First snow

Only an hour by the clock from door to door to the gateway of what, at heart, is wilderness by default. Snow is falling wanly as early hardy souls bare their buns to the first day of a new snow bunny year at the local skiing establishment, looking rather tepidly slushy in the early season. We two, Paul and I armed with our gear for snowshoes (but me forgetting my water, hiking shoes and most of the other ten essentials) perform the ritual dressing before the swine. Anticipating our first snow adventure we walk slowly toward the trailhead of the Pacific Crest, announcing the gateway to Stevens Pass and beyond. We joke about a pickup at Stevens Pass (a good 50 miles away) as we loop on our snowshoes and head up the deep rut of the uncleared driveway. Arriving, Paul notes the warning that high areas can be colder and we head out, galumphing through a beginning distinguished by animal tracks, mostly snowshoe hare with their two big and two little hoppers regularly spaced. Part way up there was a trace of a large cat, probably a cougar and I realized gee, we really are the first ones up for the day and maybe several days and that animals often move through human tracks because the way is generally easier. We discover this when, higher up in Commonwealth Basin we come to fresh snow about 2 feet thick and have to blaze trail, raising each snowshoe high before plopping it down to make the step. I try fording a stream through the side and go in over 3 feet and get my snowshoe stuck, but it comes out without major surgery. The way gets more and more lovely as the iron river gives way to a clear silence and occasional sun breaks over the low mist and lucid snow. The boulders all have snowcaps, and tree falls and overhangs make refuges for bunchberry, fern and moss. The lichens stand out on the trees wet and nubbly, grabbing the bulk of tree runoff and puffing out in moist pride. Lichens blotch the rock verticals – patterned light greens, iron oranges, off-blacks; a chiaroscuro of textures and shapes. The way narrows to a two foot deep tunnel and poles are useless because the sides are too high. I strip to sweatshirt and remove my wool pompom hat and lighter gloves. The snowfall lessens and I am warm in my heavy work to raise my potential energy higher and yet higher. The trail sweeps in few switchbacks and emerges from forest gledes to open textured snow and large silver firs completely blanketed and bonneted in white, standing en masse below yet strangely distinguished by the while outlines. Snags take on the look of etchings and trees with hanging snow-covered lichens look like they have Christmas icicle decorations. I am compelled by the beauty of the varied shapes and sizes and their taking on a bearing character for the snow, bending gracefully under its weight. My camera keeps popping in and out of my pocket and I remark that any direction shot will give a good picture. The snow seems to absorb energy and invigorates our step. We stop for occasional swigs of frigid water from our bottles, going down smooth and we are not bothered at all by the cold, being toasty inside.

As we struggle tamping we are passed by a young energetic soul, blasting along and looking the picture of rugged outdoorsman. I make a comment about he being our savior as he swishes past and immediately begins fighting the snow. As I stop to chat with Paul about our good fortune and start up again I notice how much less effort the way is and how it takes little effort to keep up with our young leader. The way is dotted with photo-ops and I am not shy about taking them. Water gushes from a stream and splays across the trail sequestering maidenhair ferns in their last throes and we move along a rocky streambed which, like the animals whose tracks we see, has chosen our trail as the path of least resistance. The way has leveled as we enter the woods again, the snow reduced to a manageable foot or so. Another couple passes us and we celebrate again because each additional track will make our way easier. There is a balance between solitude and celebration in numbers and for me the tipping point is often small, though I notice my tolerance may be higher than Paul’s as he seems to revel in the solitude. We are off the trail now and quite unsure of the way. Fortunately we really have no place we need to get and we choose a protected spot streamside and stand up eating and Paul cooks the inevitable pea soup which warms the hands and insides going down. We are back fully layered again and, just before the cold creeping into my hands becomes uncomfortable we are off again. We decide to follow our tracks even though they make a meander look straight. We follow a deer track and I end up going the wrong way, following one of our past co-hiker’s trails, who did not follow ours, but this is soon righted. I seem to move faster than Paul though I do have difficulty leaving such lovely, beckoning places. I turn around to cheer up Paul, one of many Paul checks on the way; to chat, to share, to smile, to acknowledge our love of this place and so many outdoor others. Paul has a quizzical look on his face. Why, he asks, does he sink in to the snow while I don’t. I am telling him he is heavier when I notice he has only one snowshoe on. He has been walking for a bit and going in with each step. So we had a good laugh about this, particularly in the way it happened. Things like this usually happen to me and so it’s good to see I am not alone.

The way out is always long and something of a slog. There are still stops of gratitude and obligatory pee stops and long swigs of the fine chill purity of the hills, going down better than any Rhine wine. And then, around the bend is the trail head and bathroom and a gaggle of kids playing in the snow. We felt the impending closeness of journey’s end with the increase in upswishing boots as we passed a baker’s dozen, remarking on the lateness and chances of their going out in the dark (but not to them). At the final bit we take a side ‘trail’ and are back in high stepping, but we are so hardened and seasoned, it is just kid’s stuff. There is a final descent onto the road, a sideways descent over ploughed snow and we float back to the car and home.