I have stumbled upon convergent ladybugs coming out of diapause. The convergent ladybug (Hippodamia convergens) is a beetle renowned for its peak-bagging abilities. Every fall, many of this species migrate by the thousands to the upper reaches of tall mountains. This event marks the first stages of a 9-month hibernation process called diapause, where ladybugs form large colonies to maintain body temperatures, conserve resources and facilitate reproduction. The convergent ladybug, as its name suggests, builds large colonies in locations hidden from predators: under rocks and leaves and on mountain tops. Summit ladybugs will become covered by feet of snow, which will serve to insulate them from harsh winter conditions by sustaining a temperature right above freezing and protecting them from the elements. As the daylight increases and temperatures begin to rise, these beetles will come out of diapause, mate and move on to lower elevations in search of aphids.

The convergent ladybugs are fierce predators. While this beetle can survive on nectar and pollen alone, aphids are vital for its reproductive cycle. Females will not lay eggs if there is not an abundant supply of aphids. Both adults and larvae gorge themselves on aphids, consuming 30 to 50 aphids a day as adults. Aphids are one of the most damaging pests on crops in temperate regions, so the ladybug’s massive appetite for the insect makes it an ideal biological pest control for many farmers wary of using insecticides. But I haven’t climbed up to the top of Bockman Peak to cash in on an agricultural goldmine. I am here to ski.

I bid farewell to my hundreds of new friends and slide away from the 8,174-foot summit, traversing back down the south face until the slope begins its funnel into the South Couloir of Bockman Peak. The South Couloir offers a 2,200-foot descent before the couloir turns into a waterfall and stream that pours into Leigh Lake. The cliff that the ski line divides extends from the snow at a 50-degree angle, giving the couloir more of a gully feeling than a true walled-in chute. Still it is an eye-pleasing and long ski line. The slope of the run begins in the upper 30s on the top of the run and then mellows out to a somewhat consistent slope angle in the upper 20 to lower 30 degrees as the walls of the couloir narrow, leaving a strip of snow only 15 feet across. The length of the run, aesthetic nature, beautiful location and easy access from Leigh Lake make it an Inland Northwest classic. //

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I’m on the wrong side of the road as I skin up Columbia Mountain. It looked good from Google Maps, but as I continue to ascend it looks like I’ll either be skiing mellow trees back down to the car or dropping into some very steep terrain with trees and cliffs that will take me who knows where. The snow feels nice under my skis, and my pit results leave little to fear as I continue my ascent. From the summit of Columbia Mountain, I look north and pretend I can tell where Canada begins and click a picture. More importantly, I look south and see Sherman and Snow peaks on the south side of Highway 20; now I know where to ski next time. I pull off my climbing skins, place them in my backpack and descend some nicely-spaced trees on an easy-going slope.

When I moved to the Inland Northwest a few years ago, there was plenty of trial and error but not much backcountry skiing beta. I would read online about someone skiing in the southern Cabinets and then figure out the trailhead. Sometimes I would have success, and other times I would spend hours skinning up a snow-covered Forest Service road before I realized I had missed the turnoff for the drainage I was hoping to ski. I’d spend hours on sites like summitpost.org trying to find places to ski by looking for tall peaks with manageable approaches and guessing keywords to search for trip reports on Google and national ski forums. In the fall of 2012 there was very little information out there.

Luckily I was able to find some solid backcountry skiing partners, but two of the three guys were also recent transplants to the area. We were all pretty clueless as to where to ski, but we did come to realize that there is a tremendous amount of backcountry skiing terrain in the Inland Northwest. Getting to it is a whole other beast.

I moved to the Inland Northwest from the Intermountain West and spent my formative years backcountry skiing in the Wasatch Mountains of Utah and the Colorado Rockies. Both of these areas offer amazing access to skiing due to geography and strong ski and tourism industries. The many mountain ranges of Eastern Washington, Northern Idaho and Northwest Montana, on the other hand, have rich histories in mining and logging, which translates to miles of unplowed access roads. I knew that backcountry skiing without a snowmobile meant we would need a plowed road to come within five miles of our destination. The search was on.

Having sharpened my teeth skiing in the Colorado Rockies where high passes along the continental divide make the backcountry skiing all too accessible, I looked around the Inland Northwest for skiing near highway passes and made some of my first outings from Sherman and Lookout. Sherman Pass quickly drew my attention as it offers some great north-facing terrain and easy access from Washington State Route 20. There is often a skin track circumnavigating the westside of the mountain that gets put in by people coming and going to the Snow Peak Cabin. It makes the first mile of the hike nice before you have to break off and begin to gain altitude up Sherman Peak. The classic run off Sherman Peak is the Hourglass, a north facing run that starts on a gentle slope before rolling over into some steep, craggy treed terrain before eventually depositing the skier onto an apron below some very large cliffs. Lookout Pass on the Montana-Idaho border offers more consistent and heavier snowfalls, but the easily-accessed terrain of FAA Mountain (east of the pass) consists of well-spaced lodgepole pines on a 20ish degree slope and St. Regis Basin (west of the pass), which offers some great skiing, is also a very popular snowmobiling area.

As the season progressed, so did my explorations. Still traveling on loose beta and hearsay from locals not overly keen on giving up their stashes, we continued our trial and error ways into Western Montana and the Idaho Panhandle. Our luck improved and soon we found ourselves visiting other areas in the region with increased frequency and venturing further east and west of Spokane.

Today, the Panhandlebackcountry.com backcountry ski site provides a forum and trip reports makes finding places to ski and people to ski with in the Inland Northwest much easier. This region needed a place for backcountry skiers to find each other and share beta as the amount of quality skiing in the area is immense. //

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Step Two: Have an excuse.  During our previous day’s outing, I had noticed something odd on our ascents of Red Crow Peak and Calf Robe Mountain: I was summiting before Kevin.  I had met Kevin while he was a Physician’s Assistant student at the University of Washington’s MEDEX program in Spokane a few years prior, and he immediately became one of my favorite ski partners.  Kevin was a collegiate long distance runner who had succumbed to the pull of the mountains a long time ago.  Needless to say, Kevin was usually quite a bit faster than me on the ascents.  To find myself on the tops of these peaks before him was an anomaly.  Something was off, and he would later admit that he was feeling sick. We had our excuse.

Step Three:  Make a mistake.  We took off from the Swiftcurrent Trailhead in the Many Glacier area of Glacier National Park in silence.  Kevin had voiced concerns about feeling sick but still wanted to give Allen Mountain a try.  We had a good amount of dry miles to cross before we would hit snow and begin our ascent, so we kept trying to push the pace faster.  We closely studied our map of the area beforehand, and the path to follow seemed obvious.  Yet, when we came to the first turn, we missed it.  A half mile later, we were on the wrong shoreline of Lake Josephine.  We realized our mistake but neglected to correct it.

Step Four: Fjord a stream.  If you find yourself with your pants off, skis on your back and feet in freezing cold water, you’ve failed.  Never have I had success after finding myself bent over with nauseating pain as the feeling rushes back into feet that have just been subjected to ice-cold water.  A lack of detail in our map showed that we could simply walk along the west shore of Lake Josephine, bushwhack a short distance up the hillside and soon regain the trail we had missed.  In actuality, we had to fjord a stream that connected Josephine and Swiftcurrent Lakes and bushwhack through thick alder.  This time-consuming penalty would be our final blow.

Step Five: Commit to failing. When Kevin and I finally regained the trail we had missed, it was obvious that we had taken too much time.  The rising sun and increase in temperature were taking their toll, and we were still too far from our goal.  It was time to find another option.  We had spied from the parking lot some good skiing north of Allen Mountain on the ridgeline now directly above us.  A few quick hikes down and back the trail and we found what seemed like the easiest means to gain the snow.  Another quick, but more forgiving bushwhack, and we clicked into our skis and skinned up a slope, traversing south to what appeared to be the longest continuous snow patch we had seen earlier that morning.  Soon we were under our slide path; the incline was such that booting straight up our run was going to be the fastest and easiest option.  Skis strapped to our backpacks, crampons strapped to our boots, one foot after another, the climb continued. We had failed, but plan B was shaping up to be a pleasing consolation prize.

Step Six: Enjoy the failure.  At some point after you’re committed to failing, you will embrace it, and despite the feelings of disappointment, you will realize that you are still in a beautiful place with snow to ski as far as the eye can see.  As we continued to climb up towards the ridgeline, the disappointment of not obtaining our day’s objective soon dissipated as some of Glacier’s largest peaks surrounded us.  The beauty seeped into our pores. Soon we were sitting just below the ridge enjoying snacks and marvelous views of Mount Grinnell, Angel Wing and Mount Gould.  Our day’s objective was soon forgotten as we linked one glorious turn after another through supple, sun-kissed snow.  2,400 vertical feet delivered down a consistent pitch made for a memorable failed attempt, but I guess that is just the way it is skiing Glacier National Park. //

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