Frog Lake Huts - Twice
With the recent horrific avalanche on Perry’s Peak, I’ve been thinking a lot about the two times I skied into the huts at Frog Lakes. I don’t really have a thesis here. I just want to remember what it felt like.
I’ve skied into Frog Lakes twice — once in March 2024 and once in March 2025. Both years had those surprising late storms that drop fresh powder right when you’re lucky enough to be out there.
The first year was beautiful.
Corbin and I went with a group from Donner Summit and we skied in on a bluebird day. The snow was hard packed. The sun was out. It felt like one of those rare days where everything just works.
I remember that ski in being physically hard for me. I’m not a great skier. I took an avalanche course maybe fifteen years ago in college, but I don’t ski enough to feel truly confident. And I was wearing this huge backpacking pack stuffed with a sleeping bag and food and everything else. On firm snow, with that much weight, I felt clumsy and exposed. I remember thinking, wow, this is actually really challenging.
But it was also lovely. Just the two of us gliding in. The huts were beautiful. We cooked good meals. It snowed while we were there, which felt like magic because we were already in.
We skied powder. We skied mellow terrain. It felt playful and positive.
On the last day, there was fresh snow again, but I didn’t want to ski anymore. I had reached my limit. I don’t love skiing enough to push past that point. So another woman and I decided to ski out early together while the others stayed to lap powder.
There was fresh snow and some steeper sections. She would ski ahead and I would hang back in spots that felt loaded, just in case. We broke trail. We talked about terrain. We shared the responsibility. It felt measured. Intentional.
We got out safely. Corbin skied the rest of the day and came out later.
When we got home, we both agreed it had been one of the best trips we’d ever taken together. Just all around good.
So when the same group invited us again in March 2025, it felt easy to say yes.
But the second trip started differently.
A big storm lined up again. At home we were blowing feet of snow off the deck. The forecast kept escalating. I had this pit in my stomach.
We checked the avalanche forecast and saw that Blackbird Guides had triggered a slide on Perry’s Peak that day. A client had a partial burial. Everyone was okay, but it was enough to make me pause.
I didn’t feel good about going.
But the dogs had already been dropped off. I had taken time off work. I’d been working overtime for weeks and I wanted the excuse to disappear into the backcountry. No laptop. I didn’t want to back out.
Looking back, those weren’t good reasons to go.
Corbin told me I didn’t have to. He was supportive in that way. But I chose to go anyway, even though something in me was already uneasy.
This time, instead of just the two of us, we met another woman skinning in that day. So we became a party of three. That changed the dynamic immediately. If it had just been the two of us, I think I would have felt freer to turn around.
Instead, I felt like the weak link.
The weather was bad. Really bad. Blowing snow. Whiteout. Wind ripping across the ridge. They skied ahead and I lagged behind, trying to keep up. I couldn’t see much. At one point I got blown off my skis.
We reached the saddle near the Frog Lakes cliffs and it was chaos up there. Then we had to ski down toward the huts through terrain that absolutely has avalanche exposure. The snow was deep. My pack was heavy. I am not a strong skier in those conditions.
I was scared.
We skied through the Frog Lakes notch on a day we probably shouldn’t have. I don’t think we made a smart decision. I think we just wanted to get to the hut. To get out of the storm.
When we arrived, the hut keeper told us that a Blackbird party had been skinning in our skin track behind us. They triggered a slide and got caught. They turned around and went back to the car. They never made it to the hut.
I remember standing there hearing that and thinking: we didn’t do anything right. We just got lucky.
The storm continued. The next day turned bluebird and we skied one run in beautiful powder. It was fine. Good even. And then I sat in the hut and spiraled.
I obsessed over the forecast. I stared at maps. I replayed the terrain. I thought about options. Another storm was forecast. Winds were supposed to hit 100 mph on the ridge.
I decided I wanted to ski out through Tahoe Donner instead of over Castle Peak.
It’s longer — about eight miles instead of four. Mostly flat. No avalanche terrain. You end up in a neighborhood and need a ride back to the summit.
None of that bothered me.
What bothered me was going back through avalanche terrain after the way we skied in.
I told the group I wasn’t asking anyone to go with me. I was just naming the level of risk I was willing to take. I’ve traveled alone in winter mountains before. I’m capable of covering eight miles solo. I’ve run 100 miles twice in Alaska in the winter alone. I am more than capable.
But it turned into a tense moment.
Everyone insisted it wasn’t safe for me to go alone. That visibility would be bad. That I was overreacting. That I didn’t understand avalanche terrain. That I was being irrational. That the route over Castle and Perry’s Peak would be fine.
It started to feel like me against everyone else.
And that feeling — being the only one in the room who sees risk differently — is incredibly isolating.
The conversation was only about convincing me to change my mind.
I cried in front of everyone. I had a full panic attack. It was messy and uncomfortable and very human.
In the end, I didn’t hold my line. We went out over Perry’s Peak. The same zone where the Blackbird party had been caught days earlier. The exact same route where, a year later, nine people would die.
The forecasted extreme weather didn’t materialize. The day was calmer than expected. The avalanche danger wasn’t as high as it had been on the ski in.
But it was one of the worst experiences of my life.
Not because we were caught in anything.
Because I was forced into terrain I did not feel safe in.
Because I wasn’t strong enough to hold my line in the group dynamic.
When we got out, I told myself I never wanted to feel that way again.
Now, with the recent avalanche fatalities in that exact zone, people say I should feel validated. That my fears weren’t irrational.
But I don’t feel validated.
We were lucky on the way in.
And on the way out, conditions happened to be safer than what was predicted.
But what I carry isn’t vindication. It’s the memory of standing in a hut, knowing what my gut was telling me, and being talked out of it.
If there’s a takeaway, maybe it’s this:
Trust your gut.
Know your own risk tolerance.
Backcountry skiing isn’t just about snowpack and terrain.
It’s about how decisions get made.
And whether you can live with them afterward.
