That must be why I lean toward the WILD side; girlfriends.
Around here there are no excuses. Just send out an email message to spend Sunday afternoon back country skiing--not really knowing where you will go, how long you'll be out, or even what the conditions will be--and I'll be darned if some crazy women don't show up.
Six of us (including Ron) set off Sunday at 2:30 on a very icy snowmobile trail. As Gail describes, "The dead end of Dead River's North Basin Drive."
Snow, if you could get an edge, was crusty, but Amy wasn't taking any chances. She gooped up her bases with klister as thick as Karo Syrup.
Anyone who has ever skied behind this Baraga County Swede knows nothing can hold Amy back. . .until she globs on the Elmer's Glue. Her giggles got us all going. . .of course just when we were supposed to be serious. After all, we're only minutes into this hairbrained adventure and there went Marie's ski heading right for the black muck hole!
After the initial climb, poor Amy had collected every pine needle and spruce cone in the county. She could walk straight down the fall line, which for the first hill wasn't such a bad maneuver, but she knew over the next 5 miles it would make for a long afternoon.
But what to do?
Easy.
Your best. . .and with whatever means possible.
Amy looked like some backwoods tap dancer standing on a log sawing her ski back and forth to rub off the klister. It worked, well sort of. Finally Ron took a knife to her bases and got more of the gunk off.
Thank goodness he thought ahead and packed matches, a knife and an energy bar. We all had water and the temperature was moderate, somewhere in the high twenties. Down low in the trees we didn't feel the wind but it was littering the trail with plenty of kindling. One of those April days when the weather can turn in a heartbeat.
The scraping helped, but unfortunately her skis, like Margaret and Marie's were too skinny for this type of snow, trail and terrain. They needed the wider fish scale versions like our Fischer S-Bounds or Gail's Karhu 10th Mountains. Ron tried to swap skis with Amy but the boots and bindings weren't a match.
His skis were the best, or was it his Mountain Goat balance? Whatever his skills, he could march right up almost anything, and I don't think in the whole trek he even took one tumble.
Still, like Winter War Soldiers in Finland, those women weren't about to call it quits and head back to the cozy wood stove at camp. "Not on your life," Amy said without words, just her "git 'er done" smile. Marie, a serious tri-athlete was supposed to use Sunday as her rest day, but not this chick. She's as tough as a $2 steak.
We pressed on.
Rewards to an adventurer come in strange ways. The next couple hundred yards were tough going. Trees in this corrugated terrain grow where ever the rock lets them, usually that means clumped close together and controlling long skis over icy snowmobile tracks takes a balance you don't hone on a groomed ski trail. But eventually you get comfortable enough that you can ease up on your nerves, let your shock absorbers do what their instincts tell them, and lift your eyes off the obstacles to take note of the landscape. Sailing up and over a bump, Margaret and I spied animal prints rambling right down the middle of the track.
"Check this out," I said to Margaret. "Gail," I called back to next in the line, "do you know your animal tracks?" Although I've done my share of winter camping, Gail is the queen. She does a week solo in the coldest, snowiest time of the year. Her spirit matches Marie on the toughness scale.
Considering how icy it was, we knew the animal had to be big to leave an imprint that deep. Whenever Margaret, Amy or Marie took off their skis, they hardly left boot prints on the iced surface. These prints were clearly etched. Ron examined them and concluded what the landowner Dave Ollila, had shared with us the day before. "There are some big cougar prints back there," said Dave O. adding with his trademark grin, "We're calling it Cougar Canyon." Ron and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. "And I saw big wolf prints as well," he told us as we thanked him for the tips and took off on a scouting mission. To us, it's exciting to be roaming a landscape that such majestic mammals call home.
Now, staring straight at the evidence, we were even more eager to follow the tracks. Of course we had 5 hours of daylight left and with five women you can't go ANYWHERE quietly. Making a racket is good; the chances of sneaking up on something so sly is rare. Still, looking on the ridgeline I was wondering who is watching?
We followed the tracks for quite a way, crossing ice bridges over waterfalls, along slopes of tall maples, and through canopies of cedars. At one point we thought we'd follow a different canyon back but it would have been bushwhacking without even the slightest hint of a trail and you don't take too many risks that close to sunset. Instead, we doubled back and took our trail home with only a minor detour through the maples. Happy to be horses heading back to the barn.
Margaret charged ahead. That lean mean aerobic machine was getting a bit chilly and she could smell Granny's "Hotter than Billy be Damned" chili waiting back at camp.
Our friend Jo was there too, another wilderness sister. She had to work and missed the ski but was eager to hear about our adventure. What a gal pal.
For over 3 hours we left our marks in the snow and coming up the last climb the gang was all smiles. Renewed by "Finding our way."
Back at camp we were as hungry as black bears. We cradled mugs of chili and pulled our chairs close to the stove to swap stories as we watched the sun leave it's last glow across the Basin.
I hate to see the snow go, but if Sunday was my last back country ski in Marquette County for the winter, I'm grateful to share it with Ron and such fabulous snow sisters.
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