Telemark Skiing Essay Contest 2003 page 4

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"My Best Day Ever" Essay Contest, Page 4

More: (1), (2), (3), (4), (5)

Entry #51

The Best Day I Ever Had

I have yet to have a best day. Sure, I've had gratifying moments, such as keeping it together on ice on the way down from the single chair at Mad River Glen, but nothing that I could really call "best." I'm not embarrassed by this -- having been on skis just several times, I wouldn't expect more.

But I do have a dream of what my best day would be &SHY; when I'm ready to live up to it.

Two years ago, when I first thought of taking up skiing, I read about the "Thunderbolt" in Massachusetts. It fixed itself in my imagination immediately and it soon became something I just have to do. I like the image it evokes of a plunging, jostling roller coaster. I like that it was carved from the New England woods before lifts were invented &SHY; to ski it is to revive a relic, just as skiing freeheel brings back a technique and feel that were all but gone.

I imagine skiing it with my son, Henry, another, but more promising, novice.

We start the trip early, while it's still dark. A heavy snow fell the day before, and seems to be almost over as we load the car. I have a thermos with hot, black coffee; Henry is already sacking out in the back seat.

I'm excited and more than a bit nervous as we speed north on the nearly empty interstate. We have breakfast at a diner somewhere along Route 2 in the Berkshires, complete with yellow Formica and a jukebox in the corner. Finding a diner is almost a ritual for me. I think most people have some tradition for road trips &SHY; something they save for just those occasions &SHY; to help mark the trip as separate from ordinary routine.

It's close to mid-morning by the time we reach the trailhead at Thiel Farm. The clouds are starting to clear, and fortunately it's not one of those bitterly cold New England days. The snow is fresh and, for Massachusetts, deep.

Climbing, I am aware that my 38-year head start over Henry has some value. Years of cycling have given me strength, and have taught me to let my legs do what they have to do while my mind Š wanders. I see the soft shadows of the trees and the clinging chickadees. I think of my father, dead for three years now, who never joined my adventures. Maybe he would have smiled more if he had joined me.

Henry's shout brings me back. His mind is not wandering, but is focused clearly on when we'll get to the top and start sliding. I don't think Henry is burdened by any anxiety about what lies ahead. I've been struggling with my fears &SHY; the Thunderbolt is steeper, tighter, and more complex than anything either of us have skied.

And it does not disappoint. We start cautiously, not knowing whether we or the trail have the upper hand. We're still upright and gaining confidence as we negotiate each obstacle &SHY; --the steeps, the awkward bends, the unexpected ledges and bumps. Following Henrys lead, I lose my doubts and enjoy the ride without even thinking about whether I can.

At the trailhead, we feel we've earned the right to lounge in our personal glory, even though our run would never earn us any honors for style or speed. We look back and try to retrace the route of the Thunderbolt. We can't help but admire this modest summit which lent itself to more than adventure. I set out for a fun day on the snow, but Henry taught me another lesson about letting go, about not thinking and instead trusting. I wish there had been more time for Henry to teach my dad the same lesson.

Entry #50

THE "BEST" IS YET TO COME

What was the best day of skiing I ever had? With forty years of experience many come to mind. Fond memories of deep snow so light that it floats like smoke, of crystal clear vistas at 13,000 feet when for the first time you can see a mountain range in the next state, of good friends laughing and grinning, happy to be sharing that backcountry magic, of waking up in a primitive hut to see that it has snowed 20 inches over night, of making fifty perfect turns on a virgin snowfield, of being stunned at the silence as the helicopter disappears over the ridgeline – all of theses are memories that I cherish, and I suppose are contenders for the best day I ever had.

Yet, isn’t the best day always the one that's still out there? Isn’t that what keeps us coming back year after year more excited than the last? The promise that tomorrow always has the potential to bring one of those quintessential moments when your whole body rejoices in being alive. For me, the feeling always comes in that instant when nothing else matters. On the best days everything that is unique and special is in the here and now: In the way that the snow billows into your face. In realizing that you are flying over and through a pristine wilderness. In the deafening silence of a snow covered forest. In the hot shot of adrenaline you feel as you clear the lip and realize just how far the drop really is. In sharing the sensation with out saying a word because you have been skiing with this guy every year since you were sixteen.

For me, experiencing the best is never about what was, but rather about what is, or what can be. Don’t get me wrong. I would not trade my favorite memories for anything. But the best, well the best will always be out there somewhere waiting to happen. When it comes I know that it will be fleeting and that it will only serve to make me crave more, to build my anticipation for the next time. So here is a simple wish - that you and I will be experiencing our own “best” day some time very soon.

Entry #49

It Isn't All About the Powder

My parents finally gave me the ok to drive up to the local mountain with my brother and no supervision. The opportunity for independence added to the excitement that always accompanies the enthusiasm of waking up to ski. My brother, not being a morning person, had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, half dressed in his ski hat and pants. I, on the other hand, had no trouble staying awake. Driving wide eyed, I almost shook with anticipation as the scenery changed from city to farmers to mountain town. The road rising to the resort was covered in a thin layer of snow, with the cloudy sky promising more to well behaved skiers.

We arrived at the resort an hour early, partially because in my excitement I misjudged driving time, partially because I knew parking would be limited with snow in the forecast. To pass the first half hour my brother and I
grabbed some hot chocolate and chatted about school and social happenings. Becoming bored we decided to hike a little and grab a little extra skiing before the lifts started up. This day was my fourth telemarking and my first opportunity to climb.

While my brother hiked up in his boots I shimmied up thinking of future chances to test my skis. We didn't hike far and the slope was rather tame but it got us warmed up and rather giddy. While we were climbing the snow
had started to really come down and the lifts had started sending skiers to the top. We rode the lift to the top, laughing at sticker on one of the poles just as we had done every day since it was planted there. Getting off the lift we wiggled the fresh powder off and headed to the backside of the mountain where the only high-speed lift was located. The snow was now coming down in torrents. Apparently the initial adventurers to the backside we were greeted with first tracks. We chose a cruiser and playfully intertwined our turns leaving an elegant line of figure eights.

The snow gods gave us their blessing for the rest of the day. It continued to dump snow, and the snow seemed to permeate our skin and infuse us with energy. We skied non-stop, nine to four. Each run we had the opportunity to look up the hill and admire our turns, and each ride up we talked of video worthy runs and boasted of who was the better skier. The whole day passed and we met fewer than twenty other skiers or boarders. We had the mountain to ourselves to paint with our skis and ample supply of white snow.

At the end of the day we learned that the mountain had received so much snow that the plow could not keep up and people were turned away. As we started home we joked about the poor saps who missed the greatest day of the season. Within ten minutes my brother again was asleep, head against the
window and wrapped up in his jacket. The greatest part of the day was when I looked over and saw the enormous grin on his face. I knew that he and I would remember this day for the rest of our lives, and not just for the snow.

Entry #48

My Best Ski Day

The weekend prior I had dragged her into the backcountry to get some turns with my friends. To make a long story short, the snow was breakable crust and she executed two turns in 2,500 feet, the rest were crashes. She didn’t talk to me for days. Both of us learned important lessons that weekend. Somehow I persuaded her into skiing the following weekend at the resort, promising her experience to be a better one. Actually now that I think of it, I coaxed her with some pretty blue bindings.

There is something especially pleasing about seeing someone, whom you have taught the basics to, whom you have helped up after many wipeouts, and bought a ton of gear for, finally get it. It’s not only emotionally satisfying knowing that they won’t be struggling as much anymore, but also a nice validation of all those gear purchases.

My memories of the day include feeling both fear and overwhelming pride while watching her ski. It is interesting watching a ski monster emerge in the form of a woman. Now somewhat overly confident and emulating the styles of those around her she began to ski very fast and straight down the fall line. I expressed to her my concern about the speed that she was carrying down the hill. She ignored me. I tried to encourage her to make more turns at slower speeds. She ignored me even more. So I decided to just stay out of her way. She would stop every now and then to silently say "look at me" and "what’s taking you so long" with a grin spanning to the edges of her helmet.

While skiing off the tops of spectacular peaks in perfect conditions are always memorable ones, no single day has ever been as great for me as the day she had her breakthrough.

Entry #47

My Best Day Ever?

I have no intention to vilify, accuse or complain - I will merely recount an ironically necessary day; a day beginning in heaven and ending in the depths of hell. Elation lasts only so long.balance remains crucial in life, happiness, marriage, learning and skiing.

Skiing in western Pennsylvania for the weekend with a group of friends. Snow not so cold; weather not so cold. Alas, it is Pennsylvania. The Keystone state does not baffle any extreme skier with wicked steeps, heighty cliffs or long backcountry approaches. Rather, Pennsylvania boasts modern snow machine technology, nighttime skiing and comfortable lodges. Here I am though. No denying that simple fact. Carpe diem? I am skiing in Pennsylvania. Sure, my mind thrives in the grandeur of Grindelwald, Switzerland and Utah Powder and Whistler-Blackcombian backcountry.one can dream. My faithful, or so I thought, Black Diamond Resolutions slid across Seven Springs' snow, and my legs pumped to an internal rhythm - that freeheelin' groove - the groove that can jam to a Victor Wooten bass solo or the hearts' reaffirming thump.
Lactic acid building and thigh muscles crushing, I whipped across the slope toward the terrain park. Snowboarders and freeskiing young 'uns vaporized as I honored the terrain park with freeheelin' spirit.

"Who's that? He's cute!" Yeah, that's right, I am.
"What are those?"
"Why do they bob like that?"
"Why is he cross country skiing downhill?" Ahhh that one hurt.
"I thought only hippies did that thing?!?"
"Whoa, he's ultra smooth!"

Yeah, that's right, ultra smooth. Heads and torsos pivoted to watch this endangered specie crank some sweet turns. Clearing gaps and rocketing through the sky, I approached the last table. Going through a limited trick arsenal, I chose an old school Iron Cross. Friends waited on the side, and I saw bugged out eyes.

BAM-slow motion. Lip of jump approaching, and I dropped one last turn to control speed. Legs limber, I exploded off the lip. Right ski crossed over left ski. Left hand grasped right boot toe. White, straight teeth flashed a winsome smile for the astounded snow bunnies and jealous guys. Lights flashed, shutters clicked and I live forever on a negative strip and in the snow nymphs' nubile minds. Snowy ground flew under my airborne torpedo body. Skis uncrossed, body poised for impact.

SLAP-I landed. A perfect jump on a brilliant day. Absolute elation. So far. Two quick turns and I slipped onto the snowy ground. Weird. I checked my boots - still snug. Check my bindings - still tightly attached. I stood up and my ski flopped like a fish. The binding pulled apart from the ski! My heartskipped a beat, my mouth dried up and my knees wobbled. I had delaminated my left ski. Crap. This sucks. A lot. Controlling my locomotion, I slid slowlydown to the lift and then back to the lodge. Finished. No more freeheelin' for me. It's only early February too. Sullen and depressed, I resigned myself from a sublime world of telemark skiing until I could afford a new pair of skis.

Black Diamond couldn't help. My local ski shop couldn't hook me up with a demo pair. Now I am a poor college student (Go UVM!!!) waiting to use an old pair of K2s. Oh how I wish I could replace those beautiful tele skis.Oh how I cry, oh how my tears welcome sleep every night and saturate my pillow, oh how the Vermont slopes appear in my dreams, beckoning, "Ben, come ski on us. We want to see your freeheelin' talent and dance to your intoxicating rhythms. We want to know you! We want to be your friend! When you're famous, we want you to thank us! We love you! We love you! You complete us!"

Now I wait. Waiting for my guardian angel to float into my life with a worthy replacement. I left my heart and my favorite skis on the tabletop at Seven Springs.

Boom-an epiphany. Tele skiing disappeared. The wailing, broken ski stands upright and stares into
my puffy, tearing eyes. Setting loose the child inside, I throw a temper tantrum. No longer am I free. No longer am I sane. No longer am I enjoying life. Gone. Fine. Terminus. Gone. And I wait.longing for the elated and
euphoric feeling to reappear and love me again. I am no longer saddened though. Understanding replaced the depression; an understanding that arrives only when something disappears. My skis live in a better place: a place of love, camaraderie, support and year-round snow. I am happy for them, and I am happy for me. Today I stand on my widow's tower searching the horizon and whispering into the wind. It was a glorious day that I lost my heart and my favorite skis on the tabletop at Seven Springs.

Entry #46

Boys in the Woods

Behind the frost-feathered windows of the cabin in the Chic-Choc Mountains of Northern Québec, we collect our packs and fill them with climbing skins, goggles, spare mittens, map, compass, extra sweater, water, and snacks. Between our individual backpacks, we distribute group gear: thermos of cocoa, bivouac sack, sleeping pad, spare binding parts, first aid kit, and avalanche shovels. We carry this equipment, and the knowledge to use it, in case one of us breaks a leg or suffers some other injury. After the fevered rush of packing, we buckle into boots and zip into outerwear. I make a final dash for the outhouse, unzipping my bibs as I stumble in half-open boots, to rid myself of the effects of the demonic coffee we drank too much of, again. From my seat, I hear the hut door open, and Mike yells at me to hurry up.

Reconvening inside the hut, we do a final sweep of the room, scouting for any leftover necessities, reviewing our mental checklists. Marcus asks if I’ve remembered the goatherd outfit. Steven says he’s got the inflatable doll. Mike says “Baaaaa,” exactly like a lamb. Chris turns purple laughing, and we all watch to see if anything interesting will spurt out of his nose. In this group, the barometer of a tremendous joke is Chris losing control of his breathing and whatever valve it is that separates nose from throat. This time he recovers. The hut finally appears livable: nylon, Gore-tex and polypropylene now clothe us, instead of hanging like flypapers from the clotheslines. Last night we could not walk between bunks without bobbing and weaving to avoid the suspended wet garments and gear. There is nothing worse than walking into a climbing skin on your way out to pee, and having the sticky side cling to your beard. Now Nordic day visitors, the most frequent users of this hut, can stop in and warm themselves inside after a long ski without ammonia-smelling long underwear dangling in their faces.

We sneak quickly out the hut door, looking back to see if the cornice overhanging the roof will finally yield to gravity and slam to the deck. It refuses, again, leaving the threat intact. Fresh snow drifts into yesterday’s tracks. Every day on this ten-day trip, we have played in new fallen snow. Steven hops up and down and flashes us his goofy, bearded grin. Big, clear eyes grow abnormally broad behind thick, round eyeglass lenses as his smile fills his face. Marcus straps his snowboard onto his pack and his snowshoes onto his feet. Chris gently retrieves his skis from the doorway and attaches his climbing skins to their bases. Mike and I put our skins on inside, hoping the warmth of the cabin would help the adhesion of the glue that binds them to the ski. We bend over, latch the bindings to our boots, stand up, and push hard with our poles to gain a little speed down the tiny hill the hut sits upon, hoping to show off with a quick hop turn or two. We glide, slowly, straight down the ten feet to the flat. The others laugh at our feeble effort. Stevie yells, “Nice freakin’ elevens, Sven!” We all respond to the name Sven. It is one of our terms of endearment. At the bottom of the hill, we queue up and plod away.

As the sun brightens the morning, we ski past the woodshed and across the narrow bridge, keeping the lake on our left. We slip along the side hill, gradually climbing toward an unfamiliar destination. We seek new terrain, aiming to find a safe slope that will not keep us terrified of avalanches. The Nordic folks we shared the last hut with had told us, “Il n’y a pas de backcountry là près du Lac aux Américains—There’s no backcountry skiing at the hut you’re headed to.” We hope to prove them wrong.

In the predawn darkness of the hut, over buttery fried bagels, rib-sticking oatmeal and explosive coffee, the five of us pored over the map and agreed upon the cirque to our east us as a plausible goal. In hopes of remembering all of the important factors of avalanche danger, we touched on slope angle, wind direction, snowfall rate, and the bowl’s orientation. Not one of us, however, presented a wholly concise analysis. Rather, together we cobbled enough of a sketch to consider ourselves justified in attempting the run. None of us carries or knows how to use avalanche beacons, so we measure our risks with that limitation in mind.

After a couple of hours spent sensing our way to the agreed upon bowl, we stop for water and snacks. Huddled into a protective grove of Christmas-scented spruce tree, we pull our hoods up over our heads to save some heat, and dig out the map. Between handfuls of peanuts and chocolate, we guess our location. Mike argues that the map suggests the best skiing will be on the closer shoulder of the bowl, and belches to emphasize his point. “Dude, nice one!” says Marcus. “Yeah, except for the smell,” comments Steven. We’ve been in the woods too long to attempt to uphold any social norms. Back on task, Chris says the terrain looks more amenable on the far side of the cirque. We shoot for the middle. Skirting along a stream’s bank, we search for a crossing point. We find it in the form of a fallen birch. Delicately balancing our skis along the trunk, we scurry over, using the branches for support. On the other side, we have another meeting, again about which is the best route. Steven strikes out uphill, the other guys straight ahead, and I in between. Next to a spruce tree, a well of snow gives way underneath me. My front ski tip points skyward and my rear ski points straight down. Stuck with neither ski below me, I wallow, sweating, and sink deeper. The guys laugh at me, just like they did five years ago on Mount Katahdin. Then, on my first backcountry trip, I thought I was in perfect telemark form, cruising on bended knee toward a snowmobile bridge, skidding across the snowmobile-wide stripe of snow in the middle of the bridge, onto the wood on the side of the bridge, off the wood, into the air, and down into the deep powder in the creek. I think a chunk of Power Bar came out of Chris’ nose. After they regained their composure, they belatedly asked if I was okay. This time, I wallow silently and sweat more, as they bend double in a cacophony of hoots and hollers. The snow is too deep to take off a ski—we sink to our waists without them. Eventually I manage to disentangle myself from the lower limbs of the tree and regain my balance atop the snow. We change tactics and form a single line until we reach the base of the cirque. Mike, Marcus and Steven take the center route, climbing the terrain we will descend. Chris and I work our way up the left shoulder, opting to leave the trail down untouched.

We rest at a ledge where we stash our food and drinks. Without wasting time, Mike hikes a few feet above us, pulls his goggles over his eyes, slips his gloves into the wrist loops of his poles, and pushes off. He bounces from turn to turn, rising and sinking as a rabbit hopping through the powder back to its den. He shouts with delight as he disappears below the ledge. Firm and stable, with nearly zero threat of avalanches, the snow has consolidated into a consistent base with pockets of fresh snow lying about as pleasant surprises. We push ourselves to reap as many graceful turns as this bowl can offer, seeking an elusive and effortless up-and-down synchronicity of movement and landscape. I lose track of time, and in the jitters of plummeting blood sugar, I stop alone for a snack while the guys take another run. Impelled by such benign snow conditions, I choke down my food and push off. With each run, I catch up a little more, until I am back in step with them on the uphill track. We spend the rest of the day skiing laps up and down this beautiful bowl. From the ledge, we watch each other traverse along the ridge to the opposite wall and descend as a speeding speck among the little firs to the base of the uphill track.

From the height of our ledge, we look north above the foothills and see flatness at four thousand feet. The Chic-Choc Mountains of the Gaspé Peninsula of Québec rise from sea level in the Saint Lawrence River and the Atlantic Ocean to a height of four thousand feet where, with unexpected abruptness, they level off. Along their tops lies sub arctic tundra, the only environment wherein white-tailed deer and caribou coexist. We ski up over the rim to investigate, and indeed, it is flat and barren. Frozen crust balls litter the surface. No snow stays up there—it blows away, down over the lip. No caribou in sight; no deer either, and none of the rare species of “goatibou” we dreamed up while drinking light beer and watching men in snowmobile suits dance without moving their arms to bad cover songs at Keddy’s bar in Presque Isle, where we crashed on a friend’s floor for the night during the long drive to the Chic-Chocs. That night we were shocked when the topic of many of our bad jokes appeared on Saturday Night Live in the form of David Spade as “Goat Boy.” Dissatisfied with the absence of local or imaginary fauna, we slip back to our basin. As the day winds down and the lowering temperature begins to refreeze the sun-drenched bowl, we collect our gear and leave our ledge behind. One last run from the center of the ridge, punctuated by the sounds of five bleating goat boys, leads us into the wooded creek drainage.

As dusk approaches, Marcus, Mike and I trade leads sliding down the snow-filled creek bed. We each race to be the first through the deep, light and fresh snow. At one slot, I charge ahead and thread the needle between two spruces at the top of a partially concealed drop. Mike and Marcus stop above the drop and peer past the tree branches at the bottoms of my skis, poles, and backpack. My body lays buried, ten feet past the slot and five feet below, where I pitched forward into the powder. Again, they laugh and refuse to assist. I struggle to my feet, giggling and wiping the snow from inside my goggles and nostrils. Chris and Steven catch up, offering big belly laughs that echo through the hills, and together we push on.

We continue down the basin, lured deeper and lower by beautiful snow, until with reluctance we decide to break out onto the side hill. In the darkness of the woods, we need our headlamps to navigate. I begin to chill, as the powder that accumulated and melted in my bibs and jacket throughout the day starts to exact its toll. My partners, content to snoop along, follow some kind of instinctual sense of the direction home. I keep pace behind them, wondering if we are getting lost, for we have not run across our morning tracks. At the back of the line, I stop and tell Chris, “I’m getting cold. I used my extra fleece in the bowl to warm up after wiping out before lunch, and it is soaked now, too.” As the other three guys continue without knowing we stopped, Chris offers me his dry hat, and as we start moving again, he tells me a story about hiking with his father when he was a teenager. The story distracts me, and takes time, and before it concludes, we catch up with Mike, Marcus and Steven. They stand in a small flat clearing, on the bridge near our hut, singing a made-up Irish pub song. Great clouds of steam, illuminated by our headlamp beams, rise from their shouted exhalations in the freezing air. They sing upward, to the mountains around us, to the stars in the sky, and I no longer feel cold.

Entry #45

My Best Day Ever

Bottomless pow, first tracks, blue bird day, these are all terms that most would use to describe their "best day" on the mountain. For me, none of these terms come to mind when I think back to mine. In fact, the elements of my best day have zero resemblance to those descriptions.

Said day began the night before. I was so anxious to get to the mountain; I remember staring at my shiny new Elan RCs that leaned against my bed room wall. I knew every inch of those bad boys; after all I had been admiring the pair since August when my parents bought them for me. To think that fluorescent colors would ever go out of style! It goes without saying that I hardly slept a wink that evening. It was like the night before Christmas.

Morning eventually came and My brother, Tony, and I arrived at the hill before the resort had opened. I would hardly call Powder Ridge, in Connecticut, a mountain. Nonetheless, it was our local ski area and sufficient for the task at hand. In my eyes, though, the hill seemed monstrous, intimidating. I was nine years old then. That trip was going to be my first experience skiing.

By the time we fought our way into our boots the resort thermometer had risen to a balmy 15 degrees Fahrenheit. The snow was more like ice with a fine dust billowing up in the cross-winds that scoured its white surface. These conditions were far from "epic." Tony, who had been skiing for a couple years, was more acclimated to the cold. I, on the other hand, was freezing. The conditions combined with the clunkiness of my ski boots made me nervous of the endeavor.

Around 8:30ish the lifts opened. We trudged our way up to the line where my brother helped me into my bindings. He had done this countless times in our bedroom in the days preceding the event. On the snow it felt twice as awkward to have the planks locked to my feet. At my brother's order, I clumsily skated my way into line. Its amazing how slippery new skis can be, especially if you have never been on a pair before.

Loading onto the chairlift was the easy part. Although not very graceful, I passed that test just fine. The dismount, however, was another story. As the double-chair squeaked its way up the side of the slope, I could see the off-loading area approach. Intimidating visions of the possible scenarios that could prevail upon off-loading ricochet through my mind. I tried to shake the images from my head as Tony reviewed the procedures for getting off of the chair. I knew, regardless of his advice, I was most likely to bite it upon exit. It turned out to be the one thing I was right about. Out of control I sped down the snow ramp and parked my body in the snow atop the bunny slope. My face burned with embarrassment. The numerous others who followed a similar off-loading technique reassured me that I was not alone. Tony was unfazed by the Keystone Cop act. It was obvious that this was just another rite of passage into the glamorous world of skiing.

Now that the chairlift fiasco was behind me I was ready to learn to ski. My body had finally warmed. The adrenaline had worked its way through my blood leaving a slight coating of sweat on the inside of my parka. I hopped up and down on my skis, eager to get going. "Bring it on," I commented to my brother, who stood there silent waiting for me to stop acting like a jackass.

"Are you ready to learn how to ski?" He asked once I had calmed down a bit.
"Absolutely!" I replied. My knees were shaking from all of the pent-up anticipation, anxiety, excitement and fear. "Absolutely!" I repeated.

"Okay then." He said and put his hand on my back. With a quick push, my body propelled forward. I stood up straight with a slight backward lean; a natural reaction that I hoped would slow me down. It didn't. My body flailed and my skis wavered until I finally managed to wipe out. My butt took the impact of the fall as I bounced and finally stopped, my side rested in the small mound of packed powder I had displaced. I rolled over into a sitting position to gain my bearings. As I sat up, snow dust on my face, parka, and pants, my brother skied down after me. I could see his smile peering out from beneath the collar of his jacket.

"Why did you do that?!" I yelled at him, holding my tears in check.
"Did you learn how to stop?" He asked, trying not to laugh.
"What the heck!" I started to lose the battle against my tears.
"Did you learn how to stop?!" He asked again, only this time there was no hint of laughter behind his query.
"Well....yeah, I guess." I muttered under my breath. I was looking at the snow on my pants, hiding the one tear that had managed to escape from my eye.

"Good!" He said. "Now I will teach you how to ski!"
With that, he bent down and helped me back to my feet, wiped the snow from my outerwear and patted me on the back, this time without the force to propel me forward.

Tony kept his word. For the rest of the day, he took his time teaching me to ski. He showed me how to snowplow and eventually I figured out how to hockey stop. Somewhere, as the day progressed, my snowplowing transitioned into something that resembled parallel turns. As my odd 'S' shaped etchings scarred the corduroy of the bunny slope, I could hear my brother cheering me on. And at the end of each run, he would greet me at the lift line to congratulate me on the things I had done right and offer advice on how to improve the things I had done wrong. His instruction was only outmatched by his patience. That is what impressed me the most. The whole day he spent by my side encouraging me. It made my experience that much more fun. He was even able to turn my falls into laughter.

Before we knew it 4:00 arrived. My father sat in his car patiently waiting for us to dismantle our equipment and board the vehicle. Sitting in the back seat my body was tired, bruised and sore, but my emotions were electric and my appetite for adventure satisfied. To think, I could only get better! I was hooked.

Here I am, nineteen years later with countless powder days, first tracks and bluebird days under my belt and no doubt countless more to look forward to. I have changed from alpine to alpine touring to telemark skiing. Regardless of all of those days spent on the mountain or all of those changes made, the memory of my best day of skiing draws me back to that day on a hill in Connecticut. Despite being banged up and beat, I was smiling. After all, I was learning to turn with my bro. It's not every day that you take the initiative to try something and have it result in a multitude of things to look forward to. For me, that was my best day of skiing.

Entry #44

"My Best Day Ever"

Y'know how sometimes you can look back at a point in the past and see a time when it all clicked? When you really got the hang of the clutch on your Dad's car, or first body-surfed a wave, or when you inhaled after your first eskimo roll. Well, this is the story of when I finally got the telemark turn.

An early morning drive from Lincoln, Mass. up to Lincoln, New Hampshire, then west on 118; "he said the parking is just past the height-of-land. Shit, it's already 9:20." My lovely telebabe, C., and I were late to meet Dave and his two buddies for a day trip up and down Mt. Moosilauke. We found the little turn-out and pulled in behind Dave's Corolla, the one with the "If you don't like logging, try using plastic toilet paper" bumper sticker. We apologized for being late and set right to getting our acts together. John and Scott said hi, but seemed a little anxious to get going, and eventually did head up the trail. As I put a shell into my MountainSmith butt pack, I glanced up to see them shuffle off, each with a full 2-day pack. We finally got skins on and skis on and headed off after them.

C and I had been tele skiing for about 2 years. C got to her level of comfort pretty quickly and is intent to ease on down an intermediate trail, and take on steep and bumpy stuff here and there. I had taken a few clinics, got the basics, then set out to learn on my own by watching others, asking questions in the lift lines, then pointing 'em downhill and seeing how many turns I could string together before the fall. I found TelemarkTips.com, watched video, adjusted my stance, etc., etc., and had made some progress; but I was still working on balance, weighting, and getting rid of the step turn to make quick foot changes and tight turns.

This was our first 'back-country' trip. We were excited to see how our lift-served skills would translate, but a little nervous that we were out of our league with Dave, John and Scott. Their big packs only made me feel like more of a novice winter outdoorsman, heading up a New England mountain without much in the way of emergency supplies. I'd taken all the AMC safety courses and wilderness first responder, so I know that a team should have a sleeping bag, ground pad, stove, etc., etc. But I definitely get complacent when heading out on a minor New Hampshire peak on a beautiful blue sky day.

So we skinned on. We caught up with John and Scott, started up an easy conversation, and found them not hurried or impatient at all. We spoke about work and other skiing adventures for a bit, and then fell quiet as the trail steepened, and we eased into the rhythm of huffing breaths, shuffling legs, and squeaking bindings. I was happy to be back in the spruce-fir forest, missed since I'd moved to the oak-pine woods of eastern Mass. Two ravens croaking in the distance and a small flock of boreal chickadees made the scene complete.

I pushed on up the trail, shedding layers, and falling behind the boys. I was feeling bad enough about being late, then packing a little light, and now being the slow, newbie skinner. Finally we caught the three of them at an overlook; they had pulled off their packs and John was rooting around in his - for a shovel, a clinometer, a screwdriver? No, he shouts, "Who's thirsty" and pulls out a six-pack of Bud Light! Scott says, "No way man, I'm not lightening your load," and pulls a six out of his pack. No hardcore safety gear in their packs at all, just a 12-pack of suds, each. I gratefully accept and think, damn, I like skiing with these guys!

Refreshed, we pushed on up through the thinning balsam firs, through the krummholz and up to the wide open summit. There we sat in the glorious sun, stripped off the skins, and between sips from another beer or two, loosened the legs on the low-angle upper slopes. I was finding it difficult to get all my weighting right in this untracked snow, but I got a few good turns in. With lunch eaten, and empties packed away, we set off across the ridge to the top of Carriage Road Trail.

The ridge starts out open and slightly rolling, narrows into a slightly pitched trail between stunted vegetation, then tilts down into a tight stand of firs, the several feet of snow putting the skiers eyes squarely in the overhanging branches - whack whack. The 5-foot wide trail doesn't allow for any turning at this point, so I decided the only way to ski was to point down the trail and step lively. Now, as I mentioned above, my m.o. for learning to tele was to ski hard until I fell (4, 5 turns?) then get up and try again. Well, here I was, expecting to augur into a tree or snow bank, but every time a tree got in my way, my legs popped, my feet switched, and my tips steered clear of danger. A few of the others came semi-snowplowing in behind me and said, "I can't believe you just bombed down that trail, it's like three feet wide..." I was pretty surprised myself, but I felt good.

The next section of trail opens up a bit, 15 - 20 feet wide. I was anxious to maintain the vibe, so I turned downhill again and - bam, bam, bam - started throwing turns! There was a tree branch - hop-switch-turn - a rock - hop-switch-turn - an ice patch - hop-switch-turn. I made a series of tight, consistent, controlled turns, and I was ecstatic. My tips were going exactly where I wanted them to go, I was committing to turns early, I was looking two, three turns ahead, I was seeing the contours of this narrow path and focusing on the line, not on the obstacles; the neurons in my brain were firing, and my legs were following! I was getting it! I was getting the pop from one turn to the next, the lightness. I was getting the rhythm. And it was sublime.

The rest of the trail is lower angle, and my groove continued all the way down; but that top section changed me. Call it what you will - seeing the light, finding the zone, experiencing flow, non-self - whatever it was, I was changed from one who wants to tele to one who teles.

We had another beer at the bottom, and it was good. It was my best day.

Entry #43

Truly a Mystical Experience

Man, what a day! It was Tuesday evening, and I had just finished one of the most amazing ski days of my life. And it wasn’t about to stop there. I was a college student in Boston at the time, and had just flown out to Denver with my roommate that Sunday for spring break. I had gotten myself pretty psyched up on the flight with some weather reports proclaiming exactly what my ears were dying hear. Snow was on the way for Dillon, CO. Little did I know exactly what snow could mean.

Snow was not new to me. I grew up on the east coast and have been skiing since I was in first grade. I unleashed the heel 4 years ago, with the bastard child, the teleboard, and the grandfather of them all, teleskiing, and of course never went back. But I digress.

Monday night we had slept in the car in the parking lot of A-basin, awoken to 18 inches of fresh and a continuing blizzard, and skied the whole day until close. And it was still snowing. We made the mistake of heading down into town from the mountain base that night, the road back up closed, so we couldn’t get back to sleep under the lift. But we were only 15 minutes from the parking lot so we thought we would be set. We woke up to more than a few inches of snow on the car, and continual dumpage, and busted it up towards A-Basin. Doest mine eyes deceive me? Is that a huge traffic jam trying to get up the road? Not a traffic jam, Loveland Pass was closed. We waited in line with a hundred or so other diehards for 4 hours until they could clear the road up to A-Basin. Most people gave up and pulled off at Keystone. But finally at 10:30, they had the road cleared and we headed up.

Why would we wait for 4 hours you ask? Wouldn’t Keystone have also had freshies? Oh, I’ll tell you why. Fifty-Four inches of snow in the last 36 hours is why. None of the resorts in the area even had half that.

Finally we got there. The “Palli” was the only lift open, the double chair gateway to double diamond heaven. My roommate didn’t ski the doubles so it was gona be just me today. Straight out of the car I sprinted for the lift, my heart was pounding, my whole body shaking. The lift was turning, there was already a line, and it looked like a few lucky ones were already sweetly gliding their way down. It was the longest lift ride of my life. I could hear the glee filled shrieks and shouts, every now and then I would see someone cross under the lift, their upper torso bobbing up and down, in and out of the snow. Going down for a turn they would almost completely disappear under the snow. I saw a guy with a snorkel. I was dying, I couldn’t wait. I wanted to jump off the lift. Then, finally, I was at the top. Huge fields of untouched snow lay before me. I dropped in off a small cornice, and my life was forever changed.

They say that once you pass 20 inches it becomes bottomless powder and it doesn’t matter anymore how deep it is. They are wrong. Nothing can describe the feeling of making a turn in snow so deep you submerge your self completely. You are no longer gliding over the snow. You are gliding in the snow, with the snow, experiencing the snow. Through that experience you come to find a perfect rhythm with this world that we live in, and so often fail to experience fully. Pure, untouched, effortless, and beautiful. Some say the world ceases to exist, but in actuality, you enter into a harmonious existence with the world so that you can no longer distinguish a difference between you and it. You enter into song and dance with time, and it holds you there enraptured seemingly forever. I skied 5 runs that morning. Every moment of every turn of each run lasted an eternity. I skied open bowls, I skied steeps, I skied trees, I skied off ledges, I skied everything my skis could find in those 5 runs. The best 5 runs of my life.

Such skiing is truly a mystical experience. The snow is everywhere; muffling and muting sound, sight, and touch. But at the same time intensifying your experience of them. It’s like looking at the world through an intense microscope. You can’t see, hear, or feel much at any given time. But what you do see, you really see. What you do hear, you really hear. What you do feel, you really feel. And you’re in constant motion, always gliding on to something new. You experience the entire mountain, not only through your senses, but necessarily also through time. Unable to see it all at once, you are forced to experience it slowly, and fully. And as the turns link to runs, you find you are really and truly experiencing the whole of the mountain.

After the fifth run the main lift opened up and I went to ski with my roommate. It didn’t even bother me that I had to leave the best skiing on the mountain. I had been in perfect melodic rhythm with the snow, the mountain, and even time itself. I had given the mountain the best I had to offer. And likewise, the mountain had given me the very best it had to offer, something far beyond any of my craziest dreams. I couldn’t stop smiling for a week.

Entry #42

MY BEST DAY

God promised no more huge floods but he never said anything about snowstorms. My most memorable ski day ever was at Mission Ridge ski area in central Washington. The day before was great, the day after it was great, but the day in the middle was only my single most memorable, wonderful, fantastic, TelemarkTips cover photo-type ski day in my life (by far). Keep on reading and you’ll hear all about it the snow, the skiing, the fun and everything.

First I will tell you about the snow since that is one basic part of a good ski day. The snow was so smooth, consistent and powdery that you felt like you were flying thru something so unimaginable that I don’t have a word for it. The snow was so dry that if you were to put it on the palm of a sweaty hand it would take at least 25 seconds to melt.

Oh yes, the skiing. The best part about a ski day is the skiing. The best run of the day was an unmarked run called Castle Glades. You get there by riding up chair 4 traverse to the run called Castle. Take the second trail to the left, up around Castle Rock and then down the 45-degree glades. We only learned about this run because a tele patroller told us about it after seeing me on tele skis. I’ll probably get in big trouble for telling people about it here.

There were lots of other great runs: bowls, glades, chutes, and bumps. During the morning, the snow was falling so fast that you couldn’t see your own tracks the next time down. We kept looking for something steeper and we'd just come up laughing if we fell.

You get a good view from the Mission Ridge ski area almost every day, but after the sun came out I had the single most beautiful view of my life. I’m only 11 years old, but the view was still special. If you looked up at the ridge from the midway lodge you saw the very snowy ridge with the huge Microwave Bowl to the left and on the right the awesome, cliffy Bomber Bowl. Looking back east you saw the Columbia River dividing Wenatchee and east Wenatchee with rows and rows of orchards behind the cities. Here’s a picture of me “in the white room” coming around Castle Rock with the Columbia River in the distance.

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