Venturing off the beaten path at Lookout Pass

On the brink of another successful day of skiing at Look Out Mountain, my mind was already wandering to the ski lodge and that first cold sip of beer splashing my lips. Little did I know the much-anticipated sip of beer would turn into an incredible mark of achievement.

The day was drawing to an end and in order to save enough time to have a beer in the lodge, I needed to call it a day after two or three more runs. On the second run of the day, I got separated from my friends, a preemptive warning of things to come. As I was making my way off the ski lift, I reflected on the day and the slopes I skied. I recalled wanting to go on Rainbow Ridge one last time, but I remember vividly that I wanted to save Rainbow Ridge – my favorite – for the last run of the day. Reluctantly I searched the Idaho side of the mountains, looking for that next great run. I started to head down Quicksilver, then quickly realized that this was the same run I did last time down the hill. Upset with my homogenous planning, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

Looking at Quicksilver, I could see a long line of pine trees hugging each side of the slope. It was already in my mind that I would venture off the beaten path, go off-course and cut through the trees. As I meticulously made my way down, small signs posted warnings - “out of bounds, ski patrol doesn’t patrol this area.” In all honestly, I’m not quite sure what the sign said. I wasn’t paying too much attention. All I knew was I was wasn’t going down the same, boring blue square I did before.

I was now standing over a steep slope covered in trees, I pointed my ski tips down and raced through the woods. Exhilarated, I cut in and out of trees, making my way through the powdery, virgin snow. The rest of the mountain - the part that is actually considered the ski resort - was compiled of dense, choppy snow that sounded like sandpaper to your skis. Not my snow. My snow was fluffy, thick and untouched by humans.

My initial plan before I ventured into unchartered snow was to gradually ski to my left and eventually cut back onto a slope within the confines of Look Out. But the further down the hill I got, the further away from skiing civilization I became. Finally, after five minutes of zooming through trees and bushes, my journey came to a complete halt. Once I broke the final tree line, I stopped and my skies were completely horizontal. With the sun shining bright on my sweat soaked face, I realized I was stuck. Suspended in what only could be a cross-country path of some sort., both ski tracks and snowmobile tracks were imprinted in the snow. At first I stood there, in thought, like a chess player contemplating his next move.

I began heading west, plunging my poles in the deep snow, trying to gain as much momentum before I had to plunge my poles in again. In the distance, two other ski poles were sporadically stuck in the snow. I couldn’t imagine why two poles just so happened to be left. I noticed and moved along.

After cross-country skiing for around ten minutes - although it seemed more like thirty minutes - I decided to switch my game plan. The further west I went - or what I believed to be west - the more I saw a hill starting to materialize to my left. I figured, instead of cross-country skiing it the entire way back to the lodge, I might as well go down the recently developed slope and gradually head west while moving downward. So again, I faced the slope, pointed my tips downward and raced towards the lodge. Not even a minute passed before I encountered some more flatland. But this time it wasn’t just flat land that was preventing my progress. To my amazement, a creek, with flowing water, about five feet wide rushed through the mountains and along my path. Worries started to creep slowly through my skull. How is there a creek, with running water smack in the middle of a ski resort? That’s when it occurred to me. I was no longer in the ski resort.

With nowhere to go but the way I originally came from, I bridged my skies across the stream and desperately sprang forward, clearing the water.

Because my arms were tired from pushing, I started to walk. Me and my 59-inch skies made our way through the snow, flopping around like a scuba diver walking on the beach. It was the first time in a while I literally had no idea what to do next.

I then removed my skies, thinking I could gain ground faster with them off. I took one step and found out how deep the chest-level snow was and I quickly converted back.

Finally, as I’m cross-country skiing my way back to some sort of civilization, a ray of hope shines on me. I notice two pairs of boot prints, walking in the same direction I was skiing. My first thought, was that at least I wasn’t the only person dumb enough to be in the position I was in. My second thought was, just follow these boot prints, and sooner than later I’d be sitting in the lodge, wrapping my lips around an ice-cold beer.

Dressed in multiple layers, a hat, scarf and gloves, my body felt like it was running a marathon in the Sierra desert. Pouring sweat I removed two sweaters, my scarf, hat and gloves. Vigorously, I made my way through the unforgiving snow. My momentum slowed as the water accumulated on top of the snow from the hot sun. As I followed the path made by two sets of footprints, doubt started to creep in my mind. It was getting late and the lifts were closing soon. I could hear trucks in the distance. At first I was hoping it was the sound of snowmobiles, but realized that was just wishful thinking. Every bend in the trail gave me hopes of seeing a skier or snowboarder, something to signify that I was still on the ski slope. It was then I looked up, a thick bed of bushes and tree branches interrupted my path. I looked at the set of footprints I was following for so long, they suddenly stopped. It then occurred to me that I wasn’t following two sets of footprints. I was in fact following one set of footprints. A set of footprints from someone who was going the wrong way, turned around and started to backtrack. Instincts failed me and it seemed I was going the wrong way.

Frustration filled my body. I took a second and sat in the snow. Thirsty, I took a fistful and ate it.

The one constant that remained was the noise of speeding trucks racing down I-90. I decided that I’ve come too far to turn around. So I found a slight passage through the jungle and I continued on.

The further I went, the louder the trucks roared.

I could start to see slight glimpses of the tops of semis just above the ridge. A ridiculous, but realistic opportunity of me being found was creeping into my head. It was something that I thought of twenty minutes before but laughed it off and considered it a joke. But I suddenly started to think that this joke would soon turn into reality.

Facing the highway, I emphatically removed my skis. I secured my poles to one wrist and grabbed my two skis with my other hand. I realized my only hope of survival - or at least saving the embarrassment of having ski patrol come rescue me – was to make it to the highway. The only thing separating me from I-90 was a hill around 30 feet high, too steep to stand on and covered with snow and sticks. With my skies in one hand and my polls in the other, I dug my hands and boots into the side of the hill and I cerebrally made my decent towards the highway.

The climb was grueling. Worse than cross-country skiing, worse than crawling over a stream on skies. One aggressive step sent my feet and hands falling through the two-feet deep snow. I held a firm grip on my skis and poles, which made it harder to climb, but I knew if one of my skis dropped down the steep hill, I wasn’t going back down to get it. Gingerly, I took another climb toward the top. The white snow began to turn black from car exhaust and oil splattered from the highway. I knew I was close.

Winded and out of breath, I made my last reach, throw my ski equipment to the top of the hill and lunged to my finish line.

I felt I made it.

Then quickly realized I was on the side of a highway, not certain if I was in Idaho or Montana. I then started to walk. My ski boots scraping against the cold highway gravel. Seventy mph cars and semis raced by, blowing away beer cars scattered across the shoulder.

Too ashamed to stick my thumb out like a true hitchhiker, I simply walked down I-90, with my skis over my shoulder, hoping a motorist would stop.

The sun was approaching the top of the mountains, I knew it would be dusk soon and I still wasn’t sure how far I was from the lodge. That’s when two red lights lit up like an angel from heaven. But it wasn’t an angel, it was a car hitting his breaks and pulling off to the side of the road.

The car than began to back up and I quickly raced to meet it.

A woman rolled down her window and asked if I’d like a ride to Lookout.

I smiled and she helped me throw my skies in the back of her truck. Her husband who was driving stayed quite as his wife inquisitively asked me questions. I noticed we were at mile marker three. Three miles away from the lodge. Sitting in the back seat of the stranger’s car, I could only think how did I manage to ski three miles off course? The short five-minute drive ended with me thanking the motorists repeatedly.

The lady empathized with me and simply said while I was leaving, “You need a beer!”