The Skillet

The Skillet Glacier on Mount Moran

Mount Thor viewed from the south

Hidden Couloir on Mt. Thor

Looking down the 6,000 foot drop from the Skillet to the lake

Cathedral group from the north

North Face of the Grand

Looking down the Falling Ice Glacier from the summit of Moran

Mulroy on the Skillet Glacier

The panhandle of the Skillet

I was sick of paddling. Before that, I was sick of bush-whacking through the dense, mosquito infested woods with skis, boots and other accoutrements dangling from my rucksack. Before that, I was tired of turning. And even before that, I was really tired of going uphill.

The Skillet knows how to wear you down. 8 miles of paddling, hours of bush-whacking, and a 6,000 foot climb. I had not had serious exercise in two weeks so I was not in optimal shape, and the feast at Bubba's made me feel queezy.

At 11pm we stopped at a rocky knob that was sheltered from rockfall and avalanches, and provided a spectacular view of Jackson Lake and the valley below. I pulled out my down jacket and bivy sacks to stay warm, too tired to take off my crampons and I shredded the thin emergency bivy sack. But I was warm at least.

At 1am the moon rose, huge and red. One of the most spectacular moonrises I've seen. We watched shooting stars. Mulroy was freezing so he asked, "Hey Conor, you know I have an unblemished record of staunch heterosexuality, so, do you mind if I sit next to you?" So he came down to sit next to me and take the remainders of the shredded bivy sack. Then we set the alarm for 2:15, and I finally was able to fall asleep at 2:10. The sleep schedule had everything out of whack. I wasn't hungry or tired though I should have been both.

We heard tremendous rockfalls from the hanging snowfield above but knew we were out of the way of that. But the route is exposed to other cliffs. As I set the bootpack up the icy glacier, I stayed close to the rocks on the right in order to avoid rockfall from above, but, as Conor kept reminding me, that's where the moats are. Nevertheless, there were about four moats that we easily climbed across.

Mulroy has recently become obsessed with moats (areas of snow next to rock that is rotten and you can fall into, some people have died from them). It weighs more importance to him than rockfall and avalanches. So heading up the glacier, I was careful not to sink in too deep in my steps or he’d cry, “Moat! This is sketchy dude. We’ve got to turn around.” So each step I’d hope for a good one, but that didn’t happen every time. I sunk to my thigh once and he caught me and wanted to turn around. 

 I convinced him we ought to go on to steeper terrain and make a decision there. We even carried up rope and prussiks in hopes of quenching this fear, but it was to no avail. What if there was a raging river under the moat that would suck you under the glacier? Then the rope would be useless.

At four, we were at the entrance to the panhandle and the predawn light was developing behind us. The upper Skillet was steep, icy, and chunky, with a deep avalanche runnel in the middle. Whymper's quote reverberated in my head, "Look well to each step." Kick, kick, ax, whippet, repeat, look up to the top, rest, tell yourself to hurry, and wonder how the hell you're going to make it down.

That last thought hit Mulroy particularly hard. The skiing was not for the faint of heart, nor was the climb. I would have felt naked up there on the steep ice with only one ax and no whippet like Cons. That combined with the very dubious quality of the skiing, precipitated Conor's decision to stay put below the panhandle and wait till the snow softened, a good decision for him.

Queezy as hell, trying to force out acidic burps, I finally topped out with the rising sun hot on my back. After going to the summit and switching to downhill mode, and trying to eat a poptart, the sun had enough time to warm up the ice and I gave it a go. The timing was perfect. Corn that was not too hard nor soft. I searched for even surfaces to make tight jump turns, only stitching together a couple turns at a time between long rests. My legs were shot.

Conor, waiting 2,000 feet below, would hear snow rushing down the runnel and pause to listen, then it would stop. "I think that's Conor... No, nevermind." Then a couple minutes later he'd hear snow from another turn coming down, followed by a long pause, "He's coming down... Maybe not." Then he heard my whooping and knew I was on my way. If my legs weren't done for, it'd only take a few minutes to ski the whole thing. As it was, it took almost an hour.

"Well stick a fork in me Conor, I'm done."

Next time we would do well to paddle Leigh Lake to the base of the SE couloir, then go over the lower East saddle to the Skillet for a much easier approach.

Conor Mulroy wrote:

Paddling back from the Skillet, I looked behind me and noticed that Miller, or Mr. Vail as he's known in certain circles, wasn't paddling but merely ruddering the boat in the right direction like his granddad used to do to him he explained. "Hey, start paddling," I exclaimed. "Sorry,", he replied quickly adding that he'd only been doing that for a few seconds. I had agreed to let him ride in back, even though I outweighed him by 50 pounds, and had I known his intention of putting as little effort as possible into paddling, probably would have taken the back just to make sure he was at least faking effort. "You know Mr. Vail, you're very quick to point out everyone else's faults, and just as quick to say how you're always right" I added. "Yep, that's pretty much right on" he replied, at least he can admit his own faults.