Photos by Sam Ferguson
It’s just after lunchtime on a school day in late April, but instead of heading out for recess, my nine-year-old son, Hagen, meets me in the parking lot in his ski clothes and with a big smile on his face. We’re on the way to the trailhead to meet two other nine-year-old friends, Eli and Henry, and their moms, Amber and Layne, for an overnight hut trip—the ultimate slumber party in the woods. The boys are proficient alpine and Nordic skiers, but they’re new to touring equipment and have only skinned up at the resort a few times. But now that their third-grade feet can fit into Dynafit’s smallest touring boots, the boys can finally access backcountry huts under their own power.
We moms have been hut-tripping for decades—both of the women I’m with grew up in this mountain town, surrounded by backcountry huts modeled on the European formula, and went on their first hut trips when they were the boys’ age. Once you skin to a hut, spend the night, and ski home, chances are you’re hooked for life. It’s a tradition for most of my friends—something we try to do a couple of times each winter. Whether it’s with your partner, your friends, or your kids, there’s something magical about a night off the grid, a crackling woodstove, and communal living that recharges the soul, even if you’re only out there for 24 hours.
We have just exactly that—our goal is to have the boys back at school by lunchtime the next day.
At the trailhead, we organize our gear. The boys will carry their own avalanche gear (and have basic knowledge of how it works), sleeping bags, hut clothes, water, and snacks. The moms divvy up the dinner and breakfast food, and then we skin out to the meadow for a beacon check (conducted by my son, who has been practicing). As the road pitches up, we settle into a single-file line and find our rhythm. After years of carrying your child in carriers, strollers, and backpacks, it’s a joy to watch them skin gracefully up a mountain on their own.
All is going well until we reach our first creek. The only way across is a thin ribbon of downhill-sloping snow that borders an ominous barbed-wire fence. I can barely watch as Eli takes it with speed and a heavy pack, but he crosses safely. Hagen isn’t as lucky. As his skis hit the dip, his pack keels him forward and he levers over onto the tips of his skis. The barbed wire snags his arm mid-crash, and now he’s bleeding. Eli’s mom washes it out with her water bottle, and Hagen, adrenalin pumping, says he’s fine and continues up the skin track.
The 2.3-mile, 1,000-vertical-foot approach is challenging enough to be memorable—and to elicit a few fatigued cries of “are we there yet?” But we brought candy for bribes, and we manage to arrive blister-free and with energy to spare for the most important part of the adventure. At the hut, they drop their packs, call dibs on beds, and set off to build an extensive jump course that takes up most of their time until dusk. In between, they shovel snow for our water pot, join us for a card game on the deck, and snack on fresh stove-popped popcorn. We lounge in the sun, enjoy a charcuterie board, and watch the sunset. There’s a game of hut hide-and-seek (watch out for mousetraps!). Eventually, we make dinner (chicken stir-fry and rice) and snow ice cream (just add sweetened condensed milk and cherries), then stoke the fire before a game of charades filled with belly-aching laughter.
As I lay in bed next to my snoring child (I don’t expect to actually sleep in a hut), I reflect on the day—one lived truly in the moment—and savor some of life’s simple pleasures that too easily go unappreciated back home.
In the morning, I shake fresh whipped cream onto mugs of hot chocolate or coffee (because why not?) and flip the sausages and nonstick frozen Kodiak pancakes (topped with syrupy thawed strawberries) that make for a no-dishes breakfast. The boys work on our logbook entry before doing their chores: sweeping, refilling the kindling stash, and tidying the hut. Then we lock up and ski off (hitting and filming the jump line the boys worked so hard on), back to reality.