The Powder Days Started Here. The Powder Days Finish Here. This is Cannon. This is my home.

Just when you thought it was safe to put away the powder skis and take off the snow tires, old man winter says he ain’t finished quite yet. An impressive storm system dropped copious amounts of snow from Northern Vermont clear across the White Mountains pushing the Avalanche Advisory for Tuckerman Ravine to a rare Extreme rating.

Two feet seems to be the average for terrain above two thousand feet in favored aspects. Cannon got two feet and them some with drifts of three to four feet in places. Cannon historically delivers early season and late season. So it comes as no surprise that my first and last powder days book end the season at Cannon.

With early morning meetings at work and a physical therapy session for my knee (LOL) just after noon, my turn earning was delayed until later in the day. Driving north on I-93, I saw nothing but bare ground and rain which might have tested a less knowledgeable die hard’s resolve. But I know Cannon. And I know what these types of storms do in the Notch.

However, rain persisted past the Lincoln and North Lincoln exits. Even as I started up towards the Notch, I was barely seeing a change over to snow and minimal snow patches along the road. The change over happened just past the Flume Visitor Center, but barely. Soon though, I knew for sure it was on as I crested Lafayette Place and everything went white. Including my knuckles as I realized my snow tires have long since been removed! I couldn’t help but let loose a scream of glee and excitement as I suddenly realized conditions would be even better than the six to twelve inches that I had expected.

I found myself on the Banshee skin track ascending into a winter wonderland. Moderate snow fall, low winds, and an established skin track made skinning the front face a breeze. Skiers and riders descending Avalanche were dazed but not confused. Reports indicated the thick and dense heavy snow would require the steepest pitches to create enough speed for turning.

As I crested Paulie’s Folly, I got sucker punched with a mean guest of wind from the north. Drifts were pilling up high and the skin track disappeared into an oblivion of white. I floundered in the deep with my skinny touring skis, holding strong to resolve and sense of adventure as I broke trail against the wind. Then suddenly, I found the Highway and sped up Middle Cannon in high spirits despite the seemingly needless exertion.

Upon reaching the Peabody Quad, the skin track once again disappeared into the wind blown deep. I spied a track ascending Upper Cannon and pressed on only to discover that the track was that of a snow boarder who had straight lined the descent instead of a hard packed skin track. By that time, I had l already ascended some ways and decided that I should press on instead of cutting my loses, which would have been by far the easier course of action despite the lost vertical involved with back tracking.

Skinning Upper Cannon ranks amongst my most masochistic efforts on skis or other wise. The drifts became deeper and the track occasionally disappeared into a savage trail breaking struggle. I gritted my teeth and slid my skis forward. But sometimes the track let up and my skis slid sideways. Or worse, straight down one foot deep into the seemingly bottomless snow.

Finally, I spied the Cannonball Quad and pressed onto the summit where I found the full savagery of the storm still spiraling out of control. I was drenched in sweet skinning into a forty mile per hour biting wind. A gust picked me up mid-stride and pushed me sideways in a slow motion deposit into the depths of white. Pressing my poles into the ground to push up was futile, though I still wildly flailed in a failed attempt of curses. Clicking out was the only option.

At the Tram Station, I found a vestibule and changed into warmer and dry outerwear and prepared to get the heck off the summit. The raging storm had reduced visibility to a snowball’s throw and my goggles were fogged up. Combined with undulating terrain, drifted snow, and inconsistent surface conditions, the descent would not be ideal but significantly more fun than the skin up to the summit.

Profile had a fair amount of tracks but was far from even halfway played out. The tracks were to my advantage as I skied in and out of the tracks for depth control. I stayed skier’s left near the trees which enhanced visibility. Turns were of a struggling hack variety of which I am not proud but were fun none the less. Spookie provided access to Extension without having to reapply skins. Extension began to see a transition down to a much more dense snow where tracks continued to play to my advantage on the skinny sticks.

Finally, I dropped into Paulie’s. Waterbars and all, Paulie’s has always been my favorite Front Five trail. My skiing technique involved full on back seat driving as I literally laid flat back onto my tails and pulled the front half of my skis clear of the snow from my toes to my tips. It was a giant skiing wheelie all the way down Paulie’s Folly. I left my signature in the form of a sideways sitzmark just shy of a VW sized water bar. The agony of defeat has never been more blissfully laughable.

Sometimes the quality of the skiing itself does not matter. But rather the size of the smile and the feeling of adventure makes the day. What matters is the novelty. The novelty of a late April powder day long after the lifts have closed. The Peak Experience. Skipping out on work early to steal a quickie in the place where I have decided to call home. Doing the outrageous while the world turns yet another ho-hum revolution for most people. Watching the hour hand wind down while I wish it would grind to a halt that the moment might never end.

Nothing like this could be done in another lifetime. Sitting in my studio apartment in Beverly, MA seven years ago making diagrams on the wall. Diagrams of life real versus life imagined. What mattered most and what mattered only somewhat. It was there that the choices were made. The beginnings of a wild dream to where the grass is greener in the summer but whiter in the winter. Days like this put the sacrifices in perspective. I dream a dream I once had all over again. Except this time, I never wake up.

Snow Way, indeed.