Spring in Montana, as in much of the American West this year, has started out weird. Thin snow and warm mountain temperatures have made March — usually a reliable month for powder skiing — a little harder to navigate as a guide. We’re being pushed into higher, more complex terrain earlier than usual.
These objectives remind me of some of my favorite ski trips — longer days, warmer temps, and stable snow that can produce truly memorable lines. Unfortunately, many clients who book trips this time of year aren’t prepared for the realities of spring ski mountaineering. Long approaches, walking over rocks, and navigating creek beds in ski boots tend to come as a surprise. Bookings are also down — ski stoke fades quickly when it’s 70°F in town and not much colder in the mountains. That creates a subtle pressure: take the work that comes your way, and do everything you can to make it both rewarding and safe.
This combination has led to some… interesting experiences over the past few weeks.
I recently took a group of fellow snow nerds to a backcountry hut for a four-day trip. We scratched out some great lines in steep couloirs, mixed in with relaxed corn laps and long conversations with my former research advisor.
He’s been skiing and studying snow for decades, but he’s now well into his 70s. His mind is still sharp and he’s stubborn as ever, but he knows his body is starting to move more like a slow skin track than a summit push. It clearly frustrates him, and I really wanted him to have a great trip.
I’ve never worked harder — or felt more rewarded — than I did watching him reach the top of a technical spring skin track. I was also quietly terrified of him falling the entire way up and down.
Each evening, he led spirited debates about longwave and shortwave radiation and their effects on the snowpack. Arguments over whether the surface would actually refreeze overnight got heated (pun intended) and surprisingly competitive. I’ll never forget those conversations — as niche and ridiculous as they were. No one on a standard ski vacation is debating radiation balances over dinner. That only happens when you lean into the weird challenge of getting a 75-year-old scientist with multiple replacement parts up a mountain.
The following weekend, I had a small mixed client group at the same hut. These trips are always a bit of a gamble — people don’t know each other, experience levels vary, and personalities can either click or collide. Add in tricky spring conditions, and I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d be dealing with.
I arrived at our meeting point in a small Montana town surrounded by flat ranch land. The mountains — our destination — sat ten miles to the west. There was no snow on the ground, and temperatures were already well above freezing.
I stepped out of my truck to greet the group, and one of the clients climbed out of his rental car… wearing ski boots.
After introductions, he asked, “So are we skiing from here?”
“No,” I said. “There’s no snow here. We’ll be driving for about an hour, then walking for a while before we even put skis on.”
As I led the caravan up a rough dirt road toward the trailhead, I started to wonder what I had gotten myself into. It was clear this particular client might be in over his head — and I had two other clients along for the ride who had reasonable expectations of a functional experience.
I won’t recount every detail of what followed, but suffice it to say everything was new to this guy. He had never skied in the backcountry. He had read extensively and brought a truly impressive collection of mountaineering gear — most of which he didn’t need and didn’t know how to use.
But he forgot a sleeping bag. For a three-day hut trip.
If I’m being honest, his personality was also quite unusual. Like, he’s convinced he’s going to make it in standup by telling horrifically bad puns…. that kind of weird. I don’t say that to criticize him. I say it for context — because something genuinely beautiful happened on that trip, and it likely wouldn’t have happened without him.
He was incredibly eager — eager to learn, to improve, and to be part of the experience. Every time he struggled (which was often), he kept smiling. He asked endless questions. And he seemed genuinely grateful to be outside in a new place, regardless of how marginal the skiing was.
He grew on the rest of the group too. My initial concerns about how others would react to his inexperience turned out to be completely unfounded. Instead, we had great conversations each night — about the mountains, about learning, and even some good-natured debate about whether he’d ever be “allowed” to move to Montana (we determined he probably needs more knives and guns first).
And my other clients helped him when he needed it. They made space for him to succeed. And somehow, everyone ended up having a really good time.
I often say that we become better humans when we realize how small we are in this world. Usually, I’m referring to what I see in others — how people respond when they challenge themselves in the outdoors. I think that was true for my “weird” client, and probably for my former advisor as well.
The longer I guide, the more I feel like it’s maybe making me a better human too. Not because I’m outside, or because I’m doing things I enjoy. Honestly, skiing and climbing are more fun with friends than with clients.
Guiding exposes me to how other people see the world. Their challenges become mine. And helping them navigate those challenges changes my perspective, one small piece at a time.
And I’m probably getting a little weird along the way as well.