Skiing Dude, February 18, 2021

Thirty-six inches of new snow at 7,212 feet. Deep and slow trail-breaking after the first mile where the snowshoers quit. It came all at once so there is little support. I worked all day and headed up late afternoon to clear my mind and, if lucky, maybe make a few few turns in all that new snow. I knew I’d be pressed for time, but not concerned, I carry a headlamp, or so I thought. When I topped-out at sunset, I search my pack for the lamp, digging through every pocket, corner and loose gear, that headlamp was nowhere to be found. I was freezing and my mind was torched after working all day. Now, after breaking trail up the mountain, I am not feeling too strong, mentally of physically. I quickly transition to ski and start down. The mountain is not steep and the snow was deep, so any turning almost stops me in my tracks. Straight-lining was the trick, with a few turns thrown in here and there when the angle allowed.

The trail is a roller-coaster with several short climbing sections while descending. It was late, the sun was setting, I was tired and freezing, without a headlamp, so feeling hurried at those “ups” I chose not to re-skin, instead side-stepping or hearing-boning the way up. That was a mistake, the snow too deep and me too spent. Not sure why, maybe it was because I was so cold, but I felt some panic welling up in my gut. What? Me panic? I’ve never felt panicky while back-country skiing. I’ve done this for decades, skiing until dark and reveling in a nighttime descent down a snowy trail, they were always joyful adventures. 

I have loved being alone at night on a dark trail, stopping, shutting-off the headlamp, listening to the nighttime quiet of the forest. I have heard Great Horned Owls calling, Coyotes yapping and howling on a distant ridge, and the moon-shadows of Aspen on the snow is a masterpiece of art. I am not the most religious person, I attend regularly to please my family, but I rarely feel the spirit like those proclaiming all around me. I often wonder why I can’t find it? If I’ve ever been touched by the presence of God, it is when I stop and listen on a cold, silent night in a winter forest. Just watch and listen, I am filled with peace.

Later at home, after much thought, I surmise that the panic was an accumulation of the stress and anxiety over the last year. Like many, I’ve had big changes in my life this year. On top of the pandemic, I lose a job, found a new job, and three weeks in I am sent home due to Covid. Learning a new job while working from home has been tough. Even larger are the worries for my family. Nothing comes easy but watching the struggles of my Kids and Grandkids is much tougher than learning a new job at home, alone. If anything, I worry more now about my Grandkids than I ever did for my own Kids when they were young. I always thought that life would be carefree and fancy-free when my kids were finally gone, that life would be absent of worry, instead the worries are compounded. 

So there I am, trying to sidestep up 100 vertical feet through 20 inches of soft snow. It takes four or five stomps to get enough support to move up just one step. I keep thinking, “just put on your damn skins!” but I don’t, and my back, chest and head are sweating profusely while my fingers and toes are totally numb. When I finally top the first hill and can glide down my skinner, the feel of the cold breeze on my wet chest and face is like getting hit by a truck, instant cold with profuse shivers. I imagine this must be what it was like jumping off the deck of Titanic into the North Sea. A short descent leads to another 100 foot rise and I repeat the panicky, sidestepping through deep, deep snow. When I finally top the last hill, I’m relieved knowing that it’s all down-hill to my truck, but, on the last steep pitch, while carving turns and getting face-shots in the powder, my right ski-tip catches unseen brush hidden under the snow, and my momentum sends me face first into the powder, like a lawn dart. I’m face down in soft snow, head down slope and my skis tangled in brush above me so tightly that I can't move my legs. I can’t breath in the soft snow. Attempting a pushup to get air, my arms can’t lift my body because there is no solid base below. Now the panic really sets in. I can’t breath and I can’t move my legs. I can’t rise above the surface and I am sucking in Utah’s famous powder. I am  thrashing about and I am suffocating. As I panic and flounder in the soft snow, luck finds me and one ski breaks free just enough that I can roll a quarter turn, allowing me to reach back and unclip that ski. With a bit more thrashing I’m free. 

A sudden rush of relief almost makes me cry. Sitting in that deep, soft snow, I am suddenly calmed. A deep, powerful sense of peace fills me, so I just sit, watch and listen. A soft breeze pushes new snow through the Gamble Oak, the last golden rays of twilight are disappearing to the west, stars begin shining through the clouds, and the snow around me sparkles. I am struck with the thought, in times of stress only a higher power can bring peace. Today it was real.