After days of indecision—enough snow? wet snow? good snow?—my son, Ela, and I decided suddenly at 8:00 Monday morning, the day before his return to his home in Washington, that yes! We would ski at Crater Lake.
I slung wax on my skis and flung them into the car along with boots, poles, and ski clothes, then drove to Jacksonville and met Ela at his dad's. And then more delays: coffee, ski rental, and, at Union Creek, a bathroom break. I was anxious about getting in enough skiing without having to dive home in the snow and the dark.
Fortuitous delays! The turn-off past Union Creek was blocked with snow, but just as we got there, a snowplow pulled up behind us. Any earlier, and our plans would have been foiled. We followed the snowplow all the way to the park entrance.
Snow was falling. The temperature was 21 degrees. Not a single car at the trailhead. Expansive solitude.
We parked, gathered our gear, took a quick photo,
then stomped steps into the seven-foot snowbank, snapped boots into skis, and took off. It was just after noon. Still snowing.
Ecstatic pleasure! Perfect snow—soft and fluffy as kitten fur and unbelievably deep—gorgeous soft powder through which we sank to our knees at every step. The tips of our skis only occasionally peeked through, sliding into view like little animals. Pretty soon we were breaking trail uphill. Such hard work! And gloriously beautiful. On and on we went, Ela usually in front. I did my share of breaking trail, too
though maybe not my fair share unless you take into consideration differences in age and stamina. The sky was gray, the snow soft, the route uphill, the forest dark-trunked and white-burdened. Snow fell and fell. We pushed on and on and on through the soft, deep snow.
though maybe not my fair share unless you take into consideration differences in age and stamina. The sky was gray, the snow soft, the route uphill, the forest dark-trunked and white-burdened. Snow fell and fell. We pushed on and on and on through the soft, deep snow.
After two hours, at a suitable fork in the road, we started back, skiing in our tracks at a good rhythmic pace, in a slow, steady glide. Ela was far ahead of me, skiing fast, but every once in a while he stopped and looked back before continuing. At one point a huge blast of cold wind and heavy snow obliterated him from sight altogether. The last half-mile (or more, surely!) was uphill again, and by that time I was worn out. One step, the next step, then another, and finally I saw Ela disappear down the stomped-in steps to the road. (He tried to ski it. Bad move.) We dumped skis, poles, and wet clothes into the car, climbed into the front seat, and turned on the heater.
We had skied five and a half miles, through that glorious deep snow. It was 3:15. The temperature was still 21 degrees, but the snow had stopped.
Ela drove again. We stopped for a beer, then to return the rented skis, then to Ela's dad's house, where dinner was waiting. I gratefully accepted the offer to spend the night.
I fell asleep with my body still attuned to the graceful rhythm of skis on perfect snow and the bracing sensation of cold fresh air as I followed my son up the mountain and back down. What a wonderful, wonderful day it had been!
