Watching the green sky dance is a sight not often seen from Mount Baker’s upper lot. But day traffic is long gone from Heather Meadows and only a handful of vehicles remain, including two high-mileage vans, two pickups with beds in the back, and the 21-foot slideout RV that photographer Ilja Herb and I will call home for the next 17 days and 1,900 miles. And right now our camp chairs are perfectly aligned for a private showing of the Northern Lights.
In the past two days at Baker, we stared the embers down at a ski patrol bonfire, dropped a hidden Giffin Brothers chute before breakfast and dined on homemade chicken soup refrigerated in a snowbank and reheated in MSR pans. Tomorrow, we will tour to Little Alaska, but the backdrop of silent double chairs, a shuttered lodge and the maintenance shack afterglow is setting this scene. And this crowning perspective is only possible because we are parked in a perfect spot.
Staying slopeside is one of skiing’s great luxuries. Booting up by the heater, skipping traffic, and stumbling home from the pub in ski pants are small extravagances that make a big difference. And by sticking around after Bombardiers and Pisten Bullys light up the night, those who remain see a mountain scene most day skiers miss.
But proximity now comes with a price. Luxury hotels, trophy homes and million-dollar timeshares are driving affordable beds down the road. Clocktower gentrification has shifted neighborhood demographics upscale and, in this environment, even the package deal is no longer much of a deal.
Yet all is not lost for skiers banking paychecks to ski all winter. Throughout the Greater Northwest, the back lot remains open to overnight camping. And these open spaces are a grassroots alternative to overpriced and overdeveloped villages.
If Red was in flux, fernie was our hell. The lot is no longer friendly, which we discover by plow light and plow siren during a 5 a.m. eviction. In daylight, we ski run after run of hard moguls. Village chainfood does nothing to cure our persistent hangovers and we return to a parking ticket.
The Alberta-Montana border is rough and we get the full vehicular cavity search. even after vacuuming every square of carpet at the car wash, two guys on an RV ski trip just don’t smell right. But the customs agents find nothing to keep us out. So we spin south to St. Patrick’s Day in Whitefish, midweek Snowbowl powder, and laundry day in Missoula, finding more and more space in every lot.
Four days after gaining entry to Montana, we are trailing five behind Scott Grasser’s red Yamaha on a hill climb atop the Continental Divide at the small ski area of Lost Trail. The ride is fast, the run is empty and our crew is getting a private lift to the Burn an hour before opening on a powder Thursday. At the top of his family’s ski area, Brother Scott turns us loose and we drop into standing dead timber with diamond dust in the air.
One run later, we are peering down shots too steep to see. But our guide, Monica Thomas, a Montana-bred skier with a tattered pack and a shining sun helmet, assures us these will go. A seasonal job with the forest service allows Monica to ski all winter on income from only a few ski-area shifts and two nights tending bar. everyday status has landed her volunteer responsibilities both as morning snow control and grass - roots public relations. And she knows every nook and every line.
Our overnight parking spot means we are sleeping in on Saturday when Bryce Phillips calls early from Seattle to opt out. The weather says a wet storm is rolling in for easter, but we see only blue after lifting the window shade. So we convince Bryce to fight Saturday traffic and ski with us on the last day of our trip. Then I sleep a little longer, make some oatmeal and we wait for the weekend rush to hit.
A few lineups later we are on the sundeck of Alpental’s Chair Two, where visibility allows perspective on a bootpack in the foreground and Mount Rainier in the dis - tance. We watch Bryce race his vapor trail down the line in snow so light displacement seems instant. His smears look satisfyingly deep for March, but coming home to our scene, raging in the back lot, feels just as sweet.
