Editor's note: Mount
Olympus, a craggy peak towering over the Salt Lake
Valley, has long beckoned Ron Cram, a self-described
''experience collector'' and summertime skier. This
year's snowfields and chutes, he writes, proved
unbearably enticing.
By Ron Cram
It was
1985, the year I started skiing, that I found a
fascination for Mount Olympus, with its familiar diagonal
fault splitting twin cliffs. As my
passion for skiing grew, so did my interest in skiing
Mount Olympus, and I wondered if anyone had ever skied
this or that particular slope. So I
noted with great interest this spring's cool, drawn-out
thaw. I got more excited about the prospect of skiing the
mountain toward the end of June. In the late afternoon
sun, I could see large fields of snow just waiting to be
skied on both the west cleft and one of the north chutes
of Olympus. After two years of not missing a week and an
additional four years of not missing a month on snow,
I've skied and snowboarded plenty of odd places. On the
weekend of July Fourth, I set out to ski Olympus. With a
top-heavy pack, unyielding sun, pesky hikers and even
peskier flying critters trying to suck my blood, I broke
off the trail and started up the stream. After
four hours and a 3,000-vertical-foot climb, I reached my
objective - the Holy Grail. Unfortunately, the grail had turned
to rust. When I had scoped the area with binoculars two
days before there was enough snow to ski. Now I could see
that a couple of days' melt left the snow just wide
enough to sideslip, certainly not enough to link turns.
Plan B. I had one more chance, and a window of mere days,
to ski Olympus. The big north chute had defied the
snowmelt. I planned a much shorter hike with a
topo map and prepared to ski Mt. Oly's North Chute. On July
11 I broke through the jungle to the gully that led
to the snow. This was definitely wilderness area. When I
reached snow, I was excited because there was so much
left. The snow was hard. As I climbed, I was overwhelmed
by the moment: the challenge, the solitude, the scenery,
just the good fortune of living around here. As I climbed, I heard
water running several feet beneath me and avoided the
slushy, clearer snow where I might drop through. At about
midpoint in the snowfield, I reached a break in the snow.
The lower half had broken and separated from the upper.
Cautiously I inched to the edge to see if I could jump
the break. Just when I realized I could, everything dropped
out from under me. It happened so fast that I couldn't
react. The entire section I had been standing on broke
off and wedged into the crevasse. Fortunately, the drop
was for just a couple of feet and the landing was soft. I
cautiously moved on. With
every foot forward I was keenly aware that a misstep
could be deadly. There were 10- to 15-foot drops on
either side of the snow where it had melted away from the
cliffs. If the fall didn't kill, there were other
problems to worry about. Even if hurt and still
conscious, how would I get down? I removed
my crampons and strapped on my skis. A few more minutes
of side-stepping and I was at the top of the run.
I relaxed, took some pictures - and skied. My altimeter
watch told me each run was 400 vertical feet of careful
turns. That's as much vertical as some resort trails. Skiing in
July on Mount Olympus was rewarding. As one of my sons
said to me many years ago, "This is the life!"
I couldn't agree more.
Editor's
Note--Author Ron Cram was just
featured in the May issue of SKI MAGAZINE