You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? I'm talking about snow cornices; windblown snow projecting outward along cliff tops. Dangerous to venture upon anytime, but especially in the spring, as warm weather begins to melt into the cohesion of ice particles, weakening the overhanging ice.

Hit it right -- as the cornices are breaking off and falling to trigger downslope avalanches -- and you can predictably witness an exciting, unfolding page of the powers of nature at work. Hitting it right requires a warm (ideally sunny) day. The aspect must be right, snow levels just so, cornices in place, and your personal safety assured. When it comes to cornice watching, one can be as avant-garde as one wishes. Jane and I have sat in lawn chairs, sipping cocktails while observing the annual phenomenon of falling cornices.

We first discovered the thrill of this most unusual activity while visiting Glacier Park's St. Mary's area in early May. We were ostensibly there to observe elk. It was mid-afternoon of one of those rare, warm, sunny spring days when one could see for two lifetimes. We coasted into a roadside pullout at the edge of a sagebrush/bunchgrass meadow where dozens of elk grazed. In order to better see, we clambered from our vehicle, binoculars in hand. Suddenly there was a loud snap, like a distant gunshot, followed by what we took to be rolling thunder.

Jane's already oversized irish eyes were the size of dinner plates as I turned to search the skies for a thunder source. Then I shrugged and lifted binoculars to study the elk. The animals hadn't seemed to notice the clap or the thunder.

Another report came, again followed by rolling thunder. "What's going on?" I muttered, once more turning to search the sky.

"It's an avalanche!" Jane exclaimed. "See? Across the way, running down the slope of that tallest point on the cliff."

I searched where she pointed. The evidence of a fresh avalanche was there, right enough. But it had stopped running by the time I located it. Then there was another report and we both searched to the right of Jane's first avalanche, catching the beginning of yet another avalanche. "It's the cornices!" I muttered. "They're breaking off and falling, triggering avalanches.

Another loud report, followed by yet another rumble came from the far left of the ridge we watched. Elk were forgotten. Jane lifted the hatchback on our car and pulled out a lawnchair. I grinned and followed her example, even going one better by setting out the ice chest. "Lunchtime," I said.

A relentless sun beat upon our south-facing ridge as we sat glassing in shirtsleeved leisure, betting we could pick the next cornice to fall. Those great snow ledges were originally formed via gale force winds winging out of the frozen north, blowing across the ridgetop and depositing drifting snow in great overhanging cornices. Now, as winter loosed its icy hand, we had ringside seats to their dissolution.

On another year we skied up the ice on Josephine Lake at Many Glacier while cornices fell from the ridge to Grinnell Point. But the day wasn't at all sunny and warm. Though conditions might've been suitable, they weren't as favorable as might've been had the sun been out.

We learned during our cornice watching adventures that trying to anticipate when the collapses will peak is very difficult. But to accept the opportunity when it occurs is not at all tough.

 

Next week? Another walk on the wild side.