On the Wind
With a hiss of sun-struck snow blasting my windshield, I crest the pass. Crunching, bottoming out, I miss the wide view of the Absaroka Mountains, fishtail through drifts lined like ribs, battering truck ruts too wide for my car. I’m almost there. A mountain of black coke dust lies dormant, smooth as any wind-crested snowdrift. The road clears, widens, and I slip to a stop, watching snow trickle across the road ahead.
I remember when I met the owner of these mountain pastures. It was a cool, late-summer afternoon. I was the hippie girl who lived in the shack up the road and who kept an eye on the summer cow-calve pairs. I was wandering alone, trespassing, on his land. He rolled down the window of his idling diesel one-ton, rested his elbow there, and looked straight at me. “Kinky,” he said. It was a full minute before I realized it was his name. That was years ago. I don’t live in the shack any more, but this is where I come when I need to.
I crawl from my little car into a wind-ripped silence of snow and sun. I don two sweaters, hat, and scarf—the usual. Last of all, the old cross-country skis, with their indelible memories of companionship; makes me want to say “we” when I ski on them. I haven’t waxed them in ten years. Scars from gravel, barbed wire, sagebrush give me grip.
My legs remember how to climb through a fence with skis on, but I’m not so limber now. My gaiter catches, and I balance on that bad leg, recently repaired knee. It holds. I head toward a straight slash in the contoured hill: the old Turkey Tracks railroad bed. Once lined with coal-mining towns, now overgrown and hidden, though the towns re-emerge with ghostly, suburban faces.
I slip over the rise onto the track and am out of the wind. I could ski in shirtsleeves here. My skis point down a brief slant, and I am struck with the annual amazement. I know how to do this! At the bottom a creek has gouged away the old track, and I turn up into a hidden valley, wind behind me. Within a quarter mile I am in the wilds. Skiing is hard. The deep snow has neither blown thinner nor iced over to carry my weight, and I am not in shape for this any more. Every step breaks through then lifts the heaviness. I work through a swath of animal tracks among the willows. Too deep to tell what made them, satisfied it’s a group. It’s the solitary animals—moose, bear, cougar—that worry me. I keep skiing, up.
I pass a grey homestead tumbling toward the creek, its outhouse door flung wide, a single massive ponderosa pine above it. I crawl through another fence, breathing hard. Then a sound behind me. I turn, automatically expecting my old white dog snoofing under the snow. The image of his long-dead face, his laughing, ice-crusted jowls is sharp, but I am alone. Not even a dog along. I should have told someone where I was going. Still, I can’t shake the sense of "we." The hills themselves seem smiling, comfortable. But mostly, it’s the familiar voices in my mind: imaginary conversations with homesteaders, miners, other trespassers. Thoughts and non-thoughts pass through like the wind.
I ski onto a small mound, and the snow gives way, dumping me into a willow bush. By the time I struggle out, I feel tired. Time to head back. The downhill slog into the wind is not inviting. The homestead looks forlorn from above. I tie my scarf over my face, adjust it to cover my right ear. Four dark, thick-coated deer watch from across the draw as I start down, cutting a new trail, a shortcut back.
Then I cross an old snowmobile track, and turn onto it. Easy skiing, a stable base of wind-swept ice buffered with arched minidrifts. I throw my steps forward until the steep pitch takes me. Even with the wind howling in my face, I am flying, faster than I like on uncertain knees. A maverick gust from behind carries me like a sail, faster still. Far away, up ahead, Chimney Rock shimmers, whipped with a sunburst of ice. Just as I think, “I love this,” I skip off the icy trail and pitch into deep snow, face first. Skis, poles, arms, legs flounder in the heavy powder. Then I burst out, laughing. Cold, wet, exhausted, but whole.
Attiva Aura Skis—VOLKL
For groomer-lovers, skiing powder can be somewhat unpredictable—but at the same time, that’s what makes it so much fun! When the storms roll in and dump huge amounts of snow in a short time period, the women's Volkl Attiva Aura skis will help you be prepared. The Aura is a true women's big-mountain ski, with a 94 waist, a full 20/20 wood core, and two sheets of titanium. The skis are big and wide with slight shaping. If you’ve skied powder without powder skis, these will do wonders for your technique—great in powder and yet still easy to handle on the groomed snow. This ski comes in four different lengths to fit your ability, height, and weight. Be sure to fit these skis well, though. $700; volkl.com.
-Liz Mickelson
I remember when I met the owner of these mountain pastures. It was a cool, late-summer afternoon. I was the hippie girl who lived in the shack up the road and who kept an eye on the summer cow-calve pairs. I was wandering alone, trespassing, on his land. He rolled down the window of his idling diesel one-ton, rested his elbow there, and looked straight at me. “Kinky,” he said. It was a full minute before I realized it was his name. That was years ago. I don’t live in the shack any more, but this is where I come when I need to.
I crawl from my little car into a wind-ripped silence of snow and sun. I don two sweaters, hat, and scarf—the usual. Last of all, the old cross-country skis, with their indelible memories of companionship; makes me want to say “we” when I ski on them. I haven’t waxed them in ten years. Scars from gravel, barbed wire, sagebrush give me grip.
My legs remember how to climb through a fence with skis on, but I’m not so limber now. My gaiter catches, and I balance on that bad leg, recently repaired knee. It holds. I head toward a straight slash in the contoured hill: the old Turkey Tracks railroad bed. Once lined with coal-mining towns, now overgrown and hidden, though the towns re-emerge with ghostly, suburban faces.
I slip over the rise onto the track and am out of the wind. I could ski in shirtsleeves here. My skis point down a brief slant, and I am struck with the annual amazement. I know how to do this! At the bottom a creek has gouged away the old track, and I turn up into a hidden valley, wind behind me. Within a quarter mile I am in the wilds. Skiing is hard. The deep snow has neither blown thinner nor iced over to carry my weight, and I am not in shape for this any more. Every step breaks through then lifts the heaviness. I work through a swath of animal tracks among the willows. Too deep to tell what made them, satisfied it’s a group. It’s the solitary animals—moose, bear, cougar—that worry me. I keep skiing, up.
I pass a grey homestead tumbling toward the creek, its outhouse door flung wide, a single massive ponderosa pine above it. I crawl through another fence, breathing hard. Then a sound behind me. I turn, automatically expecting my old white dog snoofing under the snow. The image of his long-dead face, his laughing, ice-crusted jowls is sharp, but I am alone. Not even a dog along. I should have told someone where I was going. Still, I can’t shake the sense of "we." The hills themselves seem smiling, comfortable. But mostly, it’s the familiar voices in my mind: imaginary conversations with homesteaders, miners, other trespassers. Thoughts and non-thoughts pass through like the wind.
I ski onto a small mound, and the snow gives way, dumping me into a willow bush. By the time I struggle out, I feel tired. Time to head back. The downhill slog into the wind is not inviting. The homestead looks forlorn from above. I tie my scarf over my face, adjust it to cover my right ear. Four dark, thick-coated deer watch from across the draw as I start down, cutting a new trail, a shortcut back.
Then I cross an old snowmobile track, and turn onto it. Easy skiing, a stable base of wind-swept ice buffered with arched minidrifts. I throw my steps forward until the steep pitch takes me. Even with the wind howling in my face, I am flying, faster than I like on uncertain knees. A maverick gust from behind carries me like a sail, faster still. Far away, up ahead, Chimney Rock shimmers, whipped with a sunburst of ice. Just as I think, “I love this,” I skip off the icy trail and pitch into deep snow, face first. Skis, poles, arms, legs flounder in the heavy powder. Then I burst out, laughing. Cold, wet, exhausted, but whole.
Attiva Aura Skis—VOLKL
For groomer-lovers, skiing powder can be somewhat unpredictable—but at the same time, that’s what makes it so much fun! When the storms roll in and dump huge amounts of snow in a short time period, the women's Volkl Attiva Aura skis will help you be prepared. The Aura is a true women's big-mountain ski, with a 94 waist, a full 20/20 wood core, and two sheets of titanium. The skis are big and wide with slight shaping. If you’ve skied powder without powder skis, these will do wonders for your technique—great in powder and yet still easy to handle on the groomed snow. This ski comes in four different lengths to fit your ability, height, and weight. Be sure to fit these skis well, though. $700; volkl.com.
-Liz Mickelson
