McGOWN PEAK, IDAHO, “EPIC” TRIP REPORT

McGOWN PEAK, IDAHO, “EPIC” TRIP REPORT
Griffin Post and Super G Slog and Tackle Big Peak in the Sawtooths

Words and Photos: Griffin Post

My phone vibrated moments after the e-mail cleared my outbox. “Super G” appeared on my mobile screen. Apparently, Gabe had received my photo of McGown Peak I had taken only hours earlier.

“So how easy is this ‘super easy’ access?” asked Gabe.

“It’s no problem,” I replied. “A three or four mile bike in on a closed road, half a mile across a meadow with a river crossing, and, bam, you’re on the snow,” I answered not truly knowing, but erring on the side of optimism.

“Sounds good, lets shoot for Saturday, rain or shine,” Gabe said with unbridled enthusiasm.

Located on the northern edge of the Sawtooths, McGown Peak has two distinctive summits, each with couloirs that run from the summits. Committed to the higher of the two peaks on Saturday, I needed a sucker, err partner, to figure out the approach and ski the North Peak the day before. Jess, a long-time friend and climbing partner, seemed to meet the criteria—enough knowledge about climbing to be safe, yet not enough knowledge about the area to know that this was going to be a rather grueling mission given the time of year and temperatures.

Up at first light, we biked as far as we could into the “meadow,” which turned out to be a swamp. Wading waist-deep rivers and sinking knee-deep into mud was the theme of the next hour or so. Dry ground was a relief, except for the fact that we now had to battle our way through overgrowth in isothermal snow. I immediately decided that I’d leave the details of the approach out of the report I’d give Gabe at the end of the day. Eventually we made it to the base of the couloir that ran virtually the length of the North Peak. The rather soft snow made for easy bootpacking, albeit a bit warm at times. Working together, we made it to the top of the 3,000-foot couloir just before noon.

The schussing on the way down was surprisingly effortless. While the snow was soft, the couloir was steep enough that it felt like powder rather than spring mank. With the easier of the two peaks behind us, and a better grip on what the approach entailed, my enthusiasm could be described as marginal heading into Saturday.

Gabe met me Saturday morning with the same reckless enthusiasm he had on the phone. Not wanting to bring down his stoke, I spared some of the more miserable details of the previous day. Even with the beta from the day before, we floundered through the approach. Undeterred, we skinned to the basin of the south peak. Our line was still in the shade and we hoped it would still be frozen. This was not the case. The snow hadn’t frozen the night before, even at 9,000 feet. I’ve been part of some notoriously miserable bootpacks over the past several years, and what ensued over the next couple of hours easily ranked in my personal top five. By the time we reached the top of the couloir, it was as much about beating the mountain as it was the ski down. At the top of the peak, we hurriedly switched over gear as thunderheads began to gather. Based on conditions on the way up, I had my doubts about the skiing on the way down, but, once again, McGown delivered. The turns were creamy and somewhat rationalized the hellish approach.

Making our way back to the trailhead, we found a rather obvious, painless route through the meadow that served as an exclamation point to our anguish over the last two days. Like any true Idahoans, Gabe and I could only think of one thing when we reached the truck—ice-cold beer. Unfortunately, the truck was nothing short of an oven and said beer seemed to be on the verge of exploding.

Being the resourceful guys that we are, we approached two fishermen that looked like they’d consumed their fair share of beer, and asked to swap out our warm ones for some cold ones.

“What kind?” grumbled the bigger of the two.

Now, being in this part of Idaho we knew they’d be either Coors or Budweiser drinkers, exclusively. Any suggestion of the “wrong” beer would be an insult to their manhood, fishing skills, and patriotism. Nervously, I produced the piping hot Buds’ as smiles grew across their faces.

“Anheuser-Busch, hell yeah!” the bigger one exclaimed, excitedly exchanging the brew.

Sitting there, reflecting on the effort of the past few days, sipping on America’s finest, I couldn’t help but think how good those turns still holding on in the high alpine were. It may be an insane amount of work to get those turns, but I guess if it were easy, everybody would be doing it.