“Joy is the response of a lover receiving what he loves. This is the joy we feel when skiing powder… This overflowing gratitude is what produces the absolutely stupid, silly grins that we always flash at one another at the bottom of a powder run. We all agree that we never see these grins anywhere else in life”
Dolores LaChapelle
I said goodbye too soon – turns out, winter’s not done with us here in Vermont.
On Smuggler’s Notch yesterday, four inches of light, fluffy powder felt like six. Wind scoured some of the upper trails to frozen spring ice, but deposited it lovingly in the precious, sheltered woods. My first run, I hit a pillow and stepped out of my skis, face-first into a wind-pushed drift a foot deep.
The smile says it all.
After that, I met up with a friend-of-a-friend, but by the second run we were real friends. Nothing helps you get to know someone like a long, windy ride on a double chair. Except for maybe the winding way down, ducking in and out of the woods. Turns out, contrary to popular belief, you make the best friends on powder days.
The day was perfect from start to finish – powder turns on the trails, powder turns in the glades, and powder turns in the slackcountry. I relaxed into the rhythm of bumps beneath my skis, flying through the woods empty but for the two of us… Exactly what my spirit needed.
Smuggler’s Notch was my mountain when I first moved to Vermont. Pulling into the parking lot at 7:45 in the morning, it felt like coming home.
It’s always to soon to leave the mountains and the cold behind – the white coating that erases the pressures and stress of life in the valleys.
Last week was the last ski race of the season, and with an old knee injury aggravated, I’m afraid it might just be the end of my winter. But it’s too soon. (It’s always too soon.)
I can feel my knee healing by increments as some combination of ice, ibuprofen, elevation, and gentle exercise combine. Minutes on my bicycle add up to a stronger joint, but the going is slow and I am impatient. I’m worried it won’t be strong enough in time the long hike up to Tuckerman Ravine, my favorite part of spring.
The knee problem has happened before. The last time, my knee gave out on Tuckerman Ravine, which gave me my first ever, albeit mild, concussion. I won’t be making that mistake again, but I want to be on that mountain. There is no better way to say hello to spring than standing on the ridge of Mt Washington, looking down on the green world emerging.
I couldn’t see anything. It was awesome.
It’s cold again. I even biked through a Friday snow squall with flakes as large as quarters blurring my vision. But soon it will be warm. It won’t be long before I’m running outside, floating in Lake Champlain, and (if I conquer my fear) mountain biking.
I know plenty of people who say their favorite time to ski is in the spring, when powder days are interspersed with warm sunshine and soft snow. Smiles on faces and barbecues in parking lots. But I hate it. I hate watching the snow melt away. I hate emerging from hibernation, shedding layers in the heat until it’s me that’s melting.
For everything there is a season. But winter will always be mine.
Will you be missing winter, too? Or is there something special about spring that you can’t wait for?
I’m practicing being grateful – for sunshine and gray days, for wet roads and dry eyes. For laughter that goes on for hours. For the thankfulness of near-strangers. For kind hotel employees on telephones. But mostly for adventures, whether they lead you into the slackcountry (I still haven’t looked at my bases. After last weekend’s semi-accidental adventures, I seriously don’t want to know.) or to a new job (!!!).
Turns out, It’s really easy to be grateful, and it’s only getting easier.
Cruising through Burlington to welcome Budnitz Bicycles into town.
So much has happened in the past two weeks. My mind-space is taken up by processing it, leaving little room for stringing meaningful syllables together.
Changes at my current job which sent me for an emotional roller coaster of disappointment, adrenalin, creativity, and hope.
Accepted a new job, which I’ll start in a week. (I’ll probably tell you about it come summer, because it fits quite well into my warm-weather slackcountry training plans. Suffice to say, I am: excited, elated, elevated.)
20 pages of moments
Started in on the second draft of #muse. (You know, that novella I mentioned before I realized that I’d rather talk about skiing?) Draft one is an enormous outline of scenes. Draft two is daunting, as it’ll have to be more of a… y’know… draft and less a collage of moments.
Not to mention weekends in the mountains, balancing delight with frustration. There’s nothing I love more than skiing, but at the same time I know there’s so much I can do better. I’m hyper-aware of my mistakes – especially my unending struggle with falling too far back on my skis. It’s becoming more and more apparent that I need a new pair of boots. And AT bindings, AT boots, and a bright headlamp.
I leave you with the promise of more posts to come and this moment from yesterday’s adventure.
Not all who wander are lost. But some are. We weren’t. I swear.
The hardest part about writing this blog is remembering to take photos.
Sometimes when I remember, my phone’s already dead from searching for reception. Sometimes I remember, but it’s too cold to pull my hands out of my mittens. Most of the time, though, I don’t think of it. I’m too busy skiing.
But, then again, I’m a bit of a purist when it comes to my days on the slopes. I don’t listen to music. Until this year, my phone was turned off in the parking lot and only carried along in case of emergencies.
While I prefer my mountain days to be vacations from the rest of the world, there’s something to be said for snapping a few shots along the way… and capturing the beautiful days, perfect lines, and brilliant people with whom I share the mountain.
I am sore, aching, and exhausted from two days on the mountain.
Friday’s storm dropped 11 inches on Stowe, filling in the rutted glades. It’s not enough (is it ever enough?), but the mountain feels whole again – complete under a fresh coat of white. Saturday was spent flowing through trees, and pounding through row after row of soft moguls. Sunday was for cruising with my coworkers, leaning into the turns, and taking the scenic way down. These were my best two days of riding so far… and not just because of the freshies.
I haven’t ridden my best this year. I spend a lot of time frustrated, struggling with lines and recovering from poor decisions. Earlier this year, I even grazed a tree hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I want to blame my boots, the longer length of my new skis… anything to explain why I’m struggling. Rookie mistakes.
Saturday, I ended up upside down in a tree well. As I squirmed, one of the guys called out “Relax, don’t struggle.” Which… I didn’t do. I was too embarrassed and angry with myself for bailing out. Instead, I grunted and fumed. Between the two of us, I was right side up in no time, but rattled… The feeling was not improved by the next obstacle – a thin, steep chute narrower than my skis are long. Cover was thin… and the wall of solid ice on one side of the run-out was hardly reassuring.
The only way down was to take on turn and go for it, skis pointed straight. Which… I didn’t do. I was too scared to take the line, and ended up sliding part of the way and fumbling the rest, redeeming myself with a single solid drop into a pillow of soft powder.
Looking up from the bottom of the chute, I watched the next rider come down, moving with the fall line much more gracefully. Standing there, I thought about a story that Bob Berwyn shared with me about the woman who taught him to telemark. Something the woman said stuck out to me when I first read it, and just then it came back to me like a tap on the shoulder.
“Let the mountain come to you. And trust your skis.”
After the group shared high fives in celebration of our survival, we turned to the fall line. I exhaled, the worst over, and found myself finally relaxing into my turns. Too tired to battle my skis, I let them follow the fall line through the white.
Today, I ducked in to the woods to lap up what was left of the soft, riding easily. All the while, I reminded myself, “Relax, don’t struggle. Let the mountain come to you.”
This weekend was busy – I wrote, read, spent time with relatives, ran around my beautiful city with my handsome friends.
Sunday, I alternated between reading, watching LOST, doing laundry, and just snoozing in the sunbeam thrown across my couch.
This was all very pleasant. But… no matter what I do, I just can’t shake the feeling… that I should have been skiing.
To make matters worse, I woke up Monday morning to every ski area in a two hour radius celebrating their new-fallen snow. 7″ at Stowe. 6″ – 10″ at Smuggler’s Notch.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m glad the snow’s back. We need it. But I wish I was in it, up to my boot tops in fluffy white…
How will I make it to Thursday night race league? By taking deep breaths. By wobbling my way through yoga poses in my bedroom. By walking to the shores of Lake Champlain at lunchtime.
In short, I can’t way to be in the mountains again.
Sidecountry Living 