Dan Richardson, Inner Basin, Humphrey's Peak, AZ.. A Hot October and A Holy Land: The True Story Of Humphreys Peak By Tom Winter Photos By Tom Winter Editor's note: Veteran ski writer Winter was inspired to relate this "True story of Humphreys Peak after participating in a discussion here on the Telemark Talk Forum. x It all started with Duff. The bastard kept asking, "where is it? Which one is Humphreys!" I knew he was going to poach my line. And there was no way I could let that happen. Truth be told, it was Joe's fault. He had let the secret slip. And now Duff was in a feeding frenzy. He was sputtering and drooling. “Humphreys," he demanded. "Which one is it!" I started to get scared. The man would do anything for powder. He was violent, I could feel him starting to bubble over. If he did, then who knew what he would do or say? It was then that I started to panic. Everything was going to go horribly wrong. Duff had the juice to get my line if he wanted it, there was no doubt about that. After all he was a bull in the mountains, setting skin tracks up impossibly steep ridges and he skied like the wind. And nothing could stop him when he smelled snow or worse, thought he smelled snow. There was also more at stake than a poached line. And it was going to be terrible because we might not be able to save Duff. He thought he smelled snow and there wasn't any. But that wouldn't stop him. His brain was a bedraggled thing, and he all could smell was fresh deep powder that covered the mountains like down duvet. But in reality, all that was in the air was an evil dry wind that blew no one any good. Duff was doomed and he didn't even know it. The fall had been a hot one. The first snows had come in early September. I can remember them clearly. Vail Pass was coated, and it looked like it was going to stick. Another foot and we'd be hiking, edges hitting sleeper rocks as we bounced down the rollers. It wouldn't have been great, but we would have been skiing. After that first hopeful storm, the high pressure set in and everyone started to cook. It didn't matter where you were. Aaron and Jen had made some turns down in Silverton. I had seen Jen in Denver and she was glowing. "We were able to ski all the way to the bottom," she said swirling her martini, fully stoked. I had been envious, but what can you do? When you own the lift, it's easy to turn it on and score a few early September powder laps. But September was now long gone and things were looking grim. From Utah, where some early season diehards had scored turns at Snowbird to Jackson, where it can get good quickly up there on Teton Pass, the stoke evaporated as quickly as the snow. Joni, stuck in the hellish environment of Southern California was, literally and figuratively, burning up. The flames were on CNN every night and it appeared as if she would be immolated. And now there was Duff. He was going crazy, close to slipping off the edge and we weren't going to be able to save him if he went. He needed turns, he needed them bad and he needed them now. Worse yet, he was fixated in an obscene way, like an adolescent boy on Pamela Anderson's chest and only one mountain would do. "Humphreys" he muttered over and over," his fingers twitching in a spastic, grotesque dance. "Humphreys." Flagstaff, Arizona sits at the junction of desert and sky. When you're in Flagstaff you're at the bottom of the top. Behind you, in every direction the earth is painted a kaleidoscope of Red and white. Canyons and gullies cut a random jigsaw across vast expanses of desert. It's lonely out there amongst the pinion and sage. It's Indian country and it's Abbey country. And it’s a place where people have wandered for days, mistaking landmarks, devoid of water. Lost, they die in the dust as their dry throats constrict around the last breath of life. Thankfully there is some relief, and some water, and, better yet, some snow in the winter. Throughout the region, high peaks sit above the painted rocks. The ranges are random and scattered. But they all share the same dry powder. It's good, damn good, and Duff needed some of that. I could tell that he felt that out of all the lost peaks and empty ranges -the Henry's the La Sals, the Abaho - that only the looming bulk of Humphreys was the Promised Land. He was going to go and go now. Nothing could stop him. The scent of powder that wasn't there pulling him southward, a demon on a mission that would end in disillusionment as soon as he saw the peak, saw it was dry and went stumbling back into the sun-baked desert, lost and dejected, his purpose and will to live vanishing like a snowflake in the Arizona sun. Truth be told, I had tasted some of Duff's obsession. A late season trip had taken us to Flagstaff and peaks that rise above the town, the highest mountains in Arizona. The area is considered Holy Land by the local indians for good reason. Although there's a ski area - the Arizona Snowbowl - on the flank of the peaks that make up the range, it's the terrain outside the boundary ropes that really makes your mouth drool. The main rocky face of Humphreys that rises above the Inner Basin is especially impressive. The lines rival anything I've seen on any mountain, from the Alps to the Andes. And sure, while those mountains may have longer, more sustained insanity, Humphreys Peak has plenty of dicyness. Tee up some of the gnar off of the top and if you're good enough to ski some of the discontinuous, technical lines that feed into the Inner Basin, then you can hold your own anywhere on the planet. Right: The real thing... Humphreys Peak, Katchina Peaks Wilderness Area, Arizona I remembered that terrain and more as well. We had hiked like madmen, Dan, Dave and I, scoring old powder in the Inner Basin, sweet corn on the open flanks of Humphreys west side and windbuff inbetween. Inside the boundaries, there was perfect spring skiing on the groomers, soft slush spitting from under our edges as we cruised to a rendezvous with cold beer on the deck at the lodge. In three days the clock ran out on us quickly. The trip was always going to be too short. And 48 hours was never going to be enough time given the seductive charms of Humphreys. As we left Flagstaff, blasting down highway 89 in Dan's Suburban, I kept looking back. There had been a line up there, I line I wanted and needed to be mine. I line that, if I had made that last hike, I would have skied it. It burned in my brain. It was mine and mine alone. I'd never share it! I'd keep its existence a secret until I could own it. I dozed off, the image burning in my brain, a run that promised salvation and bliss. It would make me whole as a skier. The hallucinatory dreams swirled through my subconscious as the truck bounced down the road. Dave Smith, Inner Basin (above) & AZ Snowbowl Hours later, or was it minutes, I was jolted awake. "Check it out," said Dan. Instinctively, without realizing or even remembering what I was doing, I snapped a few shots. Then, before I knew it, we were in Moab gassing up and Dan was handing me a cup of coffee and asking me when I might be able take the wheel. It was months later that Duff came into my life. By accident rather than design. I had been haunted by visions all during the long hot fall. Not even a month skiing in the high Andes of Chile had cured me. It was that damn line down there in Flagstaff. I'd space out on a bike ride and crash, the line a glowing strip of snow and the last thing I'd see before a root would shoot me into the weeds and the bike send me tumbling. Or I'd wake up suddenly, sweating, the white line off of Humphreys a burning stripe down the center of my brain. Then Duff started looking for answers. He needed help quickly, but if we could keep him looking for long enough, it would start to snow. Then, when he arrived on his pilgrimage to the base of the mysterious mountain, it would be winter, and we'd have saved him from dying alone out there in the desert, his skis slowly bleaching in the sun as the coyotes scattered his bones and his Gore-Tex turned to dust. Still there was still the question of the line. Late one night after a hard evening of drinking I fell deep asleep into a coma. As always, the line haunted me, dancing through surreal dreams as I tossed and turned in alcoholic stupor. I awoke in the dark, the sound of the front door banging in the grip of a cold wind jolting me from my sleep. I stumbled from bed, and walked down the stairs, strangely awake and lucid, with no trace of a beer muddied brain but not quite myself either. When I reached the door, rather than shutting it, I walked out into the cold night and down to the creek. As I stood there, a sudden shadow darkened the moon, and I looked up. Low scudding clouds swept across the sky, and as the first one passed over me, it let loose a small flurry of snow that vanished almost as soon as it arrived. I knew then that Duff could have my line. The indians were right. The peaks above Flagstaff are a Holy Land, a place for powder pilgrimages. And Duff needed salvation as much, or more, as any of us. The Satanic October had broken him and many others. They had cracked under the weight of the meaningless jobs, the incessant heat, the bills, the endless responsibilities of life and the 1001 little things that push people over the edge when they've got a serious jones for snow and no way to feed it. At that moment, I made a vow. To never mislead Duff or anyone else through sloppiness or sloth. To share the knowledge of special lines and mountains with all and rejoice when someone skis them (even if it is Duff, that poacher!). And to light a bonfire with all my friends and burn a ski as soon as I could in the hope that the sacrifice would bring the blessing of snow to the mountains, sanity to Duff and turns at the local ski hill to all the other poor saps who, like me, had suffered through the Hell of the longest, hottest October ever.   Cover | Site Map | News Page | Talk Forum