JUNEAU, Alaska —The light flattens, and my eyes struggle to distinguish where the ridge ends and the sky begins. Relying on my other senses, I feel my way up the mountainside. My partner Brady, our dog Mac and I zigzag upwards until I can feel the wind brushing my cheeks, and the ocean slowly unveils itself as our backdrop. I love the subtle hues of a southeast Alaskan muted sunset. The dusky blue intermingles with the crisp grey and the world turns soft, sleepy and calm.
Douglas Island is just across the bridge from downtown Juneau. It is the main zone to get into the backcountry here, as the mainland is usually too steep and avalanche-prone until spring when the snowpack becomes isothermic and less dangerous.
We flick on our headlamps and transition our splitboards to snowboard mode. There’s a thin 2 cm crust capping 10 cm of fresh snow. As our boards slice through the crust, they sound like zippers. We carve toward our base camp, nestled by the edge of a frozen lake below, where we plan to spend the night.
I’ll admit, winter camping isn’t always luxurious, but I’m in a constant pursuit to strengthen my connection with the mountains. Sleeping curled up at their feet offers a deep sense of belonging.
When Brady, Mac and I reach our camp, we decide to take one more night lap. As we begin transitioning to ascend mode, a loud snap cuts through the quiet. I glance over to see Brady holding a broken piece of his binding. “That’s not good,” he mutters.
No matter how much we prepare for unpredictable backcountry emergencies and gear issues, part of the adventure is being flexible and adapting as we go. Something I admire about Brady is his ability to stay calm in stressful situations. He shakes his head in mild frustration. “It’s OK, I’ll make it work.”
We trade another lap for cozying up in our shelter, eating an early dinner of freeze-dried chili-mac and a couple rounds of cribbage.
From previous winter trips, I’ve learned that I tend to run cold. For optimal warmth, my sleep setup includes a Thermarest foam pad, an inflatable pad, a 15-degree sleeping bag with a liner, electric heating socks (which never leave my sleeping bag), three bottom layers, five top layers, a neck warmer and a beanie.
To stay warm through the night and prepare for the frigid morning, I’ve developed quite the routine. I always sleep with my wet socks shoved in my armpits to dry them out. I pull my boot liners out of my snowboard boots and tuck them into the bottom of my sleeping bag so they don’t freeze. There’s nothing worse than shoving your feet into rock-hard frozen boots first thing.
I place my climbing skins between my foam mat and inflatable mat to keep them from freezing, and always pee before bed — holding it uses energy and makes you cold. Finally, I curl into my sleeping bag and do 20 sit-ups to actively warm it. Sleeping bags are like thermoses, retaining whatever temperature is inside.
I burrow deep into my bag, falling asleep to the soft tapping of snow against the tent walls. I feel safe tucked in beneath the towering mountains.
The 5 a.m. alarm comes way too soon. I have to be at work by 8 a.m., so we’re on a tight schedule. I pull my dry socks from my armpits and start gearing up for the day. The absolute worst part of winter camping, in my opinion, is inevitably having to get out of your sleeping bag in the morning.
We pack up, shovel out the tent, which was buried overnight by snow, rig Brady’s binding and strap into our splitboards. Trudging through a foot of fresh snow, we move slowly, my body feeling heavy. Mac, who usually leads the charge, is lagging behind, trying to stay above the snow in our tracks.
As we reach the ridgeline, the surroundings begin to lighten. Brady and I quickly transition our boards, strapping in just as the sun peeks over the horizon, casting its first ray of light directly in front of us —we’ve caught the most beautiful moment of the day. We drop in, floating effortlessly down the pink mountain.
With tired legs and a full heart, I clock into work at 8:10 a.m.. Occasionally, living life is worth bending the rules.
CDN outdoors columnist Kayla Heidenreich writes monthly, of late from Juneau and beyond. Reach her at heidenreichmk@gmail.com.
