My introduction to backcountry skiing began with a telephone call.
Far too early on a January morning the phone rang. Only half awake, I answered it to hear my climbing partner Bob asking if I wanted to go skiing. He had an extra set of equipment and all I needed to do was show up. Even through the fog of sleep I recognized an offer I couldn’t refuse, and that single outing made an instant convert of me. What we had originally planned as a winter mountaineering trip to New Hampshire quickly evolved into a backcountry skiing trip.
By the time we finally left for New Hampshire, it was March, and winter already seemed to be retreating. After months of planning, we finally loaded the car and headed east. The drive was long and uneventful, although I noticed I wasn’t feeling quite right. I experienced several hot flashes during the day but dismissed them immediately. Admitting I might be getting sick seemed like inviting disaster and I had no intention of doing that.
We arrived in North Conway after dark and found ourselves debating whether to set up a tent or sleep in the car. The snow was wet, the campsite was icy, and neither option seemed particularly appealing. We eventually chose the car. After dinner Bob decided to clean up by stripping down and rubbing handfuls of snow all over himself. Not being a masochist, I decided to stink.
We greeted the morning with high expectations and eagerly strapped on our skis. Fog drifted through the woods and rising temperatures transformed much of the snow into slush. But none of that mattered. I was skiing in the White Mountains.
The learning curve proved steep. At one point I attempted what I believed to be a telemark turn. The result bore little resemblance to any recognized skiing technique. I spent a great deal of time falling down, but every mile only increased my enthusiasm.
The following day we headed into the Pemigewasset Wilderness. The trail climbed gradually through beautiful forest and we spent hours skiing deeper into the backcountry beneath brilliant skies. The grade was so gentle that neither of us noticed we were steadily gaining elevation until we turned around and gravity suddenly began doing most of the work on the return trip. At one point I blasted down a hill attempting to look far more skilled than I actually was. Several women ahead on the trail were treated to the spectacle of my graceful descent evolving into a desperate struggle to remain upright. Somehow I avoided a major crash and retained at least a small portion of my dignity.
Back at the visitor center we shared hot cider with a ranger and discovered that we had turned around only a short distance before reaching our intended destination. While Bob discussed trails and wilderness regulations, I found myself pulling my chair closer and closer to the wood stove. I was beginning to feel unusually tired, but attributed it to the morning’s skiing and gave the matter little thought.
Later that afternoon two skiers approached us and asked if we happened to have any “kleister.” Neither of us had any idea what they were talking about and, for a moment, I wasn’t entirely sure they were speaking English. For the remainder of the trip every problem, no matter how unrelated, was met with the suggestion that perhaps a little kleister would solve it.
With rain moving in and ski conditions deteriorating, we relocated to Pinkham Notch. A night at Joe Dodge Lodge provided the luxury of hot showers, real beds, and the opportunity to study maps. Since the weather forecast looked poor for skiing, we decided to climb Mt. Adams, a peak neither of us had attempted before.
I felt terrible when I awoke. I had slept poorly, had almost no appetite, and was now relying heavily on over-the-counter remedies to remain functional. Nevertheless, the mountain was there and turning around never seriously entered my mind.
We started up the Airline Trail beneath gray skies and steadily climbed toward King Ravine. The scenery was magnificent. Both of us agreed that while Tuckerman Ravine receives most of the attention, King Ravine possesses a scale and grandeur all its own.
As we gained elevation conditions deteriorated. Rain became sleet. Sleet became snow. Ice accumulated on our glasses and visibility steadily decreased. The mountain was becoming exactly what we had come to New Hampshire to experience. Clouds raced across the ridges, weather moved in and out by the minute, and the entire landscape took on a wild alpine character.
Eventually we reached the exposed upper ridge. Clouds raced overhead and visibility had dropped to less than a quarter mile. Although we were within roughly one hundred vertical feet of the summit, we had reached our turnaround time and reluctantly headed back down.
The descent proved more difficult than the climb. The earlier rain had frozen onto the rocks and much of the ridge was coated in ice. By the time we reached treeline I was exhausted in a way that felt completely out of proportion to the effort involved. I remember stopping to look out across King Ravine and being overwhelmed by a sadness that seemed to come from nowhere. For several moments I simply stood there staring across the landscape, fighting back tears and wondering what in the world was wrong with me. At the time I blamed the mountain. Fortunately I was still alert enough to recognize that lying down for a nap on a snowy mountainside was probably not one of my better ideas.
We continued downward. Along the way we followed the progress of another unfortunate hiker whose repeated encounters with the heavily iced trail had left a series of spectacular skid marks across the snow. When we finally caught up with him we discovered enormous tears in both his wool pants and Gore-Tex shell. He seemed extraordinarily relieved to still be standing. We all had a good laugh before continuing on our respective ways.
Morning dawned bright and clear. Despite feeling worse than ever, I wasn’t about to spend the day sitting indoors. Bob wanted to try skiing the Avalanche Brook Trail and, although I badly wanted to go with him, I decided to wait and see how I felt later in the day.
As Bob skied off, I noticed what appeared to be the tips of a pair of skis protruding from the snow near the trailhead. Apparently someone had skied in, stepped out of their skis, and forgotten about them. The skis were well used, but I carried them to the Pinkham Notch visitor center and left them with a staff member.
The rest of the day passed quietly as we explored a few trails, visited several ski shops, and generally continued behaving as though nothing was wrong.
A major snowstorm arrived overnight, burying the mountains beneath several feet of fresh snow. By morning the woods had been transformed. Every branch carried a thick coating of snow and the entire landscape looked as though it belonged on a Christmas card. It was exactly the sort of winter scenery we had hoped to find all week.
Unfortunately, the warming temperatures produced some of the worst skiing conditions imaginable. Wet snow accumulated beneath our skis until gliding became nearly impossible. At one point the snow abruptly grabbed a ski and launched me face-first into a drift. Later it happened again. While trying to clear ice from a binding I managed to bend a thumbnail backward in a manner I would not recommend to anyone.
Shortly afterward the snow grabbed a ski for the third time and my patience finally expired. In a brief but heartfelt display of frustration I ripped off the offending ski and hurled it down the trail. The ski immediately disappeared into deep snow. After standing there for a moment feeling rather foolish, I trudged down the trail and retrieved it.
By the time we returned to Pinkham Notch, wet snow had accumulated so heavily beneath the skis that even walking had become difficult.
We eventually admitted defeat and spent the remainder of the afternoon skiing lift-served terrain. Even there the snow seemed determined to resist cooperation. The slopes were so slow in places that we occasionally found ourselves attempting to kick-and-glide while wearing alpine equipment. At one point I followed a group of young skiers down a trail I had never attempted before. They disappeared over the edge of what looked to me like a vertical cliff. When I cautiously peered over the lip I could see them far below making effortless turns while I questioned every decision that had brought me to that moment.
Having already sacrificed my dignity earlier in the week, I decided I had little left to lose and pushed off. The descent was not elegant, yet somehow I arrived at the bottom without serious injury and considered that sufficient cause for celebration. After rejoining Bob we spent several more hours skiing until the lifts closed.
By then I was wet, cold, exhausted, and feeling worse than ever. The combination of skiing all day, climbing mountains, and attempting to medicate myself into functionality was beginning to catch up with me. We returned to Pinkham Notch and spent the evening relaxing at the lodge while snow continued to fall outside.
Eventually we ran out of time. We returned the rental equipment, organized our gear, and prepared for the long drive home.
As we left New Hampshire, fresh snow covered the mountains and the morning sun illuminated the peaks in shades of gold and pink. Both of us regretted leaving. The week had not unfolded according to plan, but then few worthwhile trips ever do.
I managed to drive through New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, and part of New York before the medication finally wore off. The rest of the drive was pure misery.
After dropping Bob off at his house I continued home. Not even bothering to unload the car, I paused long enough to take my temperature — 103.6°F — before heading straight for bed. To be honest, the number wasn’t much of a surprise. The hot flashes, the weakness, the exhaustion, the emotional swings, and the complete lack of appetite had been with me all week.
I spent the next two days in bed.
Late Sunday evening I finally dragged my gear out of the car and piled it in the living room. As I looked over the heap of skis, boots, packs, and damp clothing, I found myself thinking less about the things that had gone wrong than about the trails we hadn’t skied and the places we hadn’t visited.
The snow conditions had been poor. The weather had rarely cooperated. For most of the trip I had been skiing and mountaineering with a fever.
I couldn’t wait to go back.