Text by Ted Mahon
Images by Ann Driggers and Nico Enos
From the deck of the McNamara Hut seven miles outside of Aspen, I watch the faint glow of headlamps move up the darkened slope in the distance. My friends have gotten a head start on the night’s expedition to the top of Bald Knob, an 11,000-foot summit adjacent to the hut.
We venture here each winter to ski under the full moon. Aided by our backcountry gear—lightweight skis, bindings that allow us to walk in the snow, and nylon skins that we stick to our ski bases to prevent the skis from sliding backwards—we’re able to ascend the slopes of Bald Knob and ski back down.
I put on my backpack, switch on my headlamp, and lay my skis down on the snow. I click in to my bindings and start up the skin track. As my skins slide across the snow, I focus on my breathing—step, inhale, step, exhale—timing my movement and breath as if I was in a yoga class or meditation session. I think about my stride, carefully sliding my skis forward on the surface of the snow rather than lifting them off the ground. I remind myself that efficiency matters. Moving your legs and feet like a Nordic cross-country skier requires less effort and is less tiring than navigating the incline like a hiker.
Once I settle into a rhythm, I switch off my headlamp and allow the moon to illuminate my path forward. The forest and night sky, formerly obscured by my headlamp’s bright, artificial light, slowly come into view as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I begin to make out different ski lines cutting between the well-spaced evergreens. Finally, the objective presents itself—a night of skiing among the moonlit glades. But first, we have to get to the top of the slope.
I continue along the skin track, meandering through the sparse trees. The route makes wide switchbacks where the slope steepens, much like a summer trail ascends a headwall. I catch up to my friends, and together we continue moving up the hill with our lights off. The night is calm and still, and we proceed wordlessly up the mountain, content to take in our surroundings in silence. It’s cold out, but the heat of my exertion counters the winter night’s chill. Any hesitation I felt leaving the warm hut for this chilly nighttime outing suddenly seems like a distant memory.
Arriving at the broad, open summit of Bald Knob, we’re met with few trees, expansive views, and not a breath of wind. By now, we’re well adjusted to the moonlight and can identify the silhouettes of mountains on the horizon: the Maroon Bells, Mount Daly, Hayden Peak. Constellations hang low in the sky, visible above the faint lights of Aspen dotting the valley down below.
A chill creeps in as we begin to cool off from our trek uphill, so we put on a few layers before preparing for the return journey down the mountain. We remove our skins, adjust our touring bindings to downhill mode, and buckle our boots. We plan to stay close to the skin track on our descent. There’s little avalanche risk on low-angled slopes, and it’s smarter and safer to stick to familiar terrain rather than wander off and get lost. The snow was light and soft on the way up, which tells us the skiing conditions downhill will be good. We figure that as we make our way down the slope, the lights from the hut will serve as a beacon leading us back where we began, to our campmates gathered around the cozy fireplace.
All that’s left to do is ski. I switch on my headlamp, then glance around and promptly turn it off, realizing I can see the terrain ahead better without it. Others in the group agree—there is enough natural light to ski by moonlight. We push off, one after another, schussing down through the gleaming snow, guided only by the light of the night sky. We glide down the mountain, cutting turns around the spruce and fir trees, the night crisp and vivid yet surreal as a dream.