After a small episode of misnavigation, we get as far as gasoline’s going to end up taking us. Pat, the owner of the sled that pulled us all in, locates the machines of the party that left before us. We ready ourselves for the skin up, our objective looming above us under the otherworldly moonscape. The Clamshell.

It’s become a local tradition to ride the Clamshell under the full moon. I’ve even heard the experience referred to as “a party”. That’s probably why I brought along a six pack of Coors light.

Repeated climax avalanches have created a ski run the size of a small country in Europe. The serrated semi-circular summit towers above the surrounding mountains. The fluted face fans out in opposite directions from the peak, creating the perfect image of the mountain’s namesake.

Within five minutes of skinning from the sleds, we’re confronted by the potential wrath of the Clamshell. As we make the two hour commitment to climb the slide path to the ridge, we have to place absolute faith in the stability of the slope. Luckily, the current conditions allow us to make such a decision.

Despite the stability, times like these make me wish I could turn my brain off. I can’t ignore the potential of the path’s malevolence. With my vision handicapped, I use my ears to evaluate the conditions under my feet. Unfortunately, the sounds of the night taint the messages that my brain receives.

As we make our final push to the ridge, I wonder if the group that left before us felt the same anxiety that’s pulsing through my body like an unwelcomed drug.

I’ve been looking forward to the safety of the ridge. But as I crest the final rise, the wind cuts trough my body like the icy hand of Death. To add to the effect of skiing under the moon, it feels as if we’re walking on the moon.

Thoughts of my couch invade my mind. I start wondering what the fuck I’m doing 6000 feet above my living room at 1:30 in the morning.

WHUMPH!?!!!!!

As if I wasn’t spooked enough, the unmistakable sound of a settling snowpack stops me in my tracks. We’re not on a slope of concern, but the tell tale sign of an existing instability does little to calm my nerves. We’re almost up. But what about getting down?

After a short time the ridge becomes no more. The icy summit of the Clam is ours!

Earlier in the evening, I’d pictured myself cracking a cold one at the top and really soaking in the view. The thought of riding the variable face of the Clam in the dark makes me reach for my water bottle instead. On the way up we walked through sun crust, windfuck and the odd patch of powder. Beers, though delicious, would only hamper my downhill progress.

When I ask Adam what line he skied the last time, his cackle is absorbed into the darkness. He hasn’t been here either. All three of us are virgins to the Clambumping experience.

The top’s too icy to register the tracks of the previous party. Since the main line’s the only thing we can really see, it becomes our chosen route.

Pat goes first, stopping occasionally to let us know how the conditions are. The review is mixed. Adam drops next. Left alone on the barren summit, I have some time to reflect on the ridiculousness of our situation. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I have no choice—it’s time to drop in. As it always does, the down feels more natural than the up. We’re heading home.

Three turns of windfuck. One turn of pow. Two turns of suncrust. Four turns of pow. In a feeble attempt to prepare for the worst, I scan the fall line for safe spots. My options are non-existent. I have to trust the faith we’ve put into this slope.

Thin cloud begins to compromise the brightness of the midnight sky. The night’s still predominantly clear, but prehistoric shadows of cloud begin to wander across the alpine moonscape.

Halfway down, with the most volatile terrain in our wake, we hear the laughter and pow calls the group that left ahead of us. They’re skiing a line from the opposite ridge and we convene in the centre of the Clamshell. We slide in and out of the darkness, foreigners in a land of ghosts.

The majority of the last 1000 feet is boot-deep pow. With my fears from the beginning of the mission unrealized, I relax and let the feeling of cutting turns remind we why I came in the first place. Our whole crew seems to be feeling the same way.

The summit may not have been an appropriate location for swilling beers, but the sleds may as well be mounted with barstools. The delicious nectar has frozen into a slurpeeish substance. The impossible has been achieved—Coors Light tastes even better than usual.

We’re still a couple kilometers up the drainage so my snowboarding for the evening hasn’t yet come to an end. Adam and I starting bombing down the valley back towards the truck. We bounce our way blindly through a boulder field.

At lower elevations, the pow has been preserved by frigid temps. Successive nights of clear weather have created a shimmering ocean of surface hoar. Linking turns along the side of the road is like shredding the surface of a disco ball.

And then there we are, back at the trucks.

When I look at the Clam from town the next day, I can only imagine our tentative tracks down the centre of her fluted face. Honestly, if it weren’t for the soggy skins hanging in my gear room, I’d swear I was asleep the whole time.