Skiing My Dream Line on Three Fingered Jack

I’ve always heard outdoor athletes talking about inspiring lines in the mountains. Lines that called to them and forced them to push to new levels. Lines that consumed them. Their thoughts and dreams. I never really understood. I could see the lines that they were talking about. I heard the excitement in their voice. I just never felt the same way. I didn’t relate to that feeling of inspiration. I never felt that a line was calling to me. At least, I didn’t until last spring.

I was out trying to climb Three Finger Jack as a part of my goal to summit and ski all of my local mountains in Central Oregon. It was a long, arduous, and navigationally challenging day. After spending hours climbing through downed trees in an old burn, post-holing through waist deep wind ridges of snow, and carrying a rope and rack for the technical summit, my energy was dwindling.

I topped out on the south ridge and made the last turn before the summit. Everything dropped away and I saw the most magnificent alpine bowl. As I walked the ridge, I couldn’t help but look down. It just kept going and going. It seemed endless. I stared in awe. It was the perfect angle. Steep and exciting, but not scary. I knew I had to ski it.

Regrettably, it wasn’t a viable option that day. The bowl was on the east side of the ridge and our cars were to the west. Any elevation that we skied, we’d have to regain on the way back out. I was committed to the summit and didn’t have enough energy to climb out of the bowl. It would have to wait. We made it to the top and back down the mountain, but the bowl lingered in my mind.

I hadn’t seen a line like it in the backcountry before. That perfect sustained angle kept calling to me. Treeless and open with amazing views right below a jagged summit. My thoughts kept shifting to it throughout the day. I imagined skiing it all the time. I now understood the appeal of a line. I had to ski it.

The bowl presents a number of obstacles. Access is challenging and it’s at the perfect angle to slide in an avalanche. Plus, it’s just big. Snow conditions need to be good throughout the entire bowl and finding the right timing can be challenging. Being on the east aspect, wind loads the bowl and any new storm snow quickly ups the avalanche danger.

The line melted away within a week of my first laying eyes on it. As a smaller mountain, the snowpack isn’t present year round. I was stuck dreaming of it all summer and I prayed for snow as the winter months approached. The snow was slow to appear, and eventually arrived. I kept an eye on conditions and waited for the right moment.

That moment finally came at the end of March. A couple weeks of warm weather had consolidated the snowpack and avalanche activity was low. I reached out to my buddy Jordan and he agreed to join me on the objective.

We arrived in the parking lot early so that we had plenty of time for our big day. The long approach starts with a gradual incline through sparsely treed, rolling hills. The snow was still frozen from the previous night which made for easy skinning. We appreciated it in the moment knowing that the snow would only get softer and heavier throughout the day.

The first couple miles passed quite easily. We quickly gained over a thousand feet and reached the south ridge. Cornices hung off of the ridge to the east and we saw their droppings below. We continued on as the ridge grew steeper eventually making it above the treeline. Wind ridges created waves across our path. Having been on the ridge before, I knew that it was the physical crux of the day.

Our pace slowed. Each wave started gradually but quickly steepened to push our skinning limits. Sometimes our edges would hold, but other times we’d find ourselves sliding back to the base of the wind lip. The uncertainty kept me on edge. My muscles tensed as I tried to hold on.

Doubts started to creep into my mind. I had no idea what conditions were waiting for us in the bowl. We weren’t able to see it yet and wouldn’t be able to until it was practically time to ski. We’d seen cornices overhanging east aspects all day. That could be a real objective hazard awaiting us, especially as the day got warmer. Every minute that passed added to the potential risk.

I continued up the ridge making each step with intention. Progress started to build and salvation lay just five hundred feet overhead at the top of the ridge. Each step took us closer and one at a time the waves flowed past.

We topped out the ridge and started the traverse to the bowl. My anxieties started to build. I’d been dreaming of this line for months. It was a challenging approach and I still didn’t know if the line was possible. I rounded the final corner and the heavens opened before my eyes. Sun glistened off of the snow as it dropped away into the valley. It was just as magical as I had remembered. A perfect alpine bowl. Cornices and debris scattered the run, but there were openings. It looked possible.

We dug a pit and sawed off a cornice for one final test of the snowpack. All signs said go. I was going to get to ski the line. My excitement continued to build. Final preparations began. I tightened my boots, made sure my skies were firmly attached, and reminded myself to breathe. It was time to drop in. I peered over the edge, lined up my skis, and pushed off.

It was pure bliss. Absolute magic. That feeling you have when all your hopes come to fruition and you’re at the pinnacle of your dreams. I flowed through each turn trying to take in the moment and found myself screaming out in exhilaration.

All of the anticipation had built to this one moment. Months of dreaming and waiting for the right opportunity. Miles of hiking and thousands of feet of elevation gain. All for one line. One perfect, glorious line. I didn’t get the appeal of a line before. I now understand. 

Images and Words: Ben Kitching

Skier: Jordan Machtelinckx

Ben Kitching is an adventure photographer, climber, and skier based out of Bend, Oregon. For more adventures and images visit benkitchingphotography.com.