Quick report
We dragged ourselves up to 10,500 feet in that cursed old ski bowl, high enough to feel the madness of the world sloshing in our veins. The wind was a mean, steady at 10mph, but every now and then it’d hit you like a freight train—gusting up to 25mph, howling and rattling your bones. Overhead? The sky was full of projectiles. Ice and rock chunks—some as big as a softball—tumbling down like they were out for blood. Snow conditions? You couldn’t put a bullet in the stuff above 9k. One wrong move, and you'd be hurtling down that mountain like a free-fallin’ dream, no brakes, no parachute—just the cold, hard truth coming at you fast. Slide for life, no question. Crampons were non-negotiable. If you didn’t have ‘em, you might as well have been trying to ski on glass in a thunderstorm. The southeast slopes around 8k were catching some heat, though—solarized and ripe for the taking by midday. But be warned: the mountain doesn’t care about your plans, your hopes, or your delusions of control.