Tank goodness 

Pyramid Peak beckons the sled-to-shred crowd

I expected the snowmobile to make some bratty exhaust noise and steer more like a barge than a motorbike. The full body workout required to drive it, however, came as a surprise.

I'd made my way to Seeley Lake with Drew Dolan and Katy Garton to ride some 12 miles up snow-packed forest roads to the base of 8,300-foot Pyramid Peak, where we planned to park, step into our skis and skin up some 3,000 vertical feet to the summit, with Headwall photo editor Chad Harder capturing the day on camera. The payoff would be idyllic powder turns slashed across the glorious west face. Over cheeseburgers and beer at the end of our day, I would whip out the Headwall credit card and feel myself bursting with heroic achievement, adding a solid entry to my backcountry resumé: Sledneck Backcountry Skier. At least, that's how I imagined it.

click to enlarge Montana Headwall

I am nothing if not a man of grand vision.

But just two minutes into the day, as I struggled to gas my rented snowmobile over a slippery, foot-high berm on the back streets of town, I was already guessing that a different narrative might emerge. The real story would tell whether I would hold it together long enough to get to the mountain and back in one piece.

Dolan, an avid sledder who once-upon-a-time competed in the U.S. Extreme Freeskiing Championships, carted two snowmobiles from Missoula for himself and Garton to ride. I shelled out for a pair of Polaris RMK 600s at Seeley Sport Rentals for the Headwall crew. I'd never even touched a snowmobile before. I had only a vague idea how they worked. Did they have gears? Brakes? Cup-holders?

They looked simple enough: a long seat set above a paddled track; handlebars; an ergonomic lever on the right grip for the throttle. After a five-minute orientation that included instructions to make a call if we broke down, we lit off straight from the shop.

In truth, the icy berm impeding my way out of town held me up for less than a minute. With encouragement from the others, I screwed up the nerve to get aggressive on the throttle and muscle across to reach the sled trail leading out of town. Once on the well-established route, I quickly got busy getting a feel for the machine, testing the acceleration, the steering, and the brakes (on the left grip). There was really nothing to it.

Except for the work.

Snowmobiles haul ass. They can also careen. They slip and wallow. And above all, they bounce—especially on heavily washboarded thoroughfares like the road to Pyramid Peak.

The strain settled mostly into my hips and lower back. With feet and ankles locked into heavy plastic ski boots, the seat too low and the ride too harsh to comfortably sit while moving, I fidgeted constantly in search of an optimized posture and found none. I tried riding on one knee. I tried the other knee. I tried both knees. I tried to sit. I tried to stand. My body spent most of the trip bent in a semi-athletic crouch, hands wide and shoulders wrestling for command of the squirrelly runners. My legs took the brunt of the punishment, absorbing the terrain so my spine could be spared. A fleeting 60 mph snort down a long, flat straightaway briefly displaced the steady exertion with what could easily have become an exhilarating yet terminal cartwheel. But by the time we reached the start of the serious incline, about six miles in, the washboards had grown as big as fallen tree trunks, and each one exacted a toll.

Some nine miles from town, we reached the Pyramid Pass trailhead, where the road gave way to a narrow trough packed down by previous travelers—a three-mile bobsled run through the woods. I cruised cautiously along, ducking limbs and feathering the accelerator to keep from leaping out of the tight track.

click to enlarge Montana Headwall

If it were easier to ski the dozen miles to the base of Pyramid Peak, that's what folks would do, but it's not—not by a long shot. And when we suddenly emerged from the dense timber, I instantly recognized why it's so worth getting there.

Before us spread a huge southwest-facing bowl, blanketed in snow. Fingers of forest crept up the bottom half of the slope to separate the lower reaches into distinctive descent options. Up higher, stunted firs caked in white looked more like dessert than woody flora, with vanilla icing layered on so thick you could almost imagine the taste of a big, messy bite. Old Man Winter kept a supremely decadent palace here. And we could ski it.

Or, as others might prefer, snowboard it. We'd heard back in town that some local fellas had made camp at the base of the peak. We found their shelter, a crude hovel constructed of scrap lumber loosely covered with remnants of industrial plastic wrap, tucked under a protective canopy of the forest at the bottom of the run out. If the mountain was winter's mansion, their camp was like a dung hut lumped outside the gate—party central for the shredheads of the Swan Range.

We parked our rigs, and as we kitted up to start skinning we watched one of them high-marking a steep pitch just above us on his sled. We didn't entirely mind the company. We could see slithering tracks descending the upper reaches of the peak, and their presence reassured us about the snow stability. If anything on that mountain was going to slide, it would likely have come down on those guys by now.

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