Mama Mia: Skiing the East Face of Italy’s Boot, Pika Glacier, Alaska Range
Blue: Ascent Route Red: Descent (Ski) Route
Aerial image used with permission from Alaska Guide Co.
In preparation for our ski expedition to the Pika Glacier, Adrien Regglebruge, Owen Desroches, and I had been combing over photos and topo maps, fantasizing of technical ski lines and unique routes. The East face of Italy’s Boot instantly caught our eyes. Threading through a steep, hanging glacier, the bottom of this face was guarded by an ice-plastered cliff, nearly two-thousand feet below the line’s entrance.
This line would most certainly have a long close-out rappel at the bottom. With this being our first real multi-week ski expedition, we knew we’d be lucky to even ski any lines at all, much less anything uber-technical like this. Because of this, we collectively wrote it off before the trip even started, in an attempt to keep expectations realistic for ourselves. Secretly, the image of this line was burned in my memory, and I suspect it was imprinted in Adrien and Owen’s minds, too.
The first few days of our two weeks of glacier living were storm-filled, with low visibility. We didn’t fully know the lay of the land yet, and being responsible young men, we decided to hang close to camp—a decision that would’ve pleased our mothers and girlfriends. Cook, melt water, shovel, read, sleep. This was the daily cycle.
Owen, world-renowned stove technician, gets comfy in our snow cave kitchen. We lovingly referred to it as "Hotel Bozeman".
Eventually, on day 4, the skies cleared and we could finally see our surroundings. We skied a couloir a few miles down-glacier of camp, which just so happened to be right across the valley from Italy’s Boot. Despite the building fog, seeing it from this angle, in real life, sparked a burning desire in my mind. Imagine, in a place as grand as this, skiing such an aesthetic route that had likely never seen another human. At my core, that’s why I do this. Not to claim first descents— I have an insatiable craving for new perspectives, touching the unknown, and the indescribable feeling of the world feeling simultaneously so big and so small. I went to sleep that night feeling inspired by everything that had led me to this point.
Skirting the flanks of Italy's Boot in flat light.
The next morning, high pressure had really taken hold, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. We went and skied two lines close to camp before lunch. It was sunny but cold, and only the most sunny aspects were beginning to shed the 3 feet of snow we’d received in the days prior.
One of our warm-up lines from that morning.
“Should we go give it a look today?” Owen said, and we all instantly knew what he was referencing. The overhead hazard of Italy’s Boot NE ascent route sees sun in the morning. By now, it was just after noon, and conventional wisdom would have shot down that idea so late in the day. This was the Alaska Range, though, where such rules should be thrown out the window. The lack of humidity combined with the seemingly never-ending daylight meant that as soon as slopes went back into the shade, they’d quickly get cold again, and we wouldn’t run out of light. We decided we’d leave camp at 3pm. If everything wasn’t perfect to ski the direct E face, we’d bail back down the NE face. This had to have been the best fallback option of all time— 2,500 feet of powder skiing on one of the more aesthetic, steep glaciers I’d seen.
Skiing down-glacier, I was trying to logically break down the unknowns that lay ahead of us. We’d have to stay roped-up for a majority of this ascent, despite the steep skinning. The face we had to skin up was essentially a broken-up hanging glacier, with plenty of snow-bridge crossings and looming seracs. Exposure above and below. Over the last 5 years, I’ve developed the ultimate partnership with Owen and Adrien; we have complete trust in each other's abilities, and I was more worried about falling into a crevasse than I was for one of us to take a roped fall while skinning. The next major unknown was accessing the top of the line itself. It appeared we’d have two options: a steep traverse on the summit pyramid’s blue glacial ice, or a more direct approach through mixed rock and snow. The direct approach seemed less complicated, albeit more technical. Our final unknown was the line exit. We’d seen a potential spot for an anchor, with lots of cracks in the rock for gear. We had a collection of pitons, knife blades, and stoppers.
Skinning up Italy Boot's NE face
We skinned up Italy Boot’s NE face rather quickly. As we got closer to the entrance of the line, our options to access it seemed tricky. After a quick discussion below the mixed pitch, we decided to go for the direct route, and climb the steep snow and rock band. Owen took the lead, half-swimming uphill through the steep snow, without many options in the way of protection. There’s no right way to climb unconsolidated steep snow without ascent plates, but it usually involves some form of repeated uphill belly-flopping. Progress can be frustratingly slow, especially when you have a big looming cornice overhead and skis on your back. I’d like to imagine that Owen has some wolverine DNA in him, because he seems to love that shit.
Eventually, cresting over the last mixed step, we topped out on the ridge splitting the direct E face, and the NE face we had approached from. It was 7PM and we were finally in the sun again. This would be the last time we’d feel the sun on our faces for the rest of the day, though. It was unspoken between us, but over the last hour everyone’s mindset had shifted from skepticism to unwavering confidence. We were in this for real now.
A side profile of our pitch of steep snow. How does snow stick to everything up here?!?
Adrien dropped into the line first. It was only fair; he’s always been the catalyst for pushing ourselves beyond what we thought was possible in terms of ski lines. This was a big one, and I think that had he not been there, this line would have stayed completely off our radar. A few minutes later, he radioed up that he’d skied over a thousand feet down and was in a reasonably safe spot. I dropped in next, and what followed felt like a dream. The snow was perfect. Somewhere between boot-top and knee-deep, all fears of what lay below were erased in that instant. I was going to enjoy these turns and be in the moment. I reached Adrien, and while waiting for Owen we began to discuss the crux below us. We knew it was only going to get steeper and firmer, but we were still feeling optimistic.
Adrien approaching the crux of our line with Sultana (Mt Foraker) and the Infinite Spur in the distance.
Adrien had the gear for the anchor, and skied the next section first to get a head start on anchor-building. After a few minutes of no response on the radio, I began to get a little anxious. What was going on down there? Adrien eventually replied that conditions below were firm with sections of icy runnels, but that we could make it. Owen took the second drop, and I followed, ice axe in hand. From afar, the crux of the line appeared to be the skinny passage between the toe of the hanging serac and the rockwall next to it. It turned out to be much wider than expected, with decent enough snow in it. As I got lower, I realized what Adrien had been talking about. The snow was getting increasingly more firm, and the exposure really started to become apparent. A few more turns and sidesteps put me on top of an icy runnel. I plunged one axe as deep as I could into the ice, and tethered into it. Right away, I began to chop out a step in the ice with my other axe, knowing that every move had to be deliberate and calculated. I carefully made the transition of skis-to-crampons on this nearly 55º icy slope, just as Adrien and Owen had done before me.
Steep and scenic—does it get any better than this?
Meanwhile, Adrien had his hands full with this anchor. What had appeared to be nice, cracked up rock from a distance was actually a jumble of chossy junk. Adrien kept testing the rock, hitting it with his hammer, occasionally tossing a soccer-ball sized rock downslope. Eventually, he’d reached solid enough rock that he got a few knifeblades in. Good enough for me.
Adrien doing some good old choss-wrangling to build a suitable anchor. Montana prepared us well for this.
After a 50m rappel down mixed rock and water ice, we were at the bottom of our line. The whole face above us was in the shade, and I finally felt a sense of relief. This line wanted to give us one last kick in the ass, though. As we pulled ropes, one of our ropes got stuck, requiring Owen to reclimb the rotten WI3 we had just rapped down. He flew up and down it at a blistering speed, and we could finally get off that damn apron.
Rappelling our way to safety. Mom, if you're reading this, you can finally breathe a sigh of relief here.
We began the slog back up-glacier to camp, good and tired. We rolled into camp at 11pm, nearly 8 hours after we’d left for the line. We made a feast of a meal in our snow cave, and slept really good that night.
Now that I’ve had enough time to ruminate on this experience, I finally feel ready to share it. Lines like this are largely a personal experience; an intimate one that is shared with your mountain partners. You don’t do it for the fame or money—you’ll find none of that in this pursuit. For me, I’m chasing that sense of exploration we all feel as kids—the feeling of truly not knowing what’s around the corner—the feeling of being so incredibly small in a place so much bigger than yourself. Odds are this line probably hasn’t seen another skier on it, but I don’t really care if we were the first descent. My cup was full, and I was thankful to my partners for helping make it happen.
As if it couldn't get any better, we could see our tracks anytime we skied down-valley for the next week.
