After a lost season in Tahoe, a snowboarder ventures north in pursuit of big lines in the heart of Alaska’s Chugach Mountains, where patience ultimately pays off

The day started on a high. I had just wrapped a sunrise backcountry tour up Jake’s Peak before work—one of those mornings where everything aligns. Deep snow, warm alpenglow and that post-ride bliss humming through my chest. I sat at a red light on Al Tahoe Boulevard, replaying turns in my head—smooth, dreamy arcs across untouched snow. Life in that moment felt simple. Golden.

Then … a deafening crunch exploded behind me—violent, sharp and impossibly fast. My body jolted forward. My right hand locked around the steering wheel. Everything turned to static—sound, light and motion collapsing into one chaotic instant.

Then … nothing.

When I came to, the world was muffled. My ears rang like a struck bell. The air smelled faintly of burnt rubber and cold exhaust. The back of my Subaru felt twisted, broken. I turned my head slowly, left, then right—dazed, trying to piece together what had just happened—and caught sight of a white Hummer drifting across the road, its bumper hanging loose, pieces of plastic scattered like confetti. 

Instinct took over before thought did, urging me to move. I limped my wrecked car through the intersection, somehow making it into the Domino’s parking lot across the street. 

When the engine stopped, the silence hit. My hands shook. My body hadn’t registered the pain yet. Instead, I was suspended in a strange stillness—everything muted, like I was underwater. Shock has a strange way of softening the world, cushioning the blow before it truly lands. 

Little did I know, I had a concussion, broken collarbone and torn rotator cuff. 

The next few weeks disappeared into a blur of recovery: rehab appointments, surgical consults and concussion specialists at Barton Hospital, and the slow, frustrating crawl back to baseline. I watched storms roll in from the couch, aching to be back in the mountains. 

Eventually, I decided to deal with the pain and return to the Tahoe backcountry, feeling out each turn, relearning trust in my body. But the Tahoe winter brought its own challenges: inconsistent conditions, a dangerous snowpack and the ever-present question of risk. My mind drifted to the place that had haunted my daydreams for years. 

If Tahoe couldn’t give me what I needed, maybe Alaska could. So I went all in, pulling together my first mission to Thompson Pass. 

Daydreams to Reality

Thompson Pass is a rugged slice of snowboard paradise in the heart of Alaska’s Chugach Mountains. Just 40 minutes from the coastal town of Valdez, this remote stretch of mountain highway transforms each spring into a gritty, soul-filled gathering of snowboarders (and yes, skiers too) who chase a singular dream: riding untouched big-mountain lines in one of the most wild, dramatic landscapes on earth. 

It’s not a place of creature comforts or curated experiences. There are no amenities—no running water, no cell service, no lodge to retreat to when the snow starts to fly. Instead, life unfolds across three scattered parking lots, where weathered trucks and snowmobiles line up beside Arctic Oven tents and beat-up campers, each rig home to someone who’s decided that living on the pass, in its raw simplicity, is worth it even for a few turns on these steep, spine-riddled faces. 

Jordan Chamberlain, Claire Hewitt-Demeyer, Ashley Epis and Jaclyn Randall
share a laugh with members of their loyal four-legged expedition team: Kicker, Muse and Gnarly Barley Dog, photo by Greg Stafford

What makes Thompson Pass truly special isn’t just the terrain, though the terrain is legendary. It’s the tight-knit, winter-obsessed community that gathers there. Riders from all over the world converge for a few fleeting weeks, bound by a mutual respect for the mountains and for each other. For many, it becomes a ritual, a place where the noise of the outside world falls away, and only the essentials remain: snow, friends and the unshakable joy of being fully alive in the mountains.

I lined up filmers and guides and recruited two powerhouse women, who were both on board to turn this dream into a reality.  

Ashley Epis, a bold and inspiring Tahoe-based snowboarder, has been one of my go-to adventure partners for years, navigating technical lines together across the Tahoe and Utah backcountry. Jordan Chamberlain, another badass rider based in Park City, Utah, was someone I hadn’t met in person, but we’d been circling each other online through mutual sponsors and social media stoke for over two years. She was in. 

The trip wasn’t just about riding inspiring lines—it was about completing Dunes to Descents, a backcountry film I’d been pouring my heart into all season. My vision is to bring women together in the mountains, to push boundaries, support one another and feed off each other’s energy in the wildest places possible. 

Finishing the film in Alaska felt like a perfect culmination—standing atop a big-mountain line I’d imagined countless times from my living room. I was finally ready to make it real.

Author Claire Hewitt-Demeyer with a fun line while holding out for bigger objectives in the Chugach Mountains, photo by Cherise Beatus

Into the Wild

March 28, I flew to Anchorage solo. No sled. No crew. Just a dream and a few duffel bags packed with every Akova layer I owned. My gear was simple: two Weston snowboards (the Dream Machine split and the Eclipse solid) and an Arctic Oven tent to call home.

A good friend, Jaclyn Randall, offered me a ride five hours north to Thompson Pass. My eyes widened as we arrived at the pass and saw the towering peaks. The nerves hit hard when I realized I’d be on my own for the next two weeks until Ashley, Jordan and the rest of the crew arrived. 

I decided to lean in, shake off the fear and start meeting the locals and legends of Thompson Pass. What I found was pure, unfiltered kindness.

Maybe it was the shared love of snowboarding—or perhaps it was the fact that a sub-5-foot-tall rider wandering around offering to cook dinner for strangers made it hard not to smile—but from the start, I felt deeply welcome. In a place where the elements are harsh and amenities nonexistent, community becomes everything. Within a few days, that cold, wind-whipped pass transformed into something entirely unexpected: It started to feel like home.

The locals brought me wood pallets from town (a 40-minute commute) to help elevate my tent so it didn’t collapse in the snow. These locals included Galen Bridgewater, Greg Stafford, Sean Clawson, Daniel Frohman, Andrew Muse, Bill Blanton, Sam Murphy, Moanna Mae and so many more. They doubled me into zones on their snowmachines—turns out human-powered lines are harder to access in Alaska—and shared warm meals and stories under the northern lights. 

I learned the golden rule of Thompson Pass: “You have to be present to win.” I first heard the quote from Clawson, but as I would learn, it’s a phrase that echoes through the pass. 

Hewitt-Demeyer with a headstand in an Alaskan ice cave, photo by Allie Rood

There are three main lots where people stage on Thompson Pass, each offering access to prime terrain—some of it directly from the parking lot. To score clean, untouched lines, however, you’ve got to dig deeper, venturing farther into the wild folds of the Chugach.

For nearly two weeks, the sky held everyone hostage. One storm after another rolled through the pass, blanketing the landscape in white and shutting down any chance of riding. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t go a little stir-crazy in my small tent, snowed in with nothing but my thoughts and barely enough room for yoga.

During those two weeks, the sun made only a few brief appearances, with the clouds parting just long enough for a quick snowmachine rip out to the ice caves—a surreal world of glistening blue walls and silence broken only by laughter. 

It was a different kind of adventure, one that reminded us why we came here in the first place. In Tahoe, storm days meant tree runs and powder therapy. In Alaska, there are no trees to anchor your vision. Riding in a whiteout is dangerous, even deadly. The vertigo is real, and so are the crevasses. 

You wait, and wait, and wait some more.

Clear With Turbulence

Then, finally, it happened: a full day of blue sky. 

In a last-minute scramble, I pulled together gear, logistics and a crew of women I’d met on the pass. We lined up a plane drop with Goat Mountain Air deep in the Chugach. Jaclyn Randall and filmer Allie Rood flew with me, while three others planned to snowmachine out to the zone.

Mid-flight, Alaska showed its teeth.

The turbulence started like a thrill ride—the kind of drops that make your stomach somersault into your throat, like cresting the first big hill of a roller coaster. We laughed nervously, thinking we’d hit a rough patch and then smooth out. But 20 minutes in, the relentless pounding had every one of us gripping our seats with white knuckles. The plane bounced so violently I was lifted off my seat every 30 seconds, hanging onto the back of the pilot’s seat. 

Faces turned pale as nausea washed over the cabin. It felt like the whole crew might pass out—stricken by a cocktail of altitude, adrenaline and fear. Jaclyn, brave as ever, lost her breakfast into a clear bag, the sound echoing through our headsets.

I’ll never forget the calm, decisive presence of our pilot, Matt Bethke. He knew exactly when to call it, and with masterful skill, rerouted us back to the safety of the airport. No ego, just experience and care. 

It was another reminder that in Alaska, the mountains have the final say.

At Long Last: An Alaska Line

Fifteen days. That’s how long I’d waited on Thompson Pass, with two days riding my board—and even then, it was just a couple of mini laps and some soul-lifting detours to the ice caves. The weather wasn’t only bad, it was relentless. I had started to accept that I might leave Alaska without ever riding the big-mountain line I’d come for.

Then came Ashley and Jordan. They rented an RV in Anchorage and drove seven hours through a snowstorm to reach the pass.

Jordan Chamberlain, Ashley Epis and Claire Hewitt-Demeyer prepare to descend a peak in the Chugach Mountains, photo by Sean Clawson

When they pulled into the lot, it was like the universe hit reset. The next morning, the sky cracked open, clear and blue as could be. The forecast called for good weather until 2 p.m.—just enough time for one mission. 

We hitched a sled bump out to a nearby zone, hoping we’d be able to boot-pack a line and skin back to base camp if a return ride wasn’t in the cards. Since it was a short weather window, we could not schedule a filmer. Fortunately, a group of kind-hearted sledders spotted our crew and dropped us at the base of a towering face. No time to waste, we slapped on our verts and started kicking steps up the mountain.

It was an all-hands-on-deck climb. We took turns breaking trail, checking conditions, calling out crust layers and powder pockets. The last 70 feet, we paused—heart rates high, the slope steep, and silence heavy. We dug, assessed and made the call as a team: It was stable enough to ride. 

We pushed fast to the summit, racing the shifting weather. And suddenly, I was there, standing on top of what I’d dreamed about all season: a real Alaska line. The sun was shining, the wind calm and my legs shaking with a mix of effort, nerves and joy.

Ashley and Jordan let me drop first. The snow was everything—fast, stable, dreamy. I picked my line, kept out of my sluff and carved turns I’ll remember forever. Every carve felt like a reward, like a love letter from the Chugach for my patience and grit.

The three of us regrouped at the bottom, hooting and hugging, adrenaline pouring out in breathless laughter. For them, it was day one. For me, it had been 14 nights in a tent, 15 mornings watching fog and wind. And finally—finally—it all felt worth it.

Claire Hewitt-Demeyer carves down a steep panel in the Chugach Mountains, photo by Kasey Renfro

Fun Captured on Film

Three days later, the sun broke again, providing the chance to venture deeper into the Chugach. This time, it was a full film mission.

With the help of filmer Sean Clawson and riders Bill Blanton and Sam Murphy, who shuttled us on snowmobiles, we sledded out to a remote zone, winding through valleys until the terrain opened up to reveal a massive panel split with two distinct fall lines.

We chose our route and began the climb up about a 1,000-foot vertical face. The film crew below kept eyes on us, radios crackling with updates on light, snow conditions and safe ascent lines. 

Ashley dropped first, taking the line we’d climbed. She charged it beautifully—fast, fluid, confident—and I could hear the crew cheering as she carved her final turn and skidded to a stop in the flats. Jordan went next. I watched her disappear over the rollover, and then for what seemed like an eternity … nothing. Alaska lines are blind until you’re in them. I held my breath until she finally popped into view. Relief washed over me.

Then it was my turn.

The drone was back in position. I radioed down one last note: I wouldn’t be taking the same line. Instead, I chose the skinnier chute—one that looked wind-affected, steeper and riskier. But it called to me.

I took a deep breath, whispered a little pep talk into the wind and dropped.

Ashley Epis, Jordan Chamberlain and Claire Hewitt-Demeyer top out on the summit of a dream line they eyed from across the valley, photo by Sean Clawson

The first few turns were conservative, calculated. The snow was stable but fast. Sluff peeled off my edges like waves. There was no safe exit, no way out once committed. I hugged the rock wall, feeling the spray of cold pow with every carve. My legs burned, but I couldn’t stop grinning. 

When I reached the bottom, the crew erupted. Ashley and Jordan tackled me in a hug, and all I could do was laugh out of joy and disbelief.

We’d done it. Another Alaska line for the books, and finally one captured by a film crew.

But the return home tested us more than the line itself. Storm clouds had rolled in fast, swallowing us in “the milk,” with skies so flat they erased the horizon. The two-hour snowmachine ride back to camp was a blur of vertigo, throttle and trust. 

The Final Say

After days of leaden skies and howling winds, cabin fever had sunk in once again. Finally, there was a break in the storm, and sunlight spilled across the Chugach. The crew rallied early—Ashley, Jordan, our film team and our newest addition, filmer Greg Stafford. The stoke returned. 

From left: Jordan Chamberlain, Claire Hewitt-Demeyer and Ashley Epis are all smiles after a day of riding towering peaks and filming for Dunes to Descents, photo by Greg Stafford

We loaded up and pushed deeper, traveling by sleds for two and a half hours before reaching an area where peaks jutted to the sky. At the top, Alaska unfolded before us: endless spines and glistening glaciers stretching in every direction. We safely descended the peak and hugged and high-fived at the bottom, buzzing with excitement.  

Still riding that high, we decided to check out another nearby line. As we scoped the terrain, a group of skiers on the mountain prepped to drop. We paused to watch. 

The first skier cruised down cleanly. But then … chaos. 

The second skier took two turns, and the entire face detonated. A massive avalanche thundered down the slope, swallowing everything in its path. We stood frozen, hearts in our throats. Miraculously, he managed to ski to stable snow and anchor in as the mountain continued to slide below him.

We radioed up, checked that he was safe and helped guide him down. No one was hurt. But we were all rattled to our core.

That was it. The mountains had spoken. We scaled back. No more lines. Not today. Not with that kind of energy in the air. We turned back toward camp, a little quieter and more reverent.

That’s Alaska. You can do everything right—train, prep, scout, commit—and still, the mountains decide. They reward patience, presence and respect.

Presence Over Peaks

I spent 21 days in my Arctic Oven tent. I didn’t ride all that I envisioned. But I walked away with something deeper: connection, community and a kind of clarity I hadn’t expected. 

I learned that presence—true, grounded presence—is sometimes the most powerful thing we bring to the backcountry. Because in Alaska, even the smallest win feels like magic.

And honestly? Any line in Alaska is a dream line.

Claire Hewitt-Demeyer is a professional snowboarder based out of South Lake Tahoe. Follow her journey and explore her media and film accomplishments at clairehewittdemeyer.com