We got a foot and a half of snow in the valley but I’m sure there’s two feet of it up here on the ridge leading to the summit. A few sections of the fire road exposed to the brutal west wind are inundated by huge drifts. The drifts are substantial, up to four feet high, but feature delicate fluting and thin overhanging edges on their leeward sides. Sensuous shapes; impromptu sculpture.
Marybeth and I are an hour into our little outing, that of cross country skiing up to the McAfee summit from the trailhead at Rt. 311. It’s the first clear day after the storm, and man is it ever. The brilliant blue sky as a backdrop to the snow and the trees and the rocks is amazing. The strong wind of the previous day has blown itself out and it’s not too cold.
But the going is not easy; if you’re picturing us blissfully gliding along on our skis, carefree and light-hearted you would be only half right. Light-hearted yes, but we are not gliding. Instead we’re awkwardly clomping along, plowing through the heavy snow, slowing to a kind of crawl at the biggest drifts. We haven’t seen another soul yet, but there are boot prints that we follow, if they haven’t been obliterated by the drifting powder. Yes, there have been kindred spirits before us.
This morning after what seemed like three days of shoveling snow we threw the old skis in the truck and headed to Mill Mountain, but before reaching our destination we changed it. “It’s such a perfect day! Let’s ski up McAfee’s instead; we don’t often get this chance,” Marybeth enthused, God love her.
Finding the Rt. 311 trail head parking lot manageable –barely; we had to rearrange some snow with the truck to secure a spot– we were soon sliding and plowing up the trail. I quickly ran through my mental checklist: food, water, knife, extra clothes, phone, fire starter kit, and a few other odds and ends thrown in our rucksacks. Check. Then I hunkered down, moving steadily, trying to keep up with my wife.
It does feel good to be out here in the cold fresh air, moving through God’s beautiful country. Slowly moving through it, that is. The trek to the summit is about 4 miles, and it ascends a total of about 1200 feet. Up, up we go. I’m looking forward to what I assume will be a nice glide down on our return trip. The tracks will be set — that’s what we’re doing now, creating nice tracks as we go– and the skis will slide effortlessly, with the bonus of gravity assist.
It’s especially steep up this last mile. Almost there now and joking that we’re just too tired to continue. Now the trees are thinning, the sky’s more expansive. We break out of the woods onto the cliffs of the very summit, elevation 3190 ft. Wow, it’s eye-popping.
The heavy snowfall, coating the mountains and valleys as far as we can see, creates a stunningly different scene from the normal awesome McAfee’s view. Every nuance in the shape of the mountains, in the buttress-like ridges gracefully extending from them in subtle curves, is sharply delineated. Every rock outcropping, every tree for that matter, is in crisp contrast. We mutter oohs and ahhhs, at a loss for more insightful commentary.
Picnic lunch is spread, such as it is, before us. We’re stooping on the summit rock, clear of snow thanks to the usual breeze. We’ve found a protected spot in the sunshine behind a modest stone ledge, and the salami and cheese sandwiches and oranges are just right. However, as much as we love this scene, a chill is setting in and it’s time to get out of here and down the mountain.
The first part of the return trip is the steepest, and at one point I almost make real and lasting contact with a few snow-encrusted trees but stop short in a bank of what appears to be powdered sugar. Marybeth glides past me, laughing.
Further down the trail now, there’s something amiss. You’ll remember about how I was looking forward to gliding down the trail toward the car and home? Well, it’s not working out that way. The snow has become an odd consistency, due I guess to the combination of the fluffy powder and some surface softening in the sun, and it tenaciously clings in huge chunks to the bottom of our skis. It puts on the brakes for all forward progress, even downhill.
We try to laugh at the irritating turn of events as we stop, remove our skis, carefully chip and scrape off the concrete-like stuff, then continue on, to repeat the process shortly down the trail. Thankfully the weird snow conditions don’t persist and we get to glide along nicely after all. Sweet!
We’re almost back to the truck and we’re giddy with fatigue by now and our falls into the snow drifts are ever more frequent. I’m becoming a genuine snowman. There is snow down my pants and up my shirt. Marybeth is laughing harder than usual at me, and that’s saying something.
Before I know it a day has passed. I’m at my work, far removed from that high snowy ridge west of town. I’m thinking about it though. I had taken a picture of Marybeth on the summit cliff, and I love the photo, but I don’t think I’ll need it to remember our experience. It’s pretty much etched in my mind.
Besides, there’s still some snow in my pants.
Johnny Robinson
