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by Marcus
Schreiber’s Meadow Trailhead; 6/10/2006; 3:30 a.m.
God damn, it’s early. I’m not cut out for this. Inevitably, these
are my first thoughts of the day when I’m on one of these trips. It doesn’t
really matter how often I do it, or what the destination is – I’m
a second-rate underachiever before four o’clock in the morning. This time,
I’m hoping my ear picks up the sound of rain on the sheet metal roof of
my Chevrolet tent, but I’m disappointed.
“It’s time to get up!”
Ask my wife to get out of bed before 7:30 on any given workday and you’ll
be lucky not to get kicked in the stomach. Ask her three hours earlier when
there’s a chance she’ll get to ski that day and it’s like
you’re sleeping next to a 7 year-old on Christmas morning. I exaggerate
a bit, maybe – still, she’s already getting dressed while I’m
still waiting for the van to start flooding. It’s in my best interest
to get moving now, or she’ll start poking me in the eye to get me going.
Easing back the slider, I hear the muffled conversation from Big Top –
Nate, Kirsten and Becky are awake. As usual, Kirsten and Becky are laughing
in counterpoint. It makes me wonder if I’m the only second-rate in the
group, but it also makes it a little easier to pull on my shoes and get out
of the van. Nate hears the slider and gives a greeting. I’m the first
one outside, so I offer the weather report – overcast skies, no wind,
no rain, much like it was when we rolled in the night before and set up camp.
The forecast for the day was not the best, but when you’re pushing into
June and still skiing from the car, a 40% chance of showers doesn’t really
dissuade, especially in the Cascades.
I had packed my bag the night before, leaving only a few things to wait until
morning. Choking down breakfast is mandatory, no matter how much the body dislikes
food that early in the day. I’m sure Nate and Becky would agree, however,
that the body will eagerly accept espresso, milk and sugar from a can. Mine
accepts two, happily.
As everybody gets situated and finishes their morning rituals, my mood begins
to change. It usually takes longer than this, but it’s already quite light
and the temperature is pleasant, so I’m warming up to the idea of climbing
a big lump of rock for the next eight hours. I lash my skis to my backpack for
the short stretch of bare road before the trailhead, taking up the rear with
Nate as Anastasia, Becky and Kirsten chat about the coming day.
We stop briefly at the snow-covered trailhead and click into our skis for the
rest of the day. Anastasia is quite taken with a woodpecker, banging fruitlessly
on the metal chimney of the trailhead bathrooms. I’m not convinced we’ll
be able to pull her away, but skiing wins out in the end. Had it been a penguin,
she’d probably still be standing there.
As we climb into the wooded hills above Schreiber’s Meadow, my mind begins
the familiar slip into neutral, allowing passing thoughts and scenic views to
spin up the motor, but glossing over the slippery skinning and the occasional
complaint from my body. It’s this that allows me to do these trips over
and over, I think.
Around 7 a.m. we begin to see the forest thinning, though we seem to be climbing
into the cloud layer that’s kept us so warm. But after a brief spray of
rain we pop out, finally getting a view of the surrounding peaks, nestled in
the cloud deck like rock candy in spun sugar. The snow covered slopes of the
Metcalf Moraine rise above us, eventually giving way to the smooth, silky surface
of the Easton and Squak Glaciers.
The snow is firm, with a soft coating on top. Just enough to let the skins
bite and make the climbing easy. We spread out as we mount the glacier. Somewhere
below this flawless white blanket the crevasses are looking up at us, but for
now they’re choked with snow, making our passage easier. We take turns
playing the rabbit, breaking trail up the glacier and giving the rest of the
party someone to chase.
As the hours roll by the weather remains unpredictable. Periodic gusting winds
and fast-moving clouds keep the Roman Wall at the Easton’s head shrouded
in fog, while the cloud deck in the valley slowly rises. I stop every few minutes
to look around – a convenient excuse to take a quick breather. The rabbit
runs on, so I continue the chase like a good dog.
The snow begins to get thick and heavy – evidence of a low freezing level
and a foot or more of new snow earlier in the week. Here, today, it’s
43 degrees at 8,000 feet, so what once might have been powder has become loose
mashed potatoes. We climb on, but I’m beginning to wonder how much farther
we’ll go. The summit looks socked in and the wind hasn’t died down
– I don’t care much for white-out glacier skiing. It’s that
second-rate thing coming back to bite me in the ass.
Finally, the rabbit hits a wall. After another 40 minutes of progressively
more difficult trail-breaking, we ski up between the arms of a curving crevasse,
perhaps 25 feet across. Two sagging snow bridges span the walls. You couldn’t
pay me to ski across them without a rope, but nobody’s breaking out their
wallet, so I think I’m safe. We discuss our options.
If the weather looked more promising we’d rope up and find our way around
this crack easily. With a summit unlikely and only the skiing to look forward
to, we decide we’ve reached our high point, our personal finish hold.
The skins come off and we prepare for the first 1,000 feet of wet glop, hoping
we haven’t missed all the good corn snow below.
Once we’re through deep stuff, the turns are great. I’m hard-pressed
to complain about any skiing, really, and the company and atmosphere only add
to the long, fall-line run back to the top of the Metcalf Moraine, where we
take a lunch break in the sun. It’s 12:30. We still have 3,000 feet to
go, so we get to it after politics, health care and tax law discussions have
run their course. I talk most about these things when I’m in the mountains
with these people, perhaps because it’s easier to face the realities of
the world when you’re not staring it in the face from an office window.
Back at the car, the chairs come out and the skis dry in the sun, while we
cool our throats with the first round of beers. This is what I’ve been
thinking about since we started. No matter where we are or what we’re
doing, within the first 30 minutes of one of these long days, someone will say
“You know what I’m looking forward to? A beer and a sausage sandwich.”
It’s like the icing on the cake.
************************************************************************
The Easton Glacier stretches out on Mt. Baker’s southern flank, rolling
from the Roman Wall down past the crater and into the lowlands toward Baker
Lake. It’s a popular, easy glacier climb that makes for a brilliant ski
trip, especially in the spring when you can ski all the way back to the car.
Doing it all in a day is even better, since the packs become wonderfully light
check out the really neat Mt Baker video
