Fluffy Kitty
Ski Diva Extraordinaire
It is my last day of the season, and the forecast calls for rain. Then snow. Then both. Then rain. “The devout do not complain,” I remind myself, and pack the car with snow gear and rain gear and layers and NotWax.
It is raining. Even past the 5000 ft marker, it is raining hard, and the temperature is decidedly above freezing.
Then, a miracle! Scarcely half a mile before the resort, it is suddenly snowing! I hurriedly gear up and head to the lift. There is about an inch of fresh snow on the ground.
Perfect.
But the run down my favorite blue groomer is disappointing. The surface is uneven, and I cannot hold the edge. The heavy fresh snow hides the spots that are still icy and wrinkly and skiddy. The heavy fresh snow hides the spots that are slushy and grabby. I don’t know what’s coming. Every time I lose the edge, my stance widens, and I feel the thighs reminding me I’m doing it all wrong. It’s not hard, but it is going to be a tiring day.
I decide to head to the black trails. If I am going to struggle my way down, might as well be down a black trail. Maybe snow preservation is a thing there, on the top of the mountain.
The liftline looks awful. Deep tracks in the snow had frozen and thawed many times, and the fresh snow had filled in the tracks. It looks flat-ish, but it’s obviously a knee-twisting trap.
The next trail over is icy and bumpy, with just a little dusting of fresh snow on top. No way I can edge on that.
Same with the next one.
Finally, I land on a trail that looks more serviceable. It had been groomed recently, and the refrozen powder on top is relatively smooth. I pick my way down. It’s fine. The bottom half of the trail is actually quite lovely, smoothly groomed and dusted. Nice.
After another run down this nice trail, I realize how hard it is snowing. So hard, in fact, that I cannot see my own tracks from just the run before.
Powder.
Smooth powder. Wet and heavy Cascade Concrete, but it’s what we have.
It’s powder.
I need to hit the trail that starts higher up if I want to ski powder.
I head to the one before the nice trail. Yes, icy, wrinkled surface. Loud. Hard. Bad news. Don’t do it.
I do it.
The phrase “mixed surface” does not come close to describing the snow. Every foot or so, it switches from ice to fluff to ice to cream cheese to ice to smooth. The edges hold and let go at random. The skis are wobbling, and the tips threaten to cross. My heels refuse to stay in the pockets. My shins refuse to stay on the tongues. My upper body does not know where to be.
I decide to let the skis decide what to do. They wanna skid? I skid. They wanna edge? I edge. They want me to press on the heels? I press on the heels. They want me to press on the balls? I press on the balls. Lunge forward? Backseat? Whatever you say. Actually, I do manage to keep my weight forward. Hands are forward. Flailing about, but forward. I’m OK. Going much faster than I think I am—thank you, low visibility—but I’m doing OK.
I am annoyed to discover that the poles are dragging on the snow. I thought I’d fixed this. Then, I realize I am knuckle-draggingly low on the ground. I wonder if I’m bending at my hips or at my back. I never can tell.
Now is not the time to learn how to figure it out.
I let the poles do whatever they want. I let my torso stay forward however it sees fit.
And before I know it, I am in the middle third of the trail. Fantastic groomer with dusting. Then the bottom third, chopped up, pockmarked, and icy, but not too bad. Just a blue trail that’s been crudded up; I just came down the steeps, man, this is nothing!
The second time down the same trail, there is more fresh snow on the surface. I am excited; I know I can handle this, and it can only be better now. I am at once overly confident and cautious. Not a good mix. I hit a pile of what I thought were shaved-off soft snow covered with freshies. Nope. Those are frozen chicken heads covered with freshies. I maintain my balance, but need a break.
Then, it happens again! I manage to commit my weight into the turn, and stay upright. But, no, that was not good.
Yikes!
I mean, I get down OK, but I’m all shaken up.
I don’t know why I go down the trail for the third time. Obviously, I’m way in over my head. What, can’t I just leave it alone? Frozen chicken heads! Small ones, but frozen chicken heads!
Powder, though…
I manage to avoid the frozen chicken heads, and aim for what I think is cream cheese. Nope. Frozen solid. And as I lose the edge yet again, I finally remember: commit into the turn at the TOP of the turn, you dummy!
And there it is. The edge holds beautifully through a mix of ice and crud and freshie and whatnot, and I find myself in a sharp right turn, so sharp that it catches me off-guard. Mind you, that’s my weak turn.
From then on, every turn bites. Every edge holds.
And it’s not just technique. It’s the snow. The snow is still falling. Covering everything everywhere. The pelting of the sharp ice crystals against my cheeks feel refreshing, invigorating, like Pop Rocks sizzling against the soul. And, as the time goes by, the snow just improves and improves and improves…
Where is the rain?
The rain starts falling just as I start getting ready to leave.
Hah!
“How was your day?” my wife asks me.
“Turned out to be a powder day,” I claim. I beam.
Thus are the faithful rewarded.
[See you next season!]
It is raining. Even past the 5000 ft marker, it is raining hard, and the temperature is decidedly above freezing.
Then, a miracle! Scarcely half a mile before the resort, it is suddenly snowing! I hurriedly gear up and head to the lift. There is about an inch of fresh snow on the ground.
Perfect.
But the run down my favorite blue groomer is disappointing. The surface is uneven, and I cannot hold the edge. The heavy fresh snow hides the spots that are still icy and wrinkly and skiddy. The heavy fresh snow hides the spots that are slushy and grabby. I don’t know what’s coming. Every time I lose the edge, my stance widens, and I feel the thighs reminding me I’m doing it all wrong. It’s not hard, but it is going to be a tiring day.
I decide to head to the black trails. If I am going to struggle my way down, might as well be down a black trail. Maybe snow preservation is a thing there, on the top of the mountain.
The liftline looks awful. Deep tracks in the snow had frozen and thawed many times, and the fresh snow had filled in the tracks. It looks flat-ish, but it’s obviously a knee-twisting trap.
The next trail over is icy and bumpy, with just a little dusting of fresh snow on top. No way I can edge on that.
Same with the next one.
Finally, I land on a trail that looks more serviceable. It had been groomed recently, and the refrozen powder on top is relatively smooth. I pick my way down. It’s fine. The bottom half of the trail is actually quite lovely, smoothly groomed and dusted. Nice.
After another run down this nice trail, I realize how hard it is snowing. So hard, in fact, that I cannot see my own tracks from just the run before.
Powder.
Smooth powder. Wet and heavy Cascade Concrete, but it’s what we have.
It’s powder.
I need to hit the trail that starts higher up if I want to ski powder.
I head to the one before the nice trail. Yes, icy, wrinkled surface. Loud. Hard. Bad news. Don’t do it.
I do it.
The phrase “mixed surface” does not come close to describing the snow. Every foot or so, it switches from ice to fluff to ice to cream cheese to ice to smooth. The edges hold and let go at random. The skis are wobbling, and the tips threaten to cross. My heels refuse to stay in the pockets. My shins refuse to stay on the tongues. My upper body does not know where to be.
I decide to let the skis decide what to do. They wanna skid? I skid. They wanna edge? I edge. They want me to press on the heels? I press on the heels. They want me to press on the balls? I press on the balls. Lunge forward? Backseat? Whatever you say. Actually, I do manage to keep my weight forward. Hands are forward. Flailing about, but forward. I’m OK. Going much faster than I think I am—thank you, low visibility—but I’m doing OK.
I am annoyed to discover that the poles are dragging on the snow. I thought I’d fixed this. Then, I realize I am knuckle-draggingly low on the ground. I wonder if I’m bending at my hips or at my back. I never can tell.
Now is not the time to learn how to figure it out.
I let the poles do whatever they want. I let my torso stay forward however it sees fit.
And before I know it, I am in the middle third of the trail. Fantastic groomer with dusting. Then the bottom third, chopped up, pockmarked, and icy, but not too bad. Just a blue trail that’s been crudded up; I just came down the steeps, man, this is nothing!
The second time down the same trail, there is more fresh snow on the surface. I am excited; I know I can handle this, and it can only be better now. I am at once overly confident and cautious. Not a good mix. I hit a pile of what I thought were shaved-off soft snow covered with freshies. Nope. Those are frozen chicken heads covered with freshies. I maintain my balance, but need a break.
Then, it happens again! I manage to commit my weight into the turn, and stay upright. But, no, that was not good.
Yikes!
I mean, I get down OK, but I’m all shaken up.
I don’t know why I go down the trail for the third time. Obviously, I’m way in over my head. What, can’t I just leave it alone? Frozen chicken heads! Small ones, but frozen chicken heads!
Powder, though…
I manage to avoid the frozen chicken heads, and aim for what I think is cream cheese. Nope. Frozen solid. And as I lose the edge yet again, I finally remember: commit into the turn at the TOP of the turn, you dummy!
And there it is. The edge holds beautifully through a mix of ice and crud and freshie and whatnot, and I find myself in a sharp right turn, so sharp that it catches me off-guard. Mind you, that’s my weak turn.
From then on, every turn bites. Every edge holds.
And it’s not just technique. It’s the snow. The snow is still falling. Covering everything everywhere. The pelting of the sharp ice crystals against my cheeks feel refreshing, invigorating, like Pop Rocks sizzling against the soul. And, as the time goes by, the snow just improves and improves and improves…
Where is the rain?
The rain starts falling just as I start getting ready to leave.
Hah!
“How was your day?” my wife asks me.
“Turned out to be a powder day,” I claim. I beam.
Thus are the faithful rewarded.
[See you next season!]
