doggie in the hole
Blake and I are sitting on our packs on top of Middle Sister at roughly 10 am for the third Spring in a row, having brought our dogs Ike and Jane for the first time. We’re content to just sit, gaze, and ponder while the dogs-pink tongues extended to counter the warmth of their thick, black coats-watch our every move hopeful for one more scrap of food.
The view from atop each of the Three Sisters is unlike that from any other high peak in western Oregon. What is most obviously missing is the checkerboard landscape that plagues this bountiful part of the world and is most pronounced during the snowy months; white squares represent snow-blanketed clearcuts and the dark second or third growth forest.
Instead of a disheartening panorama of piebald forests, we are treated to a gin-clear view of a white wonderland containing two Sisters, the Husband, the Wife, Broken Top, Bachelor, Washington, Jefferson, Thielsen, Tipsoo Butte, snowy lava fields, fourteen glaciers, and hardly a trace of the chainsaw’s handiwork. What a relief it is.
On top of it all, there is no question in our minds that the seldom skied north face of Middle Sister is ‘in’ as we throw small lava rocks onto it from above. The tiny projectiles don’t bounce and roll, they stick and float near the surface. During our past two visits the route has been boilerplate, blue ice. Fine for front-pointing your way to the summit but far too ‘interesting’ for a ski descent.
The north face of Middle Sister is one of those drops that makes you swallow hard and think twice. You see no middle ground, just the first turn or two and then the Hayden Glacier 2,000 or so vertical feet below. This time around the face is in prime condition: soft enough to ski but not too soft to raise concerns of wet snow slides.
The dogs, unfortunately, want nothing to do with this descent. Ike whimpers. Jane backpedals, turns and wags her tail as if to say, ‘C’mon dude, let’s follow the ridge instead.’ It’s not my turn for glory. It is my turn to wrangle the dogs, partially descend the ridge, and find a good camera position.
I ski a few hundred vertical feet over wind-scoured Cascade crud topped with dollops of rime ice. Ike’s whimpering mellows but the poor beast is still gripped. I find a spot from which to shoot and tell the dogs to ‘take a break’ which they do gladly; it’s been a long climb and the skiing is a little dicey, not to mention that the golfball-sized gobs of rime don’t make an ideal running surface for padded feet.
Not only are we now in a good place to document Blake’s descent, but we’re also in a position to traverse out on the face and ski the lower half. Before I can put my camera to my eye, Blake begins his descent of a line that I doubt many others have tried. The dogs’ tails wag and their frames wriggle while my camera’s shutter clicks and the motor drive hums.
We ski the rest of the face one at a time, Blake with Ike and I with Jane. Blake makes turn after turn as Ike dutifully follows. I keep a close watch, holding Jane back all the while.
1,000 vertical feet below man and dog make an arcing left turn to move out of the face’s deposition zone. It makes no sense for them to rest in a place on to which Jane and I could possibly release a fatal amount of snow. Blake turns and waves a ski pole. Time to head. I release granular waves of wet snow with each turn though none has the momentum to keep up.
Near the bottom I spot Blake out of the corner of my eye. He’s pointing at something and I can’t quite make out what he’s yelling. I’m almost there and having too much fun to care. As I glide over the three-foot wide opening of a crevasse located just above where the pitch starts to ease, I glimpse a snowbridge 10 feet to my right.
I realize what Blake has been vainly attempting to shout and point out. I stop, turn around to face Jane who’s charging close behind, and try to encourage her to run faster and keep her eyes glued on me: “C’mon Jane, good dog! Good girl Jane!” With little chance of directing her across the snowbridge, my only hope is that speed, strength, and wits enable her to soar and land safely below the crevasse.
My heart sinks as she drops into the hole and disappears. ‘What an idiot, I’ve killed my dog,’ I think to myself. As I’m out of one binding and leaning over to release the other the dark day becomes light again. The first thing to appear is a little black nose followed by a furiously burrowing sixteen month-old Labrador frame. Then, like a pea on a griddle, Jane bounds out of the crevasse.
Unscathed and unfazed, she barrels into my outstretched arms, tongue dangling and eyes longing for another treat. Jane can have all the treats she wants. I give her the three I have left together in one handfull.
