Comedy of (Backcountry Skiing) Errors

By Little Sis, 2-12-08

Because I only have a student weekday pass at the ‘Bowl, and I’m a little poor right now, the mountain is off-limits to me on weekends. Not that this is a bad thing—a weekday pass is a screamin’ deal: getting first chair is a possibility, the bartender acknowledges you in under 15 minutes, and the Meadows rarely get tracked out on a Tuesday.  However, when the “epic” powder days hit on a Saturday, yours truly is left pining away for the slopes.

But not last Saturday! I underwent my first backcountry ski experience. For those of you who don’t think this is a big deal, please refer to last year’s column, “Shredding in Missoula,” in which I extolled my skills in weaving fearlessly between one or two trees before shooting very un-fearlessly back onto the groomed run.  But back then I had some short butterfly Salomons—now I’m riding a pair of Rossignol B2s, or “big girl” skis as I like to call them.  I no longer feel like the fat kid in gym class who can’t keep up. 

But back to more recent events.  You’ll remember that my sweetie, Mountain Man, is a badass telemarker. He’s the kind of skier whose ski buddies appear in videos like the Sublimation Event, and he only missed out because he was skiing the Sawtooths instead. 

This is a bit of a hang-up for me. One, I hate it when people watch me learn things (yes, this is immature, but I’m not good with embarrassment). Two, I hate it when my honey gets to watch me being an idiot and I’m not accorded the same opportunity. 

Anyway, I rented a pair of AT skis from the Trailhead, and we make our way up near Lolo. I’m pretty proud of myself for figuring out the bindings, but he has to put the skins on for me. That’s okay though—I realize that someone needs to teach me if I’m ever going to learn anything (this is early in the day, remember).

It was actually a great first experience, and skinning up the mountain was the toughest workout I’ve had in a while. It was snowing but pretty warm, so my hair was soaked and I was sweating through all my smelly layers of Capilene. That’s one reason why the backcountry is nice: I can look and smell terrible and there’s no one watching from the lift. And the biggest plus was that my sweetie complimented me a few times on how well I was doing. I’m a sucker for flattery.

Until we get to our second peak of the day. I have to take off these skis because I’m not too adept yet at adjusting them with my pole, and end up flailing around in thigh-deep snow trying to put them back on. He, of course, is ready and waiting, but sweet enough to help me out with minimal teasing.

Unknown to me, we’re about to hit some very steep and variable terrain. Do I have a beacon? Nope. Avalanche training? Dug a pit once. Shovel?  Yep! Luckily, that was a birthday present from this same forward-thinking sweetie. But I’m skeptical of how much good the shovel is going to do me without a beacon to locate my buried sweetie. Yes, Saturday was full of wise choices.

So we drop into the Pillows. I do pretty well on the unfamiliar skis, until I try to come to a stop in front of Mountain Man and one ski heads up a layer of hard snow and the other ski dives about five feet into powder. There I am, dripping hair and smelly Capilene doing the splits and at a loss as to how to get myself out of this uncomfortable and unflattering situation.

Again with minimal teasing (he’s so considerate), Mountain Man digs my ski out for me while advising me to watch for possible slide of the clifftop snowbank onto my splits-doing self and his helpful head.  Safely out from under the ski-diving cliff, I am again flailing in the snow (this time much more frustrated) trying to put the damn ski back on.  Backcountry skiing is looking less and less fun to me at this junction in our adventure.

Mountain Man graciously offers first tracks to me (jump back in the saddle, right?), and I determinedly take him up on it.  Only to go flying off the first cliff—sorry, “pillow”—and wipe out. Again. So I swallow my pride and ask him to go first so I can follow his line, and he gracefully makes them look like pillows rather than submerged death traps. 

And then, on the flat road on the way out, I inexplicably trip over myself and am on the ground. Again. Unused to having a free heel, I’m left flailing around for the third time as my sweetie looks on. This starts to wear on the self-esteem, you know? 

Okay, I know I’m being a little ridiculous. And, as we skied out and took our final turns, I had to admit I was hooked even after the ski-diving fiasco. And, the only way to get better is to try again right?  My snow flailing has to decrease as my experience increases, right?  This is a mathematical fact, right?

Thanks for your reassurance.

The point is that I’m in the market for some alpine trekkers . . . maybe some self-esteem too.  Who’s selling?