In the White Mountains of New Hampshire—Part II: Skiing, Snowshoeing, and Snowstorms

    The skiing was great—not always easy, but that was part of the fun. Skiing through the woods was lovely on the easy ups and downs and where the sun threw long shadows of thin-trunked trees onto the snow—so different from the big trees of the Pacific Northwest! 

                                                        photo by Jeanne Blauner

The trails were often packed hard by previous snowshoers and skiers into narrow passages through deep snow on either side.

                                        photo by Tomas Dundzilla
Snowshoers on the narrow trail
Front to back: Sandra, Lisa, Jeanne 

At places the trail went steeply down and then suddenly up, making V-gullies that were sometimes difficult and sometimes impossible to ski: too narrow to herringbone, too steep to stomp up, with snow so deep on the sides there was no push from ski poles. I managed the less steep ones, but pretty soon so many of the skiers were falling so often that the best thing to do was take off our skis and walk. Then we would put the skis back on for more of the lovely bits before we had to take them off again.

    The second day's ski had a lot of V-gullies and one long, wind-swept traverse on a steep hillside, a delightful crossing. 

Me on the traverse             photo by Tomas Dundzila

    At one point, on the return to the trailhead, I took off my skis to walk up a hill and then couldn't get one boot to click back into the binding. The mechanism seemed broken. The snowshoers were way ahead of the three skiers—Jeanne, Lisa, and me. Neither Jeanne nor Lisa could make the binding work. I would have to walk, carrying my skis, the last mile and a half. Carrying skis is awkward, but walking the hard-packed trail wasn't difficult—until my foot hit soft snow and I would fall up to my knee. Jeanne took off her skis, too, suggesting that following her footsteps would keep me out of the holes, though I suspect she was mostly acting out of sympathy for my difficulty. 

    After walking like that for more than a mile, falling in holes and hauling myself back to the trail, I was happy to see Tomas returning to check on us. I gratefully accepted his offer to carry my skis. Once back at the hut, Tomas examined my broken ski, then took it to the sink, ran hot water over the binding to thaw the frozen mechanism, and handed it back to me, fixed.

     Another day we all put on snowshoes to climb to the Zeacliff outlook (1.5 miles, 1300-foot elevation gain). It was my first time on showshoes.

l-r: Sandra, Lisa, me.      photo by Tomas Dundzila  

I look happy enough, but I am not a convert. I prefer the graceful movement and silent glide of skiing—and the challenge of skills, too. But it took snowshoes to get to the overlook, where the view was stupendous, with panoramic views of the Pemigewasset Wilderness and snow-capped Mt. Washington. 

    The last day I was skiing along, happily and easily,

                                                    photo by Lisa Fleischer

back to the parking lot and our cars when Tomas, who was pulling the sled, stopped as I skied up to him. "Hop on," he said. "I'll pull you on the sled." I demurred (slightly), but he was serious. He wanted to see if it could be done; he would pull me until we got to the bottom of the uphill slope ahead. So I gleefully sat down atop the bundles, hung my feet over the front edge, set my skis on either side of me, and away we went, Tomas pulling, me clutching the sides of the sled as we bumped along.

    It was a barrel of fun.

    The whole trip was a barrel of fun—the wonderful people I met, the adventurous Zealand Falls hut, the climbs (even on snowshoes) to vistas, and the wonderful, challenging, beautiful skiing through deep, white, quiet snow. I came home with a healthy respect for the beauty and ruggedness of the White Mountains and warm feelings for my fellow snow-adventurers.

   Sallie (in front), Eugenia, Nancy, Jeanne.   photo by Tomas Dundzila

   That might have been the end of the story except for getting caught in a snowstorm the evening the official trip was over. Eugenia and I (Eugenia driving) were headed to the Boston airport when dark fell, along with the snow. The backcountry New Hampshire roads quickly became treacherous. When we saw the lights of a Dunkin Donuts gleaming in the emptiness, we gratefully pulled into the parking lot, went inside for a bite to eat, then came back to the car, pulled out our sleeping bags, and arranged ourselves for a night in the car. 

    In the wee hours of the morning we were awakened by a snowplow clearing the parking lot. When we got out of the car that morning, we found it blocked in with a two-foot wall of snow. I went inside to ask for a shovel while Eugenia tried to dig us out with the car's ice scraper ("Like using a toothpick to stir cake batter," she said) until she realized the four-wheel-drive rental car could probably crunch right through the snow, which it did. 

    We both missed planned visits with friends in Boston that evening, and I was sorry to miss a night in the Embassy Suites (with its shower), but both Eugenia and I got to the airport safely the next day and, later, to our respective homes, in Ohio and Oregon. I drove home from the airport in the dark, but not in the snow.

    Driving through the Rogue Valley the next day, I was surprised to see daffodils in bloom. It was another world from where I had been.

                                               photo by Lisa Fleischer