Snow Falling on Cedars

Position: 47°44’45.0″N 121°05’14.9″W

The high-pressure weather system that sat over the Pacific Northwest for almost all of January finally dissipated. The timing was almost perfect. Taking care of the animals and getting to and from the best dog walking spots was far easier with clear, dry roads. Sadly, we never got Currier and Ives images of the barn and fields blanketed in snow. Or languorous vistas of the valley covered in a serene kaftan of white. Large, lusty flakes didn’t drift outside the living-room windows and settle momentarily on the spotted towhees surfing the revolving bird feeder. Missing was the happy crunch-squeak sound of Styrofoam underfoot as we made our way to the barn over low drifts. No snow angels. No blizzard blocking up the doorways or running from an axe-wielding nutter shouting, “Here’s Johnny!”

Nope, just lots of sunshine and cold air. It didn’t matter. By the time we arrived in Lake Wenatchee, Washington, the snows of winter had returned and made everything right.

Keep Your Powder Dry

Over the weekend a couple of feet of snow fell on the Cascades. Stevens Pass is 30 minutes’ drive from where we’re staying and the ski area got a thick coat of ‘Cascade Concrete’. By Monday the temperature had dropped another ten degrees, and the concrete turned to what the locals call ‘powder’. It was time to ski!

I may be skating on thin ice here, but I’ll posit there is too much moisture in Cascadian snow for it to ever match the Rocky Mountain’s evanescent ‘champagne powder’. There it is cold and dry and deep. Plus, with consistently lower temperatures, the Rockies’ snowpack is a little more stable. Out here, once in a blue moon, conditions might come close, but never for long. Nevertheless, skiers have plenty of fun on the slopes here. Conditions are far, far superior to those dismal sheets of ice you find on the east coast.

Many years ago, I read a blog by some clown about skiing when you’re over 50. The author’s message was: Don’t! You will break something, or have a coronary, or both. Well, Bozo, your opinion piece wasn’t worth the bytes it was stored in. We had a blast! We even closed the lifts and walked, upright, back to the car. That our erstwhile crewmates Tom and Michael joined us made it all the more fun. Yet another agist internet myth put to rest.

Simple Things

When I was 20, if you had put a pickle to my head and demanded I choose only one winter sport, I would have told you without hesitation, “downhill skiing”. I really, really wanted to ski well. All year I worked overtime for a two-week winter’s holiday in the Italian Alps. I took lessons. I had a girlfriend who was an expert skier. After five or six years I finally got the hang of things. A decade and a half later I was taking my kids skiing across the ice sheets of Vermont.

But over the years my interest waned. I got good enough that I spent more time on the chairlift than on the snow. So, I turned to other activities. Then Carol and I met and her passion for skiing reignited my interest. With new, wider, more curvy skis, bashing through trees and carving turns became child’s play. But then we set sail for places where snow only appears on biscuit tins, and our skis went into storage.

If you ask me today what my favourite winter sport is, I’ll tell you while I still enjoy skiing, and I am married to an expert skier, I prefer snowshoeing. I like its simplicity. Its ability to take you off trail into places that aren’t accessible in warm weather. Snowshoeing doesn’t require lifts, or lift tickets, or special skills. Just a good jacket, waterproof boots, warm gloves, and a pair of gaiters.

Sears and No Bucks

Ten minutes up the road is a cross-country ski and snowshoeing trail that crosses the White River and heads into the woods. Throwing our gear into the back of Michael’s pickup truck, we made for the trailhead. A thick cushion of snow had fallen overnight and clung gingerly to the trees. Carol and Michael were cross-country skiing. I strapped on my trusty old Tubbs snowshoes and dutifully tromped after them. About two miles into our expedition the sun broke through the clouds. Clumps of warming snow broke loose from high up in the branches and drifted sleepily downwards. Everything remained quiet and still, but for the muffled burble of Sears Creek. Fresh deer and weasel tracks criss-crossed the trail, but we never saw a one.

Video

At the start of our walk, Carol had fallen heavily and bruised her butt on the back of her skis. Thin and lean, cross-country skis are as treacherous as Cassius was to Caesar. Like a fat bear, my snowshoes have big metal claws that dig into snow and ice. Bruised but undaunted, Carol bravely soldiered on.

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