Skiing Yellowstone with Igloo Ed
Cold, icy mist drifted over the Firehole River, a freezing grey wall hiding the land. Crossing the bridge over the river we skied into this dawn mist and my weirdest start to a wilderness trip ever. On the far side lay Biscuit Basin, an area of geysers, hot springs, bubbling mudpots and mineral stained, crusted, smoking ground through which a snow-covered boardwalk threaded a narrow way. Geysers exploded into the air, sending up vast plumes of steam that mingled with the mist. Skiing through the warm clouds of steam dampened us, and when we emerged back into the freezing air the moisture froze, coating us with frost and ice.
Biscuit Basin lies on the main south-north road through Yellowstone National Park, a few miles north of Old Faithful village. You can’t drive there in a car in winter though. The roads are snow-covered and closed to non-tracked vehicles. We’d come in the day before on a snowcoach, a noisy, bone-shaking journey made enjoyable by entertaining companions, our informative driver/guide Sarah, the splendid scenery and regular stops to visit waterfalls and thermal features. Our snowcoach friends, like many winter visitors to Yellowstone, were going cross-country skiing on cut tracks. Ed Huesers and I were heading into the untracked wilderness and would see no-one for the next week. Our plan was to live in igloos and explore the wilderness west of Biscuit Basin, a vast, steep sided, undulating region around 2,600 metres high known as the Madison Plateau that contains several remote thermal areas.
Yellowstone, the first national park in the world, is a supervolcano sitting atop one of the largest masses of molten rock lying close to the earth’s surface that exists, known with great understatement as a hotspot. The supervolcano last erupted some 640,000 years ago, though there have been smaller lava flows since. The Yellowstone landscape is formed by the lava and ash spewed out in eruptions and then shaped by glaciers and water. The volcanic forces are still active, as evidenced by over 10,000 thermal features, more than anywhere else in the world. One day the Yellowstone supervolcano will erupt again. One day.
Our immediate concern as we left Biscuit Basin was to find a way up the steep slopes of the narrowing Little Firehole River valley to the undulating wooded plateau above. A deep basin cutting back into the slope looked a possible weakness, though there was a band of low cliffs around the rim, and we headed up this slowly, dragging sleds packed with winter equipment and supplies behind us. The snow was soft and deep among the trees, hard and icy in open areas. Dead trees and boulders lying just beneath the snow caught skis and sleds, bushy young trees snatched at pole baskets and sled straps. At times the sleds slid back down the slope pulling the hauler over. Climbing skins on the skis strained to maintain grip while dragging the sled back up. Finally we breached the cliffs and reached the rim of the plateau and the reward of a splendid view of the Upper Geyser Basin stretching back to Old Faithful, with columns of steam rising into the now mist-free air from a stark monochrome landscape of snow and dark conifers.
Turning away from the views we skied through dense forest, making slow progress in the mix of breakable crust and deep sugary snow, further hampered by the many areas of fallen trees. These were from the great fire of 1988 that burned much of Yellowstone’s woods. Many of the dead trees still stood, grey and skeletal, their limbs snapped off, but there were also many young trees, often packed closely together, showing that life had returned. In the late afternoon we selected a spot on the rim of the plateau and started to build our first igloo. To do this shovelfuls of snow are heaped into a form and then pressed down to form the blocks of the igloo. However the sugar snow we had to work with was very slow to consolidate and each block took a long, long time to make. It was well after midnight before we finished and crawled inside to melt snow and make dinner. We finally lay down to sleep at 4.00 am after an exhausting 23 hour day.
Inside the igloo it was surprisingly warm, -3°C, with the stove going, -7°C without. Outside it was -23°C. It was drier and roomier than a backpacking tent too, with no condensation, room to sit up on the sleeping platforms with feet on the floor and a table for cooking. Outside sounds were cut out completely but daylight percolated through the walls.
A slow, leisurely day followed, during which we broke trail through to Little Firehole Meadows then returned to the igloo. After all that effort we weren’t going to abandon it after one day. The morning was sunny but clouds rolled in after noon and light snow was falling by evening. There were many tracks of all sizes in the forest. None were clear. Fox, coyote, wolf, moose and ground squirrel were all possible. However, the only wildlife we actually saw were little mountain chickadees (a type of tit) and big black ravens, both year-round denizens of the forest.
The following day our tracks made for a speedy return to Little Firehole Meadows, this time with the loaded sleds. The meadows were extensive, spreading out amongst groves of trees with steep wooded slopes rising all around. The slow meandering Little Firehole River wound its way through the snow-covered meadows, fed by little creeks, all open despite the low temperatures due to the thermal features heating the water.
To continue through the meadows we had to ford the river. This was a new situation to me. I’d skied across many frozen rivers and lakes but had never had to cross open water in such cold temperatures. The day before we’d cleared snow to make a platform on the bank and here we loaded our sleds and skis onto packs ready for the crossing. I went first, barefoot with trousers rolled up, into water that appeared only knee-deep. However a thick mat of green water plants covered the river bed, which consisted of soft, deep mud. The plants gave way disconcertingly under my feet, causing me to wobble under my load, and once through the vegetation I sank into the mud. Soon I was wading thigh-deep, my trousers soaked. I didn’t feel cold though. That came when I clambered out again. The shock of freezing air and snow on my wet, bare legs was excruciatingly painful and left me gasping.
Perched on my foam pad I hurriedly rolled my trousers down, pulled on my socks and boots and swigged hot lemonade from my flask. Ed, having observed my struggles, removed his trousers and started across. His load was taller and less stable than mine and it began to lurch to one side almost immediately. He still made it almost the whole way before he started to topple over, desperately trying to get his load onto the bank. I grabbed the nearest object to me, a ski, but it began to pull out of the load so I had to release it and seize the top of the sled itself.
As I did this the load pushed Ed down so that his face was in the water momentarily. Once free of the load Ed had to cross back to collect gear he hadn’t been able to manage on the first ford. By the time he’d made his third crossing his feet and legs were numb and I had to help get his trousers and boots back on. Then we harnessed up the sleds and strode across the meadows to warm up. Luckily Ed’s load was dry, only the front of his waterproof jacket and his wool shirt were wet.
Out in the meadows we found a lovely situation for our second igloo, on a big snow drift on the edge of a grove of trees looking out across the meadows to the steep slopes of the Madison Plateau. The snow was more powdery here, still slow to form into blocks but better than the coarse sugar snow in the forest. It was after dark when we finished the igloo.
We woke to snow falling and a bitter north wind and spent a few hours breaking trail across the meadows to the slopes lying below an area known as Smokejumper Hot Springs before retreating to the warmth and comfort of the igloo. There was little to see in the swirling snow but some fine big lodgepole pines and some big grey grouse. That evening the clouds cleared and a full moon shone in a cold blue sky. Tree shadows were sharp on the snow and the visibility was greater than it had been during the day. The temperature plummeted. Our boots squeaked in the snow and sharp cracks rang out across the meadows, wood splitting as sap froze in the trees. Later we heard that the temperature in West Yellowstone, some 25 miles away, had fallen to -36°C.
There followed a day of snow and wind and low cloud and a bizarre, weird and eerie mix of thermal features and atmospheric cond
itions. Heading for Smokejumper Hot Springs we climbed out of the meadows up a steep thickly wooded gully to suddenly emerge out of the trees into a narrow smoky chasm, an unexpected thermal area not on our maps. A steaming stream ran past hot springs and warm pools. The clouds of steam condensed on the trees into grotesque shapes.
Gingerly we picked a way through this fascinating terrain, hoping the ground would not give way and pitch us into hot water or mud, then climbed out steeply through deep, soft snow. Back in the silent forest we climbed on to reach the mist-shrouded plateau. A whiff of sulphur swept by on the cold wind. We sniffed, turned and followed the smell to the hot springs, the first time I’ve ever navigated with my nose. Snow was falling, mist drifted through the trees and steam rose from the springs, pools and smoking cracks in the earth that faded in and out of view.
Back at the igloo the snow fell and the wind roared, a cold and stormy end to the day. Dawn came with a rising sun and clear sky though the gusty wind was pickup up spindrift and blasting it across the meadows. Leaving our igloo home for the last time we skied into the woods and headed back towards Biscuit Basin. Part way there we picked up the waymarks of the Summit Lake Trail, a path I’d walked on my first visit to Yellowstone on the Continental Divide Trail 22 long years before. Then it had been summer and the forest had not yet burned. No memories came back. It all felt new.
Steep wooded slopes led down to the Firehole River valley, across which we could see the big bulge of Mallard Lake Dome and, far in the distance, the ragged outline of the Beartooth Mountains. A final delight awaited us.
At the base of the slopes on the edge of Biscuit Basin bison and elk were grazing, scraping away the thin snow around the heated ground. We watched them for a while before skiing on to a final challenge, a branch of the Little Firehole River that wasn’t bridged. A logjam provided a way across, the main difficulty being sliding the sleds across the snow on a latticework of precarious logs. Then it was through the thermal area, much more visible now without the morning mist.
Back on the road Ed stuck out his thumb. A snowmobile soon stopped and then a snowcoach and soon we were ensconced in the Snow Lodge at Old Faithful having a celebratory drink after one of the most intense and strange ski tours I’ve ever undertaken.
Another Yellowstone Ski Tour
Yellowstone in winter can be a daunting prospect; sub-zero temperatures, deep snow, freezing winds, blizzards, but there is the other side. The beauty of the snowbound forest, the spectacular mix of hot, colourful thermal features, freezing air and cold white snow, the emptiness of the winter wilderness, a pristine landscape unscarred by trails, campsites, worn ground. By the end of my first trip with Igloo Ed one thing was certain. We wanted to come back.
Planning for a longer trip began on the journey home and continued for the next year. Ed was the driving force, working out a detailed route with various options and recruiting others so it was a group of seven that gathered at Old Faithful in February impatient to head into the wilderness – Ed, myself, Will Rietveld, Mike Martin, Steve Nelson, Dave Knight and Rick Hagar. Then, at the very last minute, Ed was taken ill and had to depart (thankfully he made a swift recovery).
Suddenly leaderless we considered our options. Someone needed to take Ed home to Colorado. Will volunteered. Maybe he could make it back in a few days, but how would he find us? We looked at Ed’s route. The start was up the Midway Geyser Basin, some way from Old Faithful. We’d intended taking an early morning snow coach there and skiing a fair distance the first day. However the end of the route was down a groomed trail straight to Old Faithful, which would be much easier for Will to follow. Reversing the route seemed sensible. We already had a permit for the original route but the Old Faithful rangers were happy to change this for us and said it would be fine for our first igloos to be built just beyond the end of the groomed trail near Lone Star Geyser.
Ed and Will gone, six of us were left to pack our sleds, put on our skis (snowshoes in the case of Steve) and set out along the snow covered road to the Lone Star trailhead. Convoys of snowmobiles zoomed past as we plodded up the road but, once on the trail, our journey into the wilds felt as though it was really beginning, despite the neat groomed snow and cut tracks. Gliding through the quiet trees beside the Firehole River had a calming effect after the upsets and dismay at Old Faithful, and arriving at Lone Star Geyser was exciting. The large cone of this big geyser sits alone in the middle of an open area, hissing, bubbling and steaming. Every three hours the pressure builds up and the geyser erupts, shooting some 15 metres into the air. The eruption lasts from 15 to 30 minutes and ends with a towering steam plume.
On the edge of the forest above the geyser we built our first igloo, the success of which was crucial to the future of the trip as we’d never built an igloo or worked together before. Progress was slow and there was an interlude while we watched the geyser erupting during a beautiful sunset, a spectacular scene. It was long after dark when we finished the igloo but there were no problems and five of us soon settled inside, Steve pitching his tent nearby. A day out, an igloo built, the trip was underway.
Igloos take so long to construct that abandoning them after one night always seems a waste of time and effort, especially at such a magnificent site as Lone Star. As we were waiting for Will this was not an issue here. We knew we’d be staying for at least two nights. It turned out to be three. The first day at Lone Star we climbed a little knoll above the geyser from where Steve managed to get a phone connection and received a message that Will would be coming in the next day. A small bowl of perfect powder on the far side of the hill provided entertainment and a chance to practise downhill skills.
Whether it would be easy to reverse Ed’s route we found out the next day when Dave, Rick and I reconnoitred the slopes north of the Firehole River that led to the plateau stretching out to Smoke Jumper Hot Springs. Thick trees, deep snow and twisting, steep-sided gullies made route finding difficult and we quickly concluded that hauling the sleds up these slopes would be slow and arduous. Reversing Ed’s alternative and longer route up the Firehole River valley to the Continental Divide looked easier, though going this way would make it very unlikely we would even reach the northern part of the route. That evening Will arrived, sounding remarkably fresh given that he’d driven to Colorado and back over the last few days, and we discussed plans. Happily nobody was keen to push on and complete as much of the route as possible, everybody wanted to experience igloo living and the Yellowstone wilderness. Now we knew that it would take 4-5 hours to build an igloo, nobody wanted to move on and build igloos every day or even most days.
While we were at Lone Star a steady stream of day skiers came up the groomed trail to see the geyser. Amongst them were Roy and Carol Anne Wagner, who Ed and I had met the previous year. Unable to take part in the tour but involved in the planning and with a keen interest in the trip, he was delighted to be able to actually visit an igloo. And we were delighted with the hot tea Carol Anne brought for us. Other visitors were not so welcome. Because four in an igloo is a tight squeeze we’d left much of our food and spare gear outside. Early on the first morning Dave was thrilled to see a fox outside the igloos but not so thrilled when he discovered that a bag of sausage had disappeared. Despite a hunt around, following the myriad fox tracks, there was no sign of the food. The next night food was hung from branches or brought inside.
Steve, who had always planned to leave the trip early, decided to go out from Lone Star so it was five of us who skied through the peaceful forest and meadows of the Firehole River valley for half a day. On the edge of the meadows we found a lovely scenic site. Here we built two igloos. Four of us in an igloo had been a little cramped, with no trench for sitting and access and a small kitchen area that only one person could use at once. Five in an igloo would have been uncomfortable. Two igloos made for plenty of room. Again we toiled long into the evening. I found the rhythmic work of shovelling snow strangely hypnotic and calming. The slow fading of the forest into blackness,
eerie moonlight giving a yellow tinge to the snowy meadows, stars sparkling in the black sky - the changing surroundings were magical and caused me to shiver with delight whenever I paused from shifting snow.
Another reconnoitre day followed for Will, Rick, Dave and me. Mike, who had a sore arm, stayed in camp. Upstream from the igloos the valley narrowed and the river ran down a ravine between steep slopes beyond which it widened again into the huge meadows at the headwaters of the Firehole River. Initially we ventured into the mouth of the ravine, an impressive place that closed-in around us, shutting out the world, in contrast to the wide open meadows and spreading forest on the outside. Snow bridges took us across creeks and the river itself.
It quickly became apparent that threading a route through the ravine with sleds would be difficult and maybe impossible, especially as the river was still open. Traversing steep slopes above rushing water with a sled was not appealing. Climbing out of the ravine we skied across cliff-rimmed bowls through tall subalpine firs laden with huge mounds of snow. Here, deep in the snow forest, it was cold and shadowed, even though the sky above was blue and elsewhere the sun was shining.
Eventually we came to Grants Pass between the Firehole River and Shoshone Creek. A summer trail runs through the pass and ski tracks showed that others had been here recently. The trail signs were ankle to knee high, showing the depth of snow. A fast descent down the trail took us back to the Firehole River valley and the igloos. Over hot food and drink and snug inside the igloos we perused the maps again and remade our plans. Just below Grants Pass on the Shoshone Creek side was a small flat area with meadows that looked a good place to build igloos and from where we could descend to the Shoshone Geyser Basin for a day trip.
Out There Page 20