Report from December 23, 2025

2 locals and I left the resort boundary at 9:30am.

We climbed, then descended with a goal in mind.

Christmas Tree Chute.

The chute is dramatic.

A jagged notch in the rugged ridge lined by a massive rock wall on the right and a fluted alpine wall on the left.

Last night’s storm enhanced the cornice that guards the chute.

It failed in the night, sending a sluff down the length of the steep chute.

We carefully climbed up to examine the entrance, found a way in, and clambered into the crack in the mountain.

Todd let me drop first.

2 turns in the dark before I could see the chute proper, a slow turn as my brain processed information, then a full speed gravity suck down.

The sluff was soft and deep and riddled with firm chunks.

I grunted, controlling my speed and flew off a small rock I didn’t exactly expect.

It took 3 turns to control my speed before I launched out of the sluff path and into the deep, fresh snow of the apron.

The snow shattered under my feet and burst up onto my legs and chest.

The mountain lost angle, I hooted, and glided to an effortless stop.

Head down in the sunshine, I followed the team up the next ridge and into a narrow, rocky canal that opened onto a glorious deep powder chute.

The couloir was a religious experience.

An experience that required all my years of training to appreciate and properly take advantage of.

This moment was where I truly understood just how deep and sumptuous the frozen water around us was.

The long-time locals I was with called it “all-time” and remarked not only on how rare this was but also on how extremely unlikely it was for December.

Another ridge ascent.

One step deeper into the backcountry.

Chute #3 of 3 wasn’t a chute.

Hanging snow patch to wind spine, to chute-like animal, in the shade.

The darkness made me hesitate.

No sun bouncing off the opposing ridgeline to illuminate our way.

I dropped first and felt the void below me as I angled right.

Sluff, dark, uncertainty, and airborne snow crystals.

I trusted my gut and previous research that speed wouldn’t be my undoing.

I skimmed a small air off the wind spine and allowed the potently deep snow to cradle and temper my speed into the chute.

The sluff I’d launched off the snow patch held speed but not size.

I stayed against the right wall of the chute to stay clear of it anyway.

“Impossibly deep,” I shouted as I navigated the snow-buried gully along the rock.

Cookies and conversation in the trees below.

Climb back up or cherish the Christmas miracle we’d experienced?

We chose the latter.

Thanks, BC.

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