If you're like me, when the flakes start to fly you get a certain feeling in the pit of your gut. When I hear of a big snowstorm, or watch as those first flakes begin to fall, I get giddy. Down right, ashamedly hyperactive. My speech quickens, my pace hurries, and I can't stop smiling. As each flake begins to amplify, accumulate, and pile up, my excitement grows in as fast and as furious as the snowfall itself.
I am waiting for the snow to build to such an extent that allows for excursions into the back country. Now, if you're from out West or Vermont, then I envy you: because you know exactly what I'm talking about, and you're spoiled :)
This year in New England we have been blessed (or cursed depending on who you talk to) with 2 storms that dumped 33 inches and then 18 inches respectively of the sweet stuff. And I took it upon myself to go and enjoy this powder the best way I know how.
Most people will dress in layers, grab a group of friends, pile into a car and drive many hours to a ski resort where they will spend a small fortune and a lot of time waiting in lines and on chair lifts to get to the groomed corduroy. That used to be my scene, and once in awhile I'll still do that, as there's always a place for that.
However, lately, and perhaps not by coincidence, I have found myself longing for simpler methodology and perhaps harsher conditions. And an experience that is more satisfying (although admittedly riskier). But where there is great risk, there is greater reward.
When I first started to telemark, my goal had always been to leave the ski resort behind. I longed for virgin snow, where no man, ski, or groomer had spoiled that smooth, creamy blanket.
I wanted to get away from the heated spa-lodges with all the crowds, pub fare, and booze and return to an experience more spiritual and perhaps even, religious.
The back country is where I find this. No chair lifts anywhere, the simplest of runs must be earned by hikes that take several hours to complete. No crowds. Sometimes you'll stumble upon a few kindred spirits, and sometimes not. Natural scenes that are drinkable, to the soul at least. After many labored steps, there is the pause, the rituals of gearing up for the run down, and the exhilaration of carving down that trail as you could be the first and only person to do so.
What better way to carpe diem then by earnin' the turnin'?
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