The sun peeks over the ridgeline and the morning light instantly warms my face. I walk through the muskeg, its colors faded by winter, with nothing but the towering mountain ahead to guide me. My surroundings turn golden, the birds begin to sing and I am convinced there is no place as magical as Southeast Alaska on a sunny winter day.
My partner, Brady McDonnell, and I pick our way from sea level to snowline. The muskeg is frozen and uneven, forcing us to take our time and protect our ankles. There’s a group ahead of us, and I’m slightly disappointed they’ll beat us to the line we’re aiming to ride. I try to shake it off and not allow it to rush me or cloud our decision-making.
We’re heading toward Jumbo Couloir, one of the most beautiful lines I’ve ever seen. Located on Douglas Island, just across the channel from downtown Juneau, this steep face appears nearly unrideable. Yet, a narrow chute carves its way down the rocky mountainside. Last spring, I rode it for the first time under less-than-ideal conditions — a sheet of edgeable ice that made for slow and cautious snowboarding. There was no room for error.
This time, at about 900 feet of elevation, we trade our approach shoes for snowboard boots and strap into our splitboards, which we’ve been carrying on our backs. We toss our shoes into a bush and continue upward, relieved to be free of the extra weight.
Southeast Alaska just received its first big winter storm of the year and the snowpack is relatively well-bonded. Our primary concerns are wet loose avalanches and cornice failures, both triggered by the sun. That’s why we’re heading up early before the sun has a chance to warm the slope. Jumbo Couloir is a north-facing aspect that receives the least amount of sunlight; this adds to our confidence.
We reach the base of Mount Jumbo and face our first decision: take the looker’s left or right ridge. The group ahead of us chose the left, the same route we took last time. The right ridge is steeper and quicker, and it might give us a chance to reach the summit ahead of the other group. We opt for the right ridge.
About 10 minutes into our choice, we realize we’re in for a spicy climb. We’re forced to take off our splitboards and carry them up a snowy, rocky mountainside. Sharp Devils Club swipes at us as we pick our way up the slope. I think about turning back, but as I look below me, I know going down isn’t an option.
Each pitch, we think, maybe around this corner it’ll mellow out, but it takes longer than expected.
Finally, the slope smoothes and melts into the ridgeline. The wind blows down the turquoise channel from the north, and we watch eagles twist and dive, dancing with the breeze. The couloir lies just across from us now, maybe half a mile along the ridge. I squint and spot the other group just approaching the top.
I sigh in defeat but also recognize the lesson the mountains are teaching me: cutting corners rarely works. There’s no need to rush. We pause to watch them drop. My jealousy quickly fades, replaced by excitement as their hoots and hollers echo across the bowl.
As Brady and I wrap around the ridge, I feel my own nerves start to bubble up. What if it’s totally tracked out? What if it’s steeper than I remember? Do I ride it fast or slow?
The snow has turned hard-packed, affected by the night’s wind. The exposure on both sides of the ridge forces me to focus, turning off my racing thoughts and concentrating only on my next step.
For me, the scariest part of riding a bigger line is the anxiety before I’m standing right on top of it. Until that moment, everything is hypothetical, and I can’t distinguish between real danger and imagined fears. But once I’m at the top, I can finally tune into both myself and the mountain and gain clarity on whether or not today is the day to drop.
Brady and I reach the top. The couloir is so steep that the only way to see the whole line is to teeter on the edge. We transition at a safe spot above, ensuring we have enough space as we fumble with our gear. We tighten our boots, tuck in our layers, triple-check our radios, discuss safety plans, decide who will drop first, rig up our avalanche airbags and finally strap in. Carefully, we inch toward the entrance.
Like staring down the barrel of a gun, we look down the couloir. I let out a long-awaited sigh of relief. My gut finally speaks louder than my anxiety — I know I can ride this.
Rather than frustrating me, the other group’s tracks bring me peace, confirming the stability of the snowpack. I give Brady a kiss and tell him I’ll see him at the bottom. The couloir is just under 1,000 vertical feet, and the snow is blower.
As I drop in, my mind goes quiet. The walls of the couloir seem to muffle everything, leaving only the path in front of me to focus on. My snowboard feels like an extension of my body. I am in a flow state.
Too quickly, I make my final turn out of the couloir, and the rest of the world unfolds before me. I widen my turns, allowing myself to speed up and carve deep into the snow. I look back at my line swirling down the couloir and relief and accomplishment pulse through my tired legs.
I watch Brady drop from my safe spot. He rides fast and confident, spraying snow up the steep walls. We squeal in excitement when we reunite at the bottom and party lap down the lower section of the bowl, dodging hidden rocks, creeks and cliffs. Finally, we get beyond the shadow cast by the 3,300-foot peak and hit the sun. We collapse into the snow, giggling and looking back at our tracks in awe.
Days like today are what sustain me through life’s more mundane moments. Knowing I can tap into this memory, basking in the sun beneath Jumbo Couloir’s open portal, brings me a sense of peace.
CDN outdoors columnist Kayla Heidenreich writes monthly, of late from Juneau and beyond. Reach her at heidenreichmk@gmail.com.
