Steep Dreams Skimo Recap

Steep Dreams: Three Days in the Pain Cave at Kicking Horse

I just returned from the ISMF North America Championships at British Columbia’s Kicking Horse Mountain, affectionately known by its much more fitting name: Steep Dreams. This is a skimo athlete’s purest dream. It’s three compounding days of progressively larger, longer, and more technical racing without the sprints or mixed relays. You start with a vertical race on day one, move to an individual on day two, and finish with a grueling team race on day three. Throw this into late March when winter fitness is peaking, and it’s the ultimate recipe for a great race weekend.

I was racing on behalf of Western Colorado University Skimo and Hagan USA. This trip was a profoundly full-circle moment. I raced Steep Dreams back in 2022 at the end of my freshman year, and now, four years later, it stood as my final collegiately-supported race just two weeks before finishing my Master’s Degree.

The lead-up, however, was far from ideal. After catching a flu-like bug, I spent two weeks in bed, sleeping right through the final training block of the season. I rolled up to Canada after a long drive with lingering congestion, post-nasal drip, and absolutely zero confidence in my fitness for the hardest race series of the year. But knowing this was the final collegiate chapter, I had to give it absolutely everything I had left in the tank.

Day 1: The Vertical

Normally, vertical races hover around 1,500 feet of ascent. This one was certified by the ISMF at a whopping 2,400 feet. Having no gauge for my post-sickness fitness, I made peace with starting slow and controlled so I wouldn't cook my legs for the next two days.

But a funny thing happened around the halfway mark. Feeling the smooth, predictable glide of my Hybrid 65 skins grabbing the steep track, I realized I actually had a lot more to give. The sheer featherweight feel of my Hagan Ultra 65 skis meant I wasn't fighting my gear either, I was only fighting my own lungs. Feeling a spark of life, I kicked it up a notch. I managed to make a few passes as other racers faded, ultimately jogging across the finish line in tenth place for the men.

The finish was atop the gondola at 7,700 feet, which I joked is still 70 feet lower than my house in Gunnison, Colorado! That hometown elevation advantage probably explains why I felt so good.

The top of an particularly engaging descent in both the individual and teams race called "Dare". Photo from Steep Dreams.

Day 2: The Individual

Day two was a harsh reality check. The individual course hovered around 4,500 feet of climbing with four ascents, four descents, and zero groomed downhills. The opening climb started on a groomer, which lured many of us into an overly aggressive pace. About five minutes in, my legs promptly exploded from the previous day's fatigue.

I resented myself for going out too hot, cut my losses, and let myself get passed. When your legs are completely fried, sketchy, un-groomed descents become a terrifying survival test. But having the locked-in security of the World Cup Brake bindings beneath me meant I could at least trust my setup when my quads were screaming. I decided to save my matches for the team race, soaking up the views on the sunniest day of the trip instead of being cross-eyed and covered in my own snot. Somehow, I still walked away with a 14th place finish.

Day 3: The Team Race Showdown

This is where the real epic unfolded. My teammate Sam and I toed the line in the brisk morning air alongside our collegiate teammates and ultimate arch-nemeses, Bayden and Jack. If the race were judged purely by who could talk the most crap in the starting corral while anxiously checking their gear, Sam and I were already taking home gold.

But the reality of what lay ahead was daunting. The course was a sheer monster: just shy of 8,000 feet of climbing across six ascents, five lung-busting boot packs, numerous steep, technical couloirs, and a semi-mandatory rappel. Doing this on day three, when your legs already feel like lead, requires a whole different level of mental fortitude. It demands that same dark, familiar headspace you have to find deep into a mountainous 100-mile footrace, that point where you have to decide exactly how much you are willing to hurt.

The gun went off, and the initial 3,700-foot climb took us straight from the base of the mountain all the way to the summit. It was a brutal, unrelenting wake-up call for the cardiovascular system. About halfway up that massive opening ascent, Sam and I caught up to Bayden and Jack. We glidded past them, hitting them with some highly demoralizing banter—"you guys look absolutely terrible"—just thirty minutes into the race.

Over the next few climbs, the accumulated fatigue of the weekend truly set in. The banter faded, replaced by the sheer reality of the suffering. Sam, who was carrying significantly more fitness into this race than I was post-sickness, religiously busted out the tow rope. He dragged me up the track, keeping our pace far higher than I could have managed alone.

The true climax of the race hit on climb three. We found ourselves neck-and-neck with a strong Canadian team fighting for fourth place. We knew we had to beat them to the two-rope rappel station at the top of a groomed ridge to gain a massive bottleneck advantage. As we hit a steep, one-track-wide section of the bootpack, I saw my window. I executed a menacingly quick transition. I ripped my skis off, strapped them to the pack, and kicked my boots into the snow, splitting their team right down the middle and initiating the pass.

Sensing the urgency, Sam unleashed the tow of the century when we transitioned back to skis at the top of the bootpack. As we hit the cat track, the bungee snapped taut and we were practically sprinting in ski boots through a roaring crowd of spectators. Cowbells were ringing, people were screaming, and we secured first dibs on the rappel, dropping in while the Canadians had to wait their turn above.

By the second to last ascent, a grueling bootpack on climb five, there were no towing opportunities left. I entered the absolute depths of the well, digging as deep as I physically could to find oxygen that didn't seem to exist. Sam went full drill sergeant on me from above for this climb and the next (also a short boot). I was completely cross-eyed, my heart rate was maxed out, and I was covered in a very glamorous mix of spit, sweat, and snot.

Hitting the top of the final climb, we flew through our last transition with whatever fine motor skills we had left. We double-ripped our Hybrid 65 skins with one sharp pull, stuffed them sloppily into the chest pockets of our race suits, and clicked our heels firmly into the World Cup Brake bindings with a reassuring snap. We bombed the final 3,000-foot descent. My quads were screaming as we navigated refrozen, punishing chunder that rattled our bones. But the Ultra 65 skis tracked beautifully through the absolute garbage snow, holding an edge when I barely had the strength left to drive them.

We crossed the finish line in three hours and ten minutes, successfully securing fourth place and immediately collapsing over our poles. Moments later, the crowd erupted again as Bayden and Jack came flying into the finish chute, out-sprinting the Canadians by less than half a second in a true, photo-finish battle for fifth!

It was an all-out, relentless, and incredibly raw end to three unbelievable days in the pain cave. Overcoming the illness, trusting my gear, and sharing that profound level of suffering with teammates made every single vertical foot worth it.