The Teepee
by John Burbidge
The Teepee! You gotta get up there, JP tells me. You’ve heard of it, right? We used to have it in Grant Creek Basin behind Snowbowl Ski Area, until Kurt got buried in that avalanche and the Forest Service found out about it and kicked us off because we didn’t have a permit. So we moved it over to Wisherd Ridge up the Blackfoot. It’s tucked away at the base of the bowls in a place where nobody will find it. Timber company land, so we don’t need a permit anyway, they couldn’t care less. The skiing is awesome, three beautiful bowls, great powder turns, fresh all the time. You’ve never telemarked? Well Wolfie’s got an extra pair of skis, we’ll rent you some boots--you downhill ski, right? Telemarking’s not hard, you’ll figure it out. You gotta get up to the Teepee!
A year goes by. I never get up there.
You gotta get up to the Teepee, man! JP tells me. Well I wanted to last year, but it never worked out. Well, make it work out this year, you gotta get up there, it’s a blast. Well, okay, sometime….. Well, how about this weekend? JP pushes the issue. There’s already a bunch of people going. Some beginners, too. Some women . . . are you in? Uh….Yeah, okay. I’m in, I guess. I’ll see what this teepee is all about.
Then it’s after work Friday, rush hour, renting gear, getting groceries, 12 people, drive around, pick ‘em up, takes forever. Eight o’clock dark, we’re finally at the parking area and it’s cold, windy, unfamiliar, scary. I assemble the foreign ski gear, hop around on the snow, get ready to shoulder my already heavy pack when somebody hands me a 12-pack to stack on top of everything else—it’s an initiation of sorts. You carry everything you possibly can then toss another 12-pack on top. A huge black lab bumps my leg, who’s dog is it?! That’s Pete, JP says, he belongs to Garrison but Garrison let’s us bring him up here. Crazy ass dog, humps all his food and 12 tall-boy beers in his dog pack. Strong, runs the bowls with us all day long in the deepest powder, and smart, really smart, avalanche dog I think. If the day ever comes when Pete won’t charge down the bowls, trust his judgment, ski the trees.
JP takes the lead. Twelve people in a line, eight who’ve never been before, how many can fit in the Teepee? JP says eighteen people and three dogs is the record. Well how many miles till we get there? Five or six, not bad. Skinning up the snowy logging road, higher and higher, switchbacking, traversing on for hours through the wind and darkness, seeing by starlight because the moon’s not up yet. We’re cutting off the road, uh oh. JP is breaking trail through the woods—how does he know where the hell he’s going? DOES he know where he’s going? Do I really know this guy that well? Do I trust him? Follow in his tracks, trudging on, winding around trees, over deadfall, up and up and on and on. I stop when JP stops. How you doing? he asks. Fine, it’s really cool out here. Yep, it is. I resist the impulse to ask how much farther. He flicks on his headlamp and suddenly the Teepee appears illuminated in the light, right in front of us. It’s huge, buried in show, golden, solid, amazing.
We’re here, JP says. We are here.
Everybody straggles up as we begin the ritual of digging out the doorway and the perimeter of the canvas and the woodpile and a path to the privy. The process is slow but rewarding as we shape with shovels what will be our home for the next three days. When the door flap is clear somebody goes in and starts a fire in the stove which isn’t hard JP tells me because the fixings are always left in place because that’s the last thing you do whenever you leave the Teepee—you ALWAYS put paper and kindling in the stove and matches on top for the next people who arrive exhausted and cold like us in the dark. I nod, realizing he’s initiating me.
Hours later we’re settled in, fire cranking, cozy warm, lounging on our sleeping pads on the cushy pine-bough floor around the wood stove with beers and wine and all our wet clothes hung up to dry. Exhausted, ready for bed. I am so ready for bed, ahhhh, lean back, drift off. Okay, JP says, let’s go ski. I jerk awake. What, are you crazy? Eight of us new recruits look at him incredulously. Sure, full moon ski, he says. There’s a full moon rising out there as we speak, lighting up those bowls like floodlights. Get your shit on, we’re going skiing!
A few of us protest meekly—oh my god, I’ve never even telemarked before, this is crazy. But we see there is no choice. Can’t look wimpy, can’t fail this test, another initiation, how many are there? So, sigh, pick the warm and dry clothes off the line, put them on, on with the sweaty-cold boots, hats, gloves, but what about goggles? Do I need goggles at night, JP? Peeps, shovels, headlamps, water.
Out through the door flap, into the dark, scrape the ice off the bindings, the skis are as tired as us, they’re stiff and unhappy that we’ve woken them up. Put the pins in the hole, strap on the stiff cables. JP in the lead again, just get in line and skin through the moonlight. Don’t even think about it. We follow like sheep.
And it’s bright, amazingly bright. Cool! Now I’m waking up. Skin toward the ridge, up through the tight trees, openings, pockets, we’re on the crest of Wisherd Ridge now and the moonlight
mountain world seems ours for the taking. Sit on your pack, laugh, drink, gaze, no wind now, no sounds, ssshhhh, listen to nothing. Then JP stands up, points a pole over the ridge crest and says Susie Bowl is right there. Why’s it called Susie Bowl? Because, JP says, the first year we moved the Teepee to Wisherd Ridge we didn’t know what we were doing, we dragged the canvas all the way to the crest, near where we are right now, but didn’t have time to set it up ‘cause it was dark and late. We spent a freezing night in a storm in some trees around a fire, drinking whiskey and singing “Wake up, Little Susie” to stay warm and keep spirits up. We sang it over and over. The next morning we saw the beautiful bowl below, and named it after the drunken refrain. The constant wind on the ridge that year convinced us to move the Teepee 800 feet below, where it sits now, sheltered in the trees. Everybody listens silently to JP’s story. We are being initiated.
But we won’t ski Susie tonight, he says. Too many beginners, avalanches maybe, better stick to the trees, safer. This way, he says—then he’s gone. We follow. Creaky leather rented boots, old three- pin bindings on narrow double-camber skis, I’m careening through the moonlit woods, I make a few telemark turns, my first ever, then sit on my butt and crash, get up and make a few more turns. The gang’s all around me, crashing and burning, we’re an army of gigglers zooming through the pines in fresh powder, who’s over there? where’s Steve? where’s Renee? did they head off that way, will they know how to get back to the Teepee? For many of us, it’s a first-time telemark experience that we will never forget, an incredible mixture of uncertainty and exaltation.
Back in the Teepee, later that night, everybody’s safe, fire dying down, tucked in our warm bags, Pete the lab guarding the door and snoring lightly. The orange light of embers seeps from the stove and dances on the canvas walls. The Teepee even has a loft, a wooden raft strapped to the poles up high, and three people are sleeping up there. This is amazing, truly amazing, I think. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so satisfied. JP, lying next to me, reaches over and taps. I’m glad you finally made it up here, he says, really glad. So am I, I tell him. Really glad. I think I’m hooked.
It’s fall again, time to set up the Teepee—so where the hell is the canvas? Where did we put it last spring when we took it down? Johnny A’s garage, I think, but he’s out of town, off fighting fires still, can’t we break in? It’s time to put up the Teepee, it’s that time of year! We can feel it in our bones, smell it in the air, it’s time. Let’s go break into Johnny A’s garage and get the damn canvas. Just bust a window, he won’t care. He’s Johnny Fuckin’ A, he’d do the same thing.
How many years have we been doing this, anyway? Four? Five? Six? Every fall it’s the same—who can go set it up? We need people, lots of work to do, plus it’s fun, it’s a party. And we need money—can everybody pitch in $40? Well I can only give $10 ‘cause I’m broke, well I can give $50 ‘cause I fished in Alaska all summer. Let’s see, we need stove pipe, duct tape, new pots and pans, plastic for the sweat lodge, wire, tools, make a list. And we need to fix the canvas—we left the damn thing up too late last spring and that bear broke in and licked the greasy stove clean. Made a big hole in the canvas, we gotta get it fixed and it ain’t cheap so pitch in however much you can and get your shit packed. We’re going this weekend.
I love this yearly expedition! Seven or eight people, even some women, it’s fall in Montana so bring your rifle ‘cause we might see a deer, might see an elk. Bring beer, goodies, lots of food, we can drive within a half mile ‘cause the roads aren’t snowed in yet. Park, hike through the woods, here we are, man, the site looks so different without snow. Kinda stark, dirty, rough. Oh well, just throw the packs down and crack a beer, let’s sit and enjoy the view for a few minutes. That’s the Potomac Valley below, the Blackfoot River runs through it, Norman McLean country—ours is not the first story to be played out here.
But enough sitting around now, somebody divide the tasks. We gotta cut wood, lots of wood, make a huge pile, cover it with tarps, enough to last all winter, we don’t want to run out again! We always do though. Cut some poles, a couple need to be replaced, we need big, stout poles. Put the sweat lodge over here, make it real small so it gets raging hot, wrap it in plastic, put this tiny stove inside and we’ll stoke it, sweat like crazy then run outside and jump into the powder all winter long. And we need pine boughs for the floor of the Teepee—lots of ‘em, more and more and more, cut ‘em, do you hear the trees crying? Look around and pause….for a bunch of wilderness lovers, this is sort of a high-impact operation, isn’t it? Yeah, but…ha ha, nervous laugh.
Well, it’s the Teepee. It is what it is. Look out over the hills at all the clearcuts—what are we compared to that? And those pine boughs make the Teepee smell so sweet, and the floor is so comfortable… just cut ‘em and don’t think about it. Don’t think about how each year we have to go farther and farther from camp to find them. Are we selfish? Are we really that bad? Well, life is a contradiction. Everybody’s a hypocrite. Just cut ‘em.
Up goes the canvas, in goes the stove, the pine-bough floor, the clotheslines, the loft. Wood’s stacked and covered, canvas is tight, looking good to go. Two days of hard work and we’re almost done, we can sleep inside tonight. Last fall it rained like HELL when we set it up and we found out the canvas is snowproof but not rainproof. Slept in puddles, froze our asses off. Man that was a miserable night, seems funny now but not then. Tonight is beautiful and we snooze soundly, wake, then head back to town to wait for snow.
Sometimes it comes early in the fall—remember that Halloween when we skied three feet of fresh? Pumpkins in the Teepee, it was the best snow we had all season. What about that Thanksgiving when we brought up a turkey and a keg of beer? Big ol’ Moore thought he could drag the keg by himself, JP just laughed and said go for it, Moore strapped her on and started skinning, the guy is huge, he can handroll a whitewater canoe, if anybody can drag a keg to the Teepee he can do it. Only got about 20 feet before he cracked up and said no way, so JP and four other guys strapped in too and still it was the hardest damn thing they ever did, dragging a keg four miles uphill through the snow. But it was worth it—drank off it for a week, had Thanksgiving turkey for a week too. Freshies, beautiful weather, good friends, a keg, now that was a Thanksgiving to remember.
Cooking venison steaks on the wood stove inside the teepee.
It’s winter again, the heart of the season, the cream of the crop. How many winters we been coming up here? Five? Six? Seven? The years all blend together, the memories are one long arcing powder turn, Christmas at the Teepee and who needs presents, New Year’s Eve at the Teepee and we definitely need champagne, President’s Day weekend, endless days of powder, so many moonlight skis—and what about that February night we stood on the ridge ready to jump into Susie Bowl and the cold ground shook, an earthquake, a tremor. We felt small that night in the dark on the ridge.
It’s another winter weekend, let’s round up as many folks as we can and organize another Teepee expedition, another one, another one, another one. We’ll leave after work, hike up in the dark like we always do.
Morning comes, what will we ski? Susie Bowl, Second Bowl, Third Bowl, The Chutes, Ken’s Couloir, or maybe today we should tour over to Sheep Mountain? The possibilities are many, the lines incredible, how many runs you gonna do today? Four before lunch, five after lunch, it’s a macho game sometimes, who can ski the most? How many times can you skin to the ridge before you give up and head for the Teepee to drink a damn beer, a defiant beer while others do one more run, just one more run, which always turns into two, but you don’t care because you do what you want and you wanted to quit so you sit alone in the Teepee and wait. Everybody comes in later and a superior breeze blows in with them, you feel lazy and decide you won’t make this mistake again, never again—you will ski until the last run, every day, no complaining.
But what about the snowmobilers? God we hate the snowmobilers. They start whining in the morning like colicky mechanical babies, we can hear ‘em when they’re low in the valley getting louder as they approach, they high-mark in the bowls and hog the fresh powder, god we hate the snowmobilers EXCEPT when they overtake us when we’re skinning up the logging road and offer us a ride—then we grab the rope and take a tow and then we love the snowmobilers, weeeee! it’s like water skiing, a free ride with a sixty-pound pack, what a relief to skin two miles instead of eight. And then the ‘bilers stop by the Teepee and say hi, drink a beer, chat, just a bunch of folks out in the winter backcountry like us. We don’t hate the snowmobilers, we like the snowmobilers. Wonder what they think of us?
But what about the loggers? God we hate the loggers. They’ve cut the shit out of these hills, it’s downright ugly if you look at it with pessimistic eyes, and they just keep cutting and cutting and cutting and every year there’s a bunch of new clearcuts for us to look at, and god we hate the loggers EXCEPT when they log all winter long, plowing the road and keeping it open, giving us a two-mile skin instead of an eight-mile skin—then we worship the loggers. And they wave and act friendly, just a bunch of folks out in the winter backcountry like us, making a living like we all have to make a living. We don’t hate the loggers, we like the loggers. Wonder what they think of us?
Steep hop turns down Ken's Couloir in the Second Bowl.
It’s spring again, sunny long days and beautiful corn snow and less crowded because only the hardcores keep coming when the weather gets nice and the valley gets green. How many springs have we been coming up here? Six? Seven? Eight? It’s a cheap Spring Break option for sure, Mike do you remember that time just you and me came up for some solitude and then that crazy guy Andy showed up in the middle of the night? Said he’d wanted to go to Hawaii but had to spend the money fixing his car, so he came to the Teepee. Then the next day he took acid and skied all day in his shorts. Crazy mofo! Wonder where the hell he is now.
Wonder where the hell everybody is now—because it’s time to take the Teepee down for the season and we gotta do it soon. Well I can’t because I’m going rock climbing this weekend well I’m going kayaking well I’m going backpacking, well we gotta get up there and DO it before that damn bear comes back and rips through the wall again! We’ll do it next weekend, next weekend, next weekend, now it’s the middle of June, now it’s frickin’ July 4th. Every year we put it off too long, every year it’s the same. Where the hell is everybody? There’s only two or three of us around, let’s just go take the damn thing down and hope the bear hasn’t destroyed it. A lazy July weekend, what the hell, it’s something to do. We’ll give everybody shit when they get back in the fall.
***
Okay, it’s fall again—but I’ll ask one last time, where the hell is everybody? Eight or ten years later and there’s just not that many of us around anymore, can you believe it? Jobs, marriages, kids, that stuff happens even to people like us. Twenty somethings are now thirty somethings and even forty and you know what, that era is over. That time of our lives is gone. Everybody’s scattered, Idaho, Washington, Utah, Colorado, California, Alaska, all over Montana.
Went up to the ridge last week for the first time in four years and there is no Teepee, not anymore. Some college kids have built a lean-to near the old site, looks okay, don’t know who they are and don’t want to. It’s a new generation, just leave ‘em be. Our old gang is gone. We still ski but we don’t ski as much, and we don’t ski together. When was the last time we skied together?
Well, the last time most of us skied together was two years ago but it was so bittersweet because what brought us together was the death of our buddy Jacques, Big Jake, early thirties and hit with cancer, fucking bullshit if you ask me but nobody gets asked about that stuff, it just happens. Everybody loved Jacques and Jacques loved the backcountry, loved the Teepee, he was a maniac skier, an animal snowboarder, always cheerful, the hardest worker, the happiest guy. And after he died we gathered for memorial services at Big Mountain and Snowbowl and in Jacques’ honor we raged one last time, the posse raged again, twenty of us, thirty of us, get the hell out of the way because we can still terrorize a mountain when we want and today we’re doing it for Jacques, today we are together for our buddy Big Jake. Ski, laugh, drink a beer, cherish the moment. Remember the times we’ve had but do not mourn their passing. Jacques may be gone and the Teepee may be gone but part of him and part of us will always be together in the mountains, on the ridge, in the bowls, at the Teepee.
Jacques, our buddy... we miss you.