Nick negotiating Huntington Ravine. Photo courtesy of Nick Weinberg

Steadily gaining elevation, we made our way out of stands of Sugar Maple, Yellow Birch and Red Oak typical of the northern hardwood forests, and into the sub-alpine boreal forests of Red Spruce and Balsam Fir on the upper slopes. Nearing the summit, we entered a dazzling wonderland of rime and hoar covered krumholz, owing to the alternating sequences of storms and high pressure systems, which surge across New England during the winter months. Out of fear of chills and hypothermia in the midst of the bitter cold, we glided up the Thunderbolt with a continuous cadence for nearly two hours until we reached the vacant summit hut where we stopped and quickly threw on insulating layers. Subsequently, we gorged ourselves on an assortment of high calorie epicure fresh from the gas station, and re-fueled on coffee from our dependable thermoses.

Suddenly the whole cabin began to vibrate. I thought the rumble might be due to Zach’s marked flatulence until it instead became recognizable as the loud whine of two-stroke engines. Two friendly, local snowmobilers walked in and introduced themselves. Upon hearing our plan of descent, they informed us of two things: first, that the slide, which formed in 1990 after four days of rain, was in fact called "The Chief," named after the local historical rebel Chief Greylock due to its resemblance to his face. Next, they said that we would surely die by attempting to ski it. "Sweet!" I thought, "that's just what I want to hear right now." These well meaning folks truly had a way with words. We thanked them for the encouragement, peeled off our skins and headed out of the hut across the bald wind-scoured summit in search of the top of the Chief. It was so cold and gusty that we actually used our crusty, dog-fur-covered balaclavas for the first time.

Following our initial drops onto the slide proper, we realized we had to pick our own independent lines, as each jump-turn down the steep slope released large streams of slough down the Chief, leaving bare patches above. We took turns spotting each other and skiing the most conservative, yet complex lines. As we grew more accustomed to the exposed terrain, we rhythmically worked our way down the center of the ominous feature, gingerly negotiating our way around and sometimes over various obstacles.

To avoid an enormous precipice with an unknown run-out below us, we began an exposed traverse to the skier’s right side of the slide; this plan had materialized in our pre-trip briefing in the parking lot, which had offered clear views of possible lines down. The rock and ice lying under the deceptive layer of powder demanded delicate edging and focused, balanced movement. We held our breaths as we watched each other cut across the large vertical spines of snow, knowing that mistakes and uncalculated risks at this point would have devastating consequences. A sweeping view from our steep position on the mountainside out across the Hoosic River valley and the town of Adams, far below, gave the impression, more common to alpine climbers than skiers, that we were suspended out over space.

After what seemed like an hour, the bottom came into view. A nice steep line down, and an optional cliff band would lead us back to the trees. I spotted the line, so, as custom, was encouraged to ski it first. The first jump-turn landed me in deep, soft fluff that had clearly been deposited from the upper reaches of the slide. In contrast to the dubious terrain above, this line proved to be ideal. Now knowing that a safe ending was in sight, I gave a loud hoot of relief, picking up speed as I carved up the couloir. Tristan skied down to scout the exit cliff out. The landing looked perfect, so I decided to go for it, sailing about 20' over the band, landing in a soft pocket of powder. Zach followed, and soon we were all back in the trees. The prominent flagged vegetation at the foot of the slide reminded us of the severe avalanche potential that the above slopes have possessed in the right conditions. Nonetheless, we were swept by that euphoric enchantment that frequently follows a successful backcountry tour. Zach swore this was the best ski trip ever, just as he does after every trip we do. Even now though, he insists he really did mean it; at least on that day -- I guess the snowmobilers were wrong.

"As we descended the lower slopes of the mountain, the forest opened up into perfectly spaced glades of Sugar Maples..."

Once out of the inhospitable, vertical precincts of the Chief, we abruptly found ourselves in the familiar, gentle northern hardwood forests in which we began our day; and as always, amazed at the degree to which a landscape can be altered by a single geological event. As we descended the lower slopes of the mountain, the forest opened up into perfectly spaced glades of Sugar Maples. Wired from adrenaline, we weaved our way through the trees and hundreds of feet of deep, rolling powder in free-for-all fashion. Tristan got so excited while skiing a tight line, he tore his fancy new ski bibs on a branch.

Continuing down the lower flank of the mountain, the woods grew progressively thick and peculiar until we realized that we were once again lost, but this time in the middle of an old overgrown apple orchard. We angled north towards where we believed the trucks were parked on a dirt road, and simultaneously broke into skating strides in an all out competition to reach the parking lot, which we soon did.

As we walked into a local bar, a former railroad station in Adams, a line of heads turned to assess the newcomers in ski wear. Zach’s kneepads, duck-taped to the outside of his ski pants, and fishnet thermals drew particularly extended glances. When we told the bartender that we had just skied the Chief, the regulars next to us laughed and snickered, not really believing us; but we didn’t care. We took our pitcher over to the pool table, dropped some coins in the jukebox and shot several rounds. The amber rays of the low afternoon sun blazed through the windows of the old station. The taste of the cold beer and the greasy bar-food, the sentimental melodies of our favorite jukebox hits, and the ache of our over-extended muscles produced a bliss that can only be felt after a long day in the mountains. As we shoveled nachos into our mouths, we finally got the recognition we deserved. One character sitting at the bar pointed to us, and said to another who had just arrived, "Those guys just skied the Chief!"

-- Written by Nick Weinberg