SW ridge of Green Butte

The gods have spoken, and our prayers have been answered. The crust—yeah, the thing was hanging on by a thread. Barely there when you turned, a whisper of a crust, but there. The wind up on the ridge? A mild tease, just a soft gust of 10 mph—nothing to write home about, but enough to make you wonder. And the storm, oh the storm, it’s sitting right on top of the sun crust, building a weak and treacherous interface. No signs of an avalanche. But let me tell you, the visibility was a joke. Fifty yards out? You’re lucky to see a dang thing with that storm still tearing up the sky. Now, I made it to the top of the dang mountain at 5:15 pm, and what did I find? A fresh coat of snow, 25 centimeters deep, just waiting for someone to carve through it. This wasn’t the kind of snow you find on some cheap ski resort—no, this was the real deal, untouched and begging for a ride. Protected and unloaded, tucked in some hidden corner, the snow was creamy, frothy—pure, unadulterated bliss. You couldn't ask for more. Pure heaven, my friend.