile.com\/blog\/climate-change-and-skiing-across-the-wrangells\/","title":{"rendered":"Climate Change and Skiing Across the Wrangells"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

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For those of us who spend our lives in the mountains, it\u2019s mandatory to accept that nothing is given. A wide variety of factors can shut down a mission: weather, fitness, conditions, and preparedness all come heavily into play. But when 18 Alaskans set out in late March for the 2019 Alaska Mountain Wilderness Ski Classic, I don\u2019t think it occurred to anybody that the whole group would be shut down by Alaska\u2019s changing climate. But, as we are learning more year by year, climate change and skiing cannot be separated. For the first time in AMWSC history, and due to factors outside of our control, the whole field scratched together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Preparing for Winter in the Wrangells<\/h4>\n\n\n\n

The Alaska Mountain Wilderness Ski Classic is an Alaska tradition since the 1980s and is about as rugged as wilderness races come: participants travel unsupported across Alaska\u2019s mountains in winter with no set course. There is only a start line and a finish line, and routes vary from 120 to 200 miles in length. This year\u2019s Classic was set to cross the Wrangell Mountains of Eastern Alaska\u2014a notoriously cold landscape in March. When my partner, Taylor, and I began planning for the Classic months ago, we expected to carry our -25F sleeping bags, down parkas, and all the typical winter gear we would need to safely travel our chosen route over an 8,000\u2019 pass through glaciated terrain. We hoped to finish our ~170 mile route in six days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Prepping for hundreds of miles of skiing across Alaskan wilderness.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

After months of prep work, gear research, and physical training, we felt as close to prepared as we could be. But as the race drew closer, we were alarmed by warm temperatures permeating across the state of Alaska. March is typically the month Alaskans bank on for long stretches of clear, cold weather. Long days and sunshine allow us to take on more committing objectives. Stout morning crusts make backcountry travel fast and efficient, and at higher elevations powder skiing still abounds. But this March was different: eyeing the temps and the forecast, we decided to pack our summer sleeping bags and hope for the best.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Race Begins <\/h4>\n\n\n\n

The race start was sunny and promising: a firm and icy snowmachine trail made for 7 miles of relatively quick skating out of McCarthy. When we reached the Nizina River, we saw our first bit of open water, but quickly skirted around it over thick, trustworthy ice. The river was solid and allowed for fast travel in old snowmachine tracks that were soon littered with fresh ski tracks by the pack leaders. After miles of river travel and our first icy open water crossing, the sky progressed from grey to dark, and the first drops of rain began to fall. They would continue to fall for the next 36 hours. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Rain Ruins Our Plans<\/h4>\n\n\n\n

Conditions deteriorated as water-saturated the snowpack, and our Goretex layers and backpacks soaked through. We wrung cups worth of water out of our pants and gloves, and our boot liners sloshed with every step. Taylor struggled to keep warm even while moving, and we decided to set up camp after covering about 26 miles in 8 hours. We tended to our wet gear and crawled into our sleeping bags, listening to avalanches around the valley and the rain and wet snow that pelted our tent. By morning, our down bags were soaked with condensation, but after much deliberation, Taylor and I decided to press on. We needed to move to get warm. We managed to ski for less than an hour before we spotted someone skiing\u2014fast\u2014towards us. My heart sank a little when I realized it was my friend Max, and that he was heading back to McCarthy. It sank even more when Max informed us that all nine members of the leader pack, mostly AMWSC veterans, had decided to turn around together. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Rain soaked our tent (which should have been snow.)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n
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Embracing the Turnaround<\/h4>\n\n\n\n

The leaders had gathered more information ahead: a completely isothermal snowpack continued for many miles, and up and onto the glaciers. The trailbreaking was horrifically slow and visibility on the glaciers was nonexistent. Avalanches echoed through canyons, eliminating the possibility of the low route as a viable backup plan. The only safe option was to turn back. As hard as it was to decide to press on through the wet conditions, it was even harder to turn back to McCarthy\u2014I felt like a dream had died. The time, effort, and money that went into the planning for this trip felt heavy, but what was worse was the loss of an adventure. <\/p>\n\n\n