I was an area skier. By midsummer, I would fantasize about groomed runs and tune up my skis. During ski season, I would forsake food for carpool money to deliver me up the hill, carve some turns, share a hot toddy with friends. During ski season, I always was broke, but I became rich in good memories and friends, and managed to avoid broken bones.
Alas, I eventually became weary of flying downhill, of staying within the boundaries, of waiting in line for the ride up, teeth all a-chatter, barely warming up on the way down. And then there were the big dogs. I adopted first one and then another. It made me sad to leave them at home or in the Jeep, so I retired my planks for the most part, acquiring snowshoes.
It is noteworthy that this transition occurred while living in Glacier, Wash. – a wee hamlet in the North Cascade Mountains, tucked up against Mount Baker – the same winter that mighty volcano set the world record for snowfall in a single season. Practically every day was powder. Almost every day, they were digging out the ski lifts. Occasionally, I traveled up to the area, paid for lift service and made a few turns. The rest of the time I loaded up the dogs, drove 10 minutes up the mountain highway to strap on snowshoes and hike uphill through thigh-high snow. It was a lot of work, this snowshoeing. It worked me into phenomenal shape. The expense was little and the solitude was grand. The dogs loved it.
A friend’s friend, no one I really knew all that well, once wondered why I was so taken with snowshoeing.
“Isn’t it just, you know, like walking around in the snow?” he asked, head tilted, eyes glazed.
No. Snowshoeing isn’t about walking around in the snow any more than alpine skiing is about riding the lift up and then sliding back down again … repeatedly. Or that Nordic skiing is merely about kick and glide, kick and glide, kick and glide. … Well, maybe that is true, but one can reduce anything to the ridiculous.
Snowshoeing became true freedom of the hills. Where there was snow, public lands and no other restrictions (such as avalanche danger), I could go anywhere at any time. I was not dependent on lift operations or grooming, expensive equipment or pricey clothing. All I needed was a decent pair of snowshoes, a pair of poles, the same hodgepodge clothing I wore for winter trail runs and heavy hiking boots with gaiters. No fuss, no muss.
Fast forward a decade and a half, and I find myself smack dab in the middle of the San Juan Mountains, in a caldera no less. I no longer live at the toes of grand peaks, I live tucked within their collective belly. Along the way, my once-celebrated snowshoes have become battered and jury-rigged, brought out into the sunlight merely every couple of years for a romp, but otherwise abandoned.
I since have taken up alpine touring (AT), or as the French would say, randonnée. For me, AT is the best of both: climbing free-heal as on snowshoes but with removable, synthetic skins adhered to the underside of my skis. Then locking my heals, ripping off the skins, and making alpine turns on the way back down. “Wahoo!” Snowshoes don’t offer much glide on the way down. Should you try, it quickly becomes fanny over teakettle. I know. I’ve tried.
A few weeks ago, I traveled over Red Mountain and visited Joe Salette at Ouray Mountain Sports. I don’t know what possessed me, but I inquired if they were running any specials on snowshoes. (Seriously, I don’t know what possessed me.) Joe replied that, yes, they had a few rental returns from the 2012-13 season. The price was motivating, and I found myself digging through the leftovers. I brought a pair to the register and settled up.
A couple weeks hence, I parked just south of Red, strapped on the snowshoes and had a ridiculous amount of fun with my two dogs. We raced around a snow-covered meadow and uphill through glorious drifts of new snow. The open areas appeared skiable, but skiing through trees was out of the question – too many hidden hazards. The views were spectacular, the weather almost balmy. I was happy to have the snowshoes but nonetheless planned to ski tour there after the next storm.
Storm it did, more than once, with coverage now inspiring confidence even through the trees. This past bluebird-sky Friday, I loaded up the dogs and skinned up near Red, first following snowmobile tracks and then a skin track set by a couple who had started out 15 minutes ahead of me. The snow was deep and relatively fluffy (compared to typical North Cascades conditions), and I was grateful for the set track. It was late in the day, the tour almost an afterthought.
After topping out, removing the skins from my skis and locking my heals, the first dozen turns were phenomenal. This, I thought, is some sweet, sweet Colorado snow! Before I could gather another “wahoo,” the snow conditions deteriorated as I dropped in elevation, becoming some sticky, sticky Colorado snow. Truly sticky. It soon became significantly more work sliding down than it had been skinning up. After dropping slightly off-route, needing to climb a bit to return to course, I could actually climb straight up the moderate pitch without skins.
By then I had begun to wistfully fantasize about my newly acquired snowshoes, nay, to long for the playful pair. The ear-to-ear, almost smug grin I had been wearing during the first dozen turns down had almost become a grimace. Maybe next time I’ll throw the snowshoes in the car, maybe even on my back. Just in case.
Tricia Cook writes from Silverton in the company of two big dogs, two small cats and very little oxygen.
