Its 6:30 on Saturday morning and rain is pattering down on the roof above my bed. We're supposed to be flying into the High Talkeetnas this morning - its hard to believe it will happen with the rain. A call to Last Frontier Air Ventures reveals that its actually "blue" up north and go time.
In Palmer we scramble to jam our glorified car-camping gear into the helicopter and do a safety briefing. We notice that the finger the pilot repeatedly uses to point at the rotor doesn't have its tip. After a liability waver that looks more like a volunteer signup for a trail crew party we're off the ground and above the snowless Matanuska Valley. At Granite Creek Patrick turns north into the mountains. Popping over the first ridge, there's mountain...
...after snowy mountain.
A few minutes later, the Sheep Glacier comes into view: its big, smooth, and ringed by glaciated peaks and granite spires quintessential to the Talkeetna Mountains.
Patrick finds a flat spot, sets the AStar down, and hops out in his jeans. He might be more stoked than us. We throw out our gear, watch Patrick leave, and as the helicopter disappears over ridge, take it all in.
Now this is Alaska!
Everyone is itching to ski, so we hurry to set up, then skin north out of camp.
Trips to remote zones are challenging because there's such limited snowpack information: there are no local weather stations, there are limited observations, and you don't know the zone's "repeat offenders". First, we try a northerly chute only to get turned around by a hollow slab over facets, then we're turned around by thin snow bridges high on the Chickaloon Glacier. Finally, on our third try we find good snow.
In true Alaska style, the light goes flat at the top.
With heavy snow falling we ski back to camp.
On day two, concerned about flat light from overcast skies, we check out a couloir across the way. The approach across the glacier in the lightly falling snow is mesmerizing, it feels like a snow globe.
The couloir is classic Talkeetnas: white granite fins guard the line.
At the bottom, Andalyn and Cody go on the hunt for better snow, while Mike and I head up to check out the twin chute on the backside of the last line.
Dropping into the next drainage, we find a fun zone. Mike:
After a few rounds of mini golf we return to camp. Cody and Andalyn are already out for an evening tour. Inside, Cody has been busy perfecting our kitchen - its laid out better than my house.
The next morning is clear. Given the weather we all want to go for a peak we've dubbed "Cloudhaven" because it hasn't stopped snowing up there.
Aptly named, a cloud arrives and it starts snowing as we top out. A few turns from the top and the sun is out again.
Next up is a sunny ramp high above the divide between the Sheep and Chickaloon Glaciers. Just short of the ridge, a scary slide breaks under our feet and steps down to the ground as it flows down the face. With our tails between our legs we head back to camp.
At camp the weather is beautiful, so we go out for an evening tour. Cody sticks around camp to put the final touches on the kitchen and bar.
We're back in the snow globe again - huge fluffy flakes somehow materialize from the blue sky above and drift lazily down in the evening light.
Tuesday morning is beautiful; its hard to believe that Patrick will be flying in that afternoon to pick us up. We're motivated to get in one last tour, so head for a glaciated bump above the Matanuska Valley.
Like everything on the Sheep its farther away then it looks. Eventually, we top out and are greeted with new and spectacular views. The Chugach is just out of reach to the south, and closer there is the clear transition from tilted sedimentary layers to bent and weathered metamorphic rock. Below us, a glacier spills into the headwaters of Kings River.
Its hard to drag ourselves from our loft in the sky, but the lure of soft turns makes it easier.
45 minutes later we're at camp. I call Last Frontier Air Ventures for a pick-up, Gary tells me: "Mike, I want you to look west towards the horizon." As he speaks we can already hear the whompf-whompf-whompf of the AStar.
Minutes later Patrick happily jumps out in his jeans. There's only one problem: we're not actually ready to leave.
February 2026 Update:
Ten years ago, I was new to Alaska and skiing on the Sheep Glacier for the first time. Lifting off on the way home, I was impressed with the Sheep's scale, but didn't really know how to make the most of its interior snowpack and spread-out terrain. I figured I would be back, but didn't know when. Since then I have learned to try to always savor these unique amazing places - no matter how much you want to return to a special spot, you just don't know if or when schedules, weather, snowpack, logistics, health, or perhaps the phase of the moon will allow. As it turned out, I wouldn't make it back on skis to this big bifurcated glacier crowned in white granite for a decade.
Lifting off from Merrill Field on a sunny February day, we weren't sure what we would find. The snowpack in the Talkeetnas was skeletal and the wind, which had been blowing for a month, was still blowing. Crossing the bumpy outflow winds of the Mat Valley, we turned into the craggy valleys of the Talkeetnas.
Mount Apollo's east couloir:
We could see windboard, sastrugi, dunes, ripples, scour, and all the other textures of wind affected snow everywhere. But, as we started to fly farther into the mountains the snow looked like it might be smoothing out. Over the Sheep, it looked sort of smooth until we tried to drag it only to get rudely kicked back into the air by a huge dune of windboard. I decided that it looked horrible in every direction and was ready to call it a day.
Mount Apollo's east couloir:
We could see windboard, sastrugi, dunes, ripples, scour, and all the other textures of wind affected snow everywhere. But, as we started to fly farther into the mountains the snow looked like it might be smoothing out. Over the Sheep, it looked sort of smooth until we tried to drag it only to get rudely kicked back into the air by a huge dune of windboard. I decided that it looked horrible in every direction and was ready to call it a day.
Fortunately Garth and Abe were there and spied a protected amphitheater that was just smoothish enough. Plopping down onto the snow, I felt like some things were different and some the same as the last time I was here. I still love the mountains, mechanized logistics are still a challenge, the snowpack here is still weird, and I still think I know more than I know about snow, the mountains, and everything else.
The snow was definitely imperfect but seemed maybe acceptable, so we secured the planes and skinned up the glacier into the basin behind us. It was quintessential of my mental image of the high Talkeetnas: pinnacles of pale, jagged rock reaching from the old ice to scrape at the sky.
Knowing we would be dealing with suspect conditions, we started with a mellow lap into the next subdrainage. Conditions were indeed variable, it was that kind of snow that easier to go straight in than to turn, and even easier to look like a fool while trying to ski.
But it was a beautiful sunny day, and we could not resist the temptation of skiing an aesthetic chute splitting the white rock behind us.
The booting was fast in the wind packed snow, and we were soon standing on top at nearly 7,000 feet. There was a strong inversion in place with air temperatures above freezing and we soaked up the warmth and views of the forked glacier flowing away below us.
The booting was fast in the wind packed snow, and we were soon standing on top at nearly 7,000 feet. There was a strong inversion in place with air temperatures above freezing and we soaked up the warmth and views of the forked glacier flowing away below us.
In retrospect, I realized that I actually stood in this same place in 2016. That time we climbed and skied the east chute, instead of the twin west line that we were on this day in 2026. It looks like the south tower has lost a bit of rock since then.
2016:
2026:
With very focused jump turning, the snow in the chute was actually pretty skiable and we all survived with our connective tissue intact and not even any buried or crossed tips or tumbles.
Garth:
2016:
2026:
With very focused jump turning, the snow in the chute was actually pretty skiable and we all survived with our connective tissue intact and not even any buried or crossed tips or tumbles.
Garth:
Abe:
It was an incredible day and I could have stayed here soaking up the sun forever, but it was February after all and the snow was pretty horrific. So, we skinned back to the top of the basin for one last long cruiser lap back down the glacier to the planes.
Crawling out of our ski gear and into the cockpit, it was 70 degrees inside of the sun-soaked plane. We pointed downhill, pushed in the throttle, and accelerated over the steep roll to slip into the air.
Before heading home we couldn't resist a short aerial recon of the Chickaloon and the Upper Kashwitna. The terrain of the Chickaloon was just as cool as I remembered - I definitely figured I would have skied here by then.
The Upper Kash looked particularly beautiful with the pale granite peaks juxtaposed against the steep blue ice peeling off of them.
The Upper Kash looked particularly beautiful with the pale granite peaks juxtaposed against the steep blue ice peeling off of them.
Promising myself that it won't be another 10 years before I return here with my skis, we pointed south for the long glide back towards home.
Apollo's west couloir:
Apollo's west couloir:
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