The Forbidden Tour

The Forbidden Tour, pioneered in the late 1990s, has become renown by Washington State's tight knit backcountry ski community as a cascade classic. Not only does this route pierce the heart of North Cascades National Park, but the name, "Forbidden," captivates and attracts the adventurer rather than deters them. Like the forbidden fruit in the bible Jeff Rich, Mike Traslin and Andy Traslin, and I had to have a bite to see what all the fuss was about. Sunrays pierced high firs into deep-cut valleys. Shading my eyes, I peered back through the bright rays and made out snowline, much higher than normal, far above the gated Cascade River Road where cars parked. It required us to mount skis to packs instead of feet.

The higher we got, the better the views became and reanimated my tired legs. I gazed southward. Only a few miles from me I saw Cascade Pass. Together with the Forbidden Traverse, it joins a dozen other traverses, collectively stretching 400 kilometers across the Cascade Crest, all the way to Mount Rainier to the south and Mount Baker to the north. When we gained the upper Quien Sabe Glacier, we crossed shadows spiked in rough outlines of rocky spires and serrated ridges of Torment, Forbidden, Boston and Sahale Peaks. With a few hours till dusk, we arrived to a swale of snow at 700 meters. Hurried, we flattened tent spots and quickly established a fantastic camp. We rushed toward Sahale Mountain for an impromptu ski tour sans heavy packs.

We were met with horrendous snow that quickly soured ambitions, but the drags that remained pushed us to a high vantage point. While we stood there, the pink alpenglow washed over our heads and consumed the mountainside, further disconnecting us from home and inserting us into the landscape. While the forthcoming turns were as terrible as expected, it was tolerable. As long as beauty stands in and gives senses a twirl, I'm ever content to ski ice instead of powder. The second morning, we traversed to the base of Sharkfin Col. Before the ascent, we pulled axes and crampons from packs for the steep, 150-meter climb. When I was midway up, I heard Jeff, already at the top, curse.

As I arrived, I peered over the cliff edge and saw his pack laying in a heap a 30 meters below! The cornice he'd set his pack on had broken. Either blessed by fates or luck, it had cleared the bergschrund and stopped. "What the...." I said to Jeff. He grinned. "At least I don't have to carry my pack down." For that reason, Jeff took the lead and rappelled first. We followed suit, swinging out and lowering ourselves to the fearsome Boston Glacier. The north face of Mount Buckner, a 50-degree snow face, first caught our attention. It clings to the southern edge of the crevasse-riddled Boston Glacier. In 2011 I'd fallen into a crevasse on my way to ski it, discovering I didn't like a close-up view of its inner workings.

As we turned our backs on Mount Buckner, we lost sight of her as we rounded the upper Boston Glacier. As soon as the crevasses retreated, we ascended to a narrow 2,380-meter col. We now stood at the apex of the infamous Forbidden Glacier. Its snow and ice falls away 900 meters to the shores of Moraine Lake. Our ski signatures carved their edges into snow; gravity uncoiled turn after turn next to gaping crevasses and seracs; and we felt a need to slow down. Below us, the sun gave way to shadow. By then we knew that the fruit of our labors was indeed sweet, but was it forbidden? With no one in sight and no ski tracks to cross, while perhaps not forbidden, it was all ours and that made it precious.

Near the glacier's base, the unseasonably warm and dry weather throughout the winter had regretfully forgotten to deposit any snow, leaving polished slabs of rock behind. A short ski brought us to the outlet stream of Moraine Lake. We crossed the creek and pitched camp. While we cooked meals and drank tea, the views became claustrophobic. They loomed like trees. The sun loosened rock, and ice randomly broke loose, disturbing the calm. Morning came as a relief. Nights are long and cold in winter. Ahead of us, magnificent shadows marched in unison across the steely white canvas of Moraine Lake. Easy valley skinning gave way to melted out boulders. We needed to scramble up them to bypass the snout of the Inspiration Glacier.

On a normal year this wouldn't be an issue, but 2015 was the worst winter in recent memory. Another 300 meters higher, the Inspiration Glacier was crossed on a flat bench. Klawatti Peak (2,586 meters) rose behind us, and Eldorado Peak (2,703 meters) immediately in front of us. While Jeff and I skirted the base of Eldorado Peak's East Ridge, the Traslin brothers decided to summit the peak. At the bottom of the Eldorado Glacier, we climbed to Rousch Pass. From its saddle we again met boulders a 300 meters lower. Between snow patches we leaped, scraped and danced over the rocks until we could ski no further.

There's something special about the free-flowing nature of skiing and the ease at which terrain flies by that makes stopping difficult, but stop we must when the white gold we mine is all played out. A trail continued to the parking lot along a steep climber's path. Back at the car, I sat down in a satisfying crash, my skis and pack tumbling to the ground next to me. Casting my thoughts over the past three days, my head nearly exploded with smiles and satisfaction. As I said earlier, the term forbidden attracts the adventurous rather than deters them, and yet, for me, it was even more than that. These mountains are my home. And home, as they say, is where the heart is and mine is rooted among these high places nestled in the northern reaches of Washington State.