We’ve been mumbling about the Crater Lake loop for a while now, so when we saw a break in the weather Donnie Kolb from VeloDirt and I decided to throw our ski gear in the car and make the drive down south. We packed light, planned for two nights, set a goal of 10 miles each day which didn’t seem like too far. We were cyclists after all, 10 miles can fly by in half an hour. Even though the day started off with happy banter, bluebird skies, and fantastic fresh snow, I quickly learned just how inefficient my Alpine touring skis and hard plastic boots were when skinning for miles. Donnie on the other hand sunk in deeper drifts and struggled on steep terrain with his backcountry XC skis. After an avalanche detour, we pitched camp in the shadow of The Watchman as the alpenglow bathed the basin around us. We had only gone six miles.

Still, we were quite literally on top of the world and feeling pretty proud of ourselves as we melted snow and sipped bourbon from enamel tumblers in our wind-sheltered evergreen copse. The full moon rose over the rim of the crater and illuminated the crystalline basin of our encampment. It was too enthralling to ignore so we strapped skis back on and crept up to the heavily corniced rim, peered over, and tried to imagine just how far away the next human was. I fumbled with my tripod in the cold and shifted to wondering how overhung the cornice under my feet was. The wind stripped any remaining vestiges of life from my fingers. There was no sound save for the icy blast surrounding me. I am utterly out of place on this mountain. I am a pale, weak bag of flesh. How I am able to be here I have no idea.

Quickly I returned to my waterproof breathable synthetic bag distilled from petroleum and stuffed with the feathers of a hundred dead geese. The privileges we take for granted were not lost on me this eve.

After an unseasonably reasonable night (only 19º and wind gusts of 15 mph) we awoke and pulled our frozen boots on over sore feet, gulping mugs of cowboy coffee before they re-froze.

The next two days ended up being one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. There was that epic day in Idaho a few years ago when we ran out of food and water hunting for hot springs, my first VeloDirt Stampede where I lay in a ditch with stomach flu, and vague memories of a serious concussion deep in the Boundary Waters followed by two days of canoe portages to get to the hospital. But now I was stuck on the top of this damned icy volcano with no option but to keep knocking the ice off our skis and floundering through deep, wind-scoured drifts. No recourse but use the last remaining duct tape to patch raw blisters and when that fell off, patch the crippling wounds with painkillers. No way to ignore the reality of our abysmal pace and keep trudging, only to stop for breath, look at the time and realize it had been only four minutes since the last break. We were going less than one mile per hour. We had wet sleeping bags, no stove fuel, and just enough food for one more light snack.

But the snow firmed up a bit as the sun set and we made better time. We skied out, dragged each other onward, collapsed out of the alien landscape onto a plowed trailhead parking lot with no motivation behind us but lack of alternatives.

It’s only been a few days since and I’m still limping around the house. I write this now while the suffering is fresh in hopes I’ll remember my resolve to go on more “fun,” “relaxed,” and “easy” trips. So next fall when I try to convince you to ski the entire length of Steens Mountain please ignore me, I’m delusional.

I hear it’s real pretty out there in the winter though.