Pro Guiding Service - Weathering The Wasatch

Dan predicted the blue would remain all day, but in the late afternoon dark clouds collect over Snowbird like buzzards around lion kill. Suddenly those clouds drain. The hatless start boarding the tram with hair completely encased in a white cast. The bearded, with ice-packed whiskers, garner the look of instant wisdom.

I rib my ski partner, Dan Pope, the chief meteorologist for the Channel 4 News in Salt Lake City, about this unexpected surprise. Not getting it completely right (or getting it dead wrong), is the story of a weatherman's life and he takes the needling in good humor. He sums up the complications he faces with a well-used one liner "If you want different weather in the Wasatch, wait five minutes or drive five miles."

The couple beside us in the tram are discussing the day's change of fortune as well. "Classic case of D.L.E.," the white-bearded dude is lecturing his white-haired girlfriend.

Dan notices my questioning look.

"Dreaded Lake Effect," he interprets. "Winds coming across the Great Salt Lake absorb moisture. Then the winds hit the Wasatch, rise, cool, and drop that moisture up here."

"A free snow-making machine," I summarize.

Dan tells me ski areas in the path of lake winds receive 25 to 30 percent more snow than those that aren't. As he looks out the window to the east, he thinks out loud. "I imagine this snow is spilling over into Jupiter Bowl, but it's probably sunny at the Mid-Mountain Restaurant."

I think this over. Jupiter Bowl, 10,000-foot high point of the Park City Ski Area is only six air miles northeast of us and the Mid-Mountain restaurant, one of the area's eateries, is another two miles beyond that. "Is this a weatherman trying to save face?" I ask.

"No, it's like I said. If you want different weather in the Wasatch, wait five minutes or drive five miles."

Several hours later, stars are drilling pin holes through the black sky and eight inches of fresh powder blanket the peaks around my Snowbird lodgings. What I don't understand from today's weather lesson was the choice of the adjective accompanying the phenomena I witnessed. "Dreaded" doesn't cut it. Sure, 120 years ago for the trappers traversing the range in search of animals to slaughter, those furious blusters would have been a pain for their four-legged asses. In the 1990s, however, when Wasatch visitors have their horsepower confined to sports-utility vehicles and when skiing is what draws people here, the lake effect is worthy of an adjective like 'blessed.'

In fact, 'Blessed' is an adjective that has suited the Wasatch for the past 150 years since Brigham Young brought 'em here. Whether it was God's blessing or the blessing of incredibly weary legs after an 1100 mile exodus, Young chose the site beside the Great Salt Lake and below the Wasatch Mountains as a sanctuary for Mormons who were fleeing persecution. He could not have possibly known it then, but he established a city amongst a fortune of frozen futures.

That fortune, of course, was snow. Great quantities of snow. Snow of superb quality. Enough quantity and quality of snow to support 12 ski areas in a patch of mountains little bigger than Rhode Island.

Sure, the Wasatch is also blessed with beautiful terrain. But many are the mountains with underlying substance; few are the ones with the skin deep beauty we skiers covet. It's snow so good that the state tourist office, in a shameless display of 90's-style marketing, has taken to calling it, "The Greatest Snow on Earth." And with several million license plates spreading the propaganda, that message is taking root.

Canadians from the inconsequential province of British Columbia, however, take umbrage with the arrogance of Utah's claim. Alaskans are adamant that their crystals surpass Utah's. Nonetheless, few are the skiers who have sampled the Wasatch who don't agree that it has some of the greatest snow on earth. And all this fame and fortune boils down to a fluke of geography. To dumb luck. To location, location, location.

Most of the Wasatch weather arrives from the northwest in systems originating off the Washington Coast or from the southwest in systems blowing in from the beaches of California. The majority of that moisture gets shed on the Cascades and Sierras (in the form of cement) which chills out the eastward moving air before it flows across the vast Western desert. Only after the air smacks up against the walls of the Wasatch does it get pushed high enough to relinquish more moisture. By the 8000-foot level, the elevation of many ski-area base stations, many feet of snow are squeezed from the clouds. And at the 10,000 to 11,000 foot level, where many Utah ski resorts top out, great gobs of snow are sucked from the clouds. Dry snow. Snow that's nearly as good as the license plates boast.

That's hardly the whole story. The snows of the Wasatch are favored not only because the range is free of maritime temperatures, and high enough to extract moisture from dry air but, as I learned from the skiing weatherman, because of the ace in the hole: the Great Salt Lake. Were this inland sea on the other side of the mountains, it would do Utah absolutely no good--the prevailing winds with their westerly components would carry Utah's moisture into Colorado.

Furthermore, were the Great Salt Lake not such a big honker, the exposure of wind and water would lack time to breed snow. Even the orientation of the lake is a fluke of nature that benefits the Wasatch. The longest fetch of the lake is the 80-mile-long northwest-to-southeast axis and winds arriving from the Washington Coast sweep across this axis before colliding with the very highest peaks of the range. The lake's second-longest stretch is its 60-mile southwest-northeast axis, which just happens to be perfectly aligned with winds blowing in from California.

With the lake located and positioned as it is, the cold air masses of winter can roll over the lake, absorb moisture (skiers can be thankful that the lake's salinity keeps it from freezing), and enhance the depth of the powder dumps we dream about.

In fall (late October and November) and spring (late March and April), the warmer water of the lake often does much more than enhance the amount of snow a storm delivers, it routinely creates six- to 12-inch dumps (like the one I witnessed) that have nothing to do with major fronts and everything to do with micro systems blowing across the lake. The trigger to the autumn and vernal snow machine is temperature differential: When a 30�F differential exists between the water temperature and the air temperature at 10,000 feet, winds sweeping the lake seemingly make snow out of thin air.

It's part of the reason late March and April, historically, bring the heaviest snow accumulations to the range. And part of the reason (along with reduced crowds) skiers can mine more winter-like powder during a Wasatch spring than a Wasatch winter. You've simply got to be on location after those springtime dumps to harvest the snow before April sunshine hammers it.

Which is exactly what I do the morning following my introduction to D.L.E. I'm up the mountain on the first tram to cherry pick the open slopes under the Little Cloud Lift for an hour. Then it's over to Gad 2 for tree shots bordering Gadzooks and Black Forest. Through a combination of intuition and luck, I hop the tram and grab Baldy just as it opens. Then it's over to Peruvian for laps that have me traversing farther and farther east through tighter and tighter groves of aspen. By mid-afternoon I'm prowling glades near Mach Schnell and Wilbere Bowl looking for little pockets of untrammeled snow. Little remains but I consider myself lucky to have gleaned fresh snow through the better part of a Snowbird day. After the lifts shut down, I call Dan and rave about the winter skiing I just enjoyed in April.

It's not unusual he tells me. He mentions a few of the 18-inch lake-effect days he's skied and talks about October 18, 1984 (the biggest storm attributed entirely to lake effect) when the Little Cottonwood got smothered with 24 inches of snow. Finally, he tells me there's more moisture en route from California--it should strike the mountains late this evening.

"So, I'll want to catch an early tram again tomorrow," I tell him.

"Nope. You'll want to get out of the Little Cottonwood."

"Why?"

This course, Wasatch Weather 202, has to do with orientation. The mouth of the Little Cottonwood points toward Washington and Oregon: It's a catcher's mitt for winds and systems out of the northwest. Those winds funnel up the canyon and drop their load. Because more moisture-ladened systems strike Utah from this direction than any other, Snowbird and Alta are, respectively, the lucky recipients of 478 and 517 inches of snow each season.

The Little Cottonwood, however, is not positioned to catch the Southwesters. When those systems arrive, skiers at Brighton, Powder Mountain, or Park City may be in up to their knees when the Alta hardcores are only up to their boot tops.

Brain synapses fire. I grab pencil and paper and pump the skiing weatherman for pointers on how he would use wind direction and variables like the day of the week (or time of year) to determine where to ski on any given day. He free associates, I scribble (see sidebar).

Following Dan's advice the next day, I drive around to Deer Valley. Sure enough, the evening dropped a foot of snow here and while the Bogner-suit crowd stick to the freshly rolled corduroy on the downhills (and their cell phones on the uphills), I find line after line of fresh powder in the Black Forest, Triangle Trees, Sunset Glade, Ontario Bowl, and DT's Trees. I return to Snowbird for the evening and when I eavesdrop in on the hot tub babble I smile--the few inches of new here didn't adequately smooth out the underlying crud. Round one to the weatherman.

No new snow falls overnight, but I figure the north-facing shots in Jupiter Bowl (which would have been the other logical pick for yesterday's game plan) have probably been reduced to pack powder. I take a chance on Wolf Mountain, the underdog of the Park City pack. Crowds are minuscule here while the other Park City areas are teeming and I gamble that Wolf's reputation as a no-snow hill might work to my advantage.

Bingo. Like Dan said, the southwestern system that graced the other Park City areas with new snow struck here as well. The area's chairs may vibrate more, patches of rust may mar the lift towers, but like I had hoped, even on Sunday the low skier traffic makes it easy to find untracked snow. Hikes above the Condor Lift score fresh morning runs through the Bald Eagle Bowl. In the afternoon I visit the new Saddleback Chair and find more unskied lines from the hike-accessed ridgeline than I have time to ski. Round two to Dan.

That night I tune into Channel 4. Dan's talking about westerly winds and a chance of precipitation. I pull out my notes. Between his wind recommendations and the footnote about low-skier traffic, Snowbasin is the pick of the day.

I arrive at Snowbasin with overcast skies overhead--skies that decide not to spill, skies that decide to clear. By 11 a.m. I'm slathering on the sunscreen and skiing glop. Playing Monday morning quarterback, I wonder whether the higher north-facing slopes of Snowbird or Jupiter Bowl wouldn't have been the pick of the day. Or maybe I should have bagged more of the unskied lines at Wolf.

It's a reminder: The weather game is but an educated guess, a gamble. If you're good, you score a few more hits than misses. And when you miss, remember what they say about weather and the Wasatch. Think about driving five miles before plunking down hard-earned cash on a lift ticket.

THE WHERE OF THE WIND

N winds: Powder Mountain (and it's always uncrowded.).

NW winds. Best: Alta, Snowbird, Jupiter Bowl at Park City. Also good: Solitude, Brighton, Powder Mountain (in winter, less productive in spring).

W winds. Snowbasin (and it's always uncrowded).

SW winds. Park City areas (especially Jupiter Bowl and Deer Valley trees), Big Cottonwood areas (especially Brighton), Sundance, Snowbasin, Powder Mountain.

SE winds. Sundance (uncrowded).

E winds (rare). Park City areas.

Details, Details

Powder Mountain has almost no crowds and keeps fairly equal pace with the snowfall totals of Alta and Snowbird through the winter. Come spring, it doesn't capture as much lake-effect snow as the Little Cottonwood.

Deer Valley is a powder pick because no one thinks of it as such. The celebs and country-club crowd wouldn't venture into the area's extensive glades if their stock options depended on it.

Jupiter Bowl inhabits a completely different weather system than the rest of the Park City Ski Area. Often the Northwesters hammering the Little Cottonwood spill over into Jupiter Bowl--even though the mid-mountain basks in the sun--making it a sneaky pick when the local cognoscenti are thinking Alta or Snowbird.