[from last week]
The storm built slowly. My years
in New England taught me that the big ones always do. First, as always, there
were the tiny flecks, the ones you don't notice right away. There was still a
clearing then - from the ridge to Shirley Lake, we could see Tahoe, and it
looked like sunshine might even break through for a couple of minutes. Then it
was gone in a ragged overcast, and the flecks fell heavier, clumping now into
large soft globes that blew apart like tiny snowballs when they hit our coats
and faces.
By the time we turned downhill for
another run on Gold Coast, the wind had picked up. The snow was no longer soft,
and the storm blew it up the mountain against our bodies in a horizontal
barrage. It held me in place, when I stood tall and spread my arms, and even
under the Goretex and wool, I could the impact of each tiny frozen projectile.
We retreated across the ridge, back into lee, and found a wonderland.
Tucked just below the crest of the
wind-battered ridge, the wind was soft, and at our backs. Looking up, behind
us, snow rose like a vast waterfall, but in reverse. The gale that swept it up
across the windward side of the mountain lifted it into an indistinct sky on
the lee and, having nowhere else to go, draped it over us like a soft heavy
blanket. This was, indisputably, the sweet spot on the mountain.
It felt a little improper to be
here, skiing on a Friday while everyone else was at work. But that was the
whole point of taking time off. And besides, I'd justified it to Devon as
research: we'd discovered the Bay Area Ski Bus online, and
someone had to check it out. It sounded like a great deal: you get
up insanely early (~4:00 in my case) and drive to an abandoned parking lot
somewhere. Climb aboard the darkened bus, find an empty seat, put on your eye
mask and ear plugs, and drift back to sleep. Wake up somewhere else, a few
hours later, climb out and ski. Make it back to the bus by 4:30, and either
sleep or watch whatever movies they've got going on the overhead screens. Be
thankful that you're not the one driving through the frozen, slush,
chainslogged mess of traffic. Watch another movie. Make it back home by, oh,
10:00 and crawl back into bed, happy and exhausted.
Or, at least, that was the theory.
But there was no way we were going to subject the kids to it until one of us
had made sure that the whole thing actually worked. And it did, mostly.
Rather than catch the bus at its closest
and most godawful 4:00 a.m. pickup, I'd triangulated to the last pickup in
Oakland at 5:30, netting 45 minutes more sleep in exchange for a longer drive.
I hadn't factored in that, as the last pickup, the only vacant seats I'd find
on the bus would be next to those sleepers who others found too daunting to sit
with. I chose the seat next to the aggressive looking young tough who
communicated mostly by grunts. But to be fair - if I woke Miss Manners at 5:30
a.m. in a crowded darkened bus, I wouldn't bet my life on getting a civil
response.
I put on my own eyemask and
earplugs and woke a pleasant four hours later as Christina and Jim, the bus
"stewards", handed out cold bagels, yoghurt and OJ. Thirty minutes
later I was riding the gondola up at to High Camp at Squaw.
Overall, it was a win. I spent the
morning skiing with Zivi, a Canadian woman whose husband had moved them to
Silicon Valley for a startup job. She was still waiting for her work visa, so
while he revolutionized the something having to do with
gamified-social-4G-immersive-webfoo, she was exploring what the state had to
offer. The storm didn't come until later, so our skis spent the first hours chattering
down the broad hard-pack avenues between High Camp and the base. We stopped for
an early lunch, and by noon, the first flakes were falling.
Zivi retired early in the
afternoon; it was the first day of the season for both of us, the rapidly
accumulating powder can take a lot out of you if you're not accustomed to it.
Then I fought the wind and flying birdshot snow back to Shirley Lake for one or
two more runs.
Or three. Or four. On the fifth
run, I caught up with ski patrol, fencing the bowl off - the wind on the ridge
had them worried, and they were shutting down the Shirley Lake lift. I looked
over my shoulder at the 50 or so yards I'd have to trudge back to rejoin Gold
Coast on the front of the mountain, and he read my thoughts.
His voice was cheerfully
conspiratorial: "Oh, go on - take one more run. Just cut back higher on
the ridge when you get up next time."
The snow was spectacular. I'd
skied Atkinson's twice already in the past half hour, and each time it was
deep, trackless powder. The gale on the windward side was carrying new snow
over to us faster than we could ski it away. Descending the knee-deep
freshly-dropped powder was a smooth, rhythmic dance: crouch, pump, lift, sway,
back and forth in long easy turns. I rarely touched anything solid beneath my
skis, and the sensation was closer to flying than any terrestrial exercise.
Deprived of my leeward patch of
heaven, I spent the final hours of the day exploring the other side of the
mountain: Red Dog, Julia's, and the imposing plummets from KT-22. But by now,
the wind had let up, and the snow it left made everything feel easy. West Face,
and Nose would have been intimidating on another day, but with this powder
beneath my feet, they were gracious invitations. I kept stopping when the thin
air and my unaccustomed legs demanded, and was always astounded at the smooth,
regular slaloms I had left in what looked - even from below - like intimidating
plummets.
Finally, finally, finally - yes, I
had to do one more run after that - I convinced myself to call it a day.
Christina had given us stern warnings about the bus leaving a 4:30, with or
without us, and I cringed at the thought of called Devon to tell her that I,
uh, was going to be home a little later than I thought, or maybe the next morning
if I couldn't find a ride.
Back at the bus, Christina and Jim
had set out an après-ski spread cookies, hot cocoa and cider to re-invigorate
us for the trip back. The snow was still falling heavily (note to self: Oreos
topped with a quarter inch of fresh snow are a novel and surprisingly tasty
sensation), and there was a sense of urgency about getting on the road and over
Donner before weather closed the pass for the night.
As we crawled, tire-chains
thwacking our way up to the pass, Jim took a poll on movies for the return
trip. A show of hands leaned heavily toward Bourne Legacy and Bruce Almighty,
with a couple others in reserve for those heading further south. In the seat-shuffle,
I'd ended up sharing mine with Jim and Christina's (mild-mannered) cooler
chest, and managed to spread out for the return trip. Watched the slow march of
uncountable cars ahead of us through the snow splattered windshield and soaked
in gratitude that I wasn't the one driving.
Made it back to the Oakland
drop-off only a half hour late, in spite of the storm, and at 10:45 slipped in
the house and bed as dark, quiet and warm as it had been when I'd left it 18
hours ago.
[BTW - just now arrived up at Incline Village, this time with the whole family in tow, having traversed Donner again, this time with me at the wheel for a 6.5 hour drive through the rain and snow. Snow's barely stopped falling since last week - it's looking like a great season in the works!]
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Posted By Blogger to
Roadtrip at 12/26/2012 04:38:00 PM