Yesterday at Jay was nice. Today at Mad River was better. Three days ago, Mad River announced that it would not open this weekend. But the forecast turned in favor of General Stark Mountain and opening day was set. A foot of dense fresh setup perfectly on the limited but existing base. All trails were open on occasionally thin but ample coverage. Bottomless it was not but cheers and shouts of joy rang out across the mountain, nonetheless.
Somewhere north of the Notch, my car’s temperature display dipped into the double digits. The negative double digits. I started questioning whether the drive to Jay would be worth while. The snow that fell earlier in the week would surely be tracked out, right? Jay’s recent snowfall combined with quite expansive terrain offerings would bring out the crowds, right?
Wrong. On both counts.
How could it possibly be better than this past Sunday? Even Jay was supposed to get rain before the minimal backside snowfall. Thanksgiving morning, I went to Jay with low expectations. Half a foot of dust on crust was still more fun than not going at all. The Thanksgiving Dinner plan was a quiet meal at home, a late dinner for two. So why not see what Jay had to offer?
My fitness level was suspect during the uphill, I required frequent stops and had shortness of breath. The wind was blowing like crazy, the snow was falling horizontally, and the base area temperature was only ten degrees. It should not have been a hard fought skin to the top of the Jet, but it was. While changing over, I noticed that my feet were extremely cold, especially my left foot which was losing sensation.
I returned to the trail that did me so well on Sunday. And I dropped into something beyond words. It was deep. It was really deep. Deeper than Sunday. Deeper than anything I’ve skied in at least two years. Knee deep minimum with even deeper drifts. Thigh deep. Balls deep. Explosions of snow. Gobble. Gobble.
My feet can feel the silky powder through my boots and skis. My toes can feel it. I’ve got happy feet. The powder is so soft and smooth. I surf through it, I dance through it.
I snake a hard turn to the left and bank back to the right where the trail’s pitch tips downward. The dance transitions into a trampoline descent down deep, bottomless pillows. Clouds of white confetti burst up and over my head. Was it a face shot? Is this a white room? Where am I?
I want to stop and remove the mental fog of disbelief and bewilderment. I want to be mindfully aware, to fully absorb the sensations. But I can’t stop. I won’t stop. An irresistible force keeps pulling me down into the white deep. I think I felt snow at my knee caps but I can’t be sure, nothing seems real any more.
How is this even possible? Jay only reported 6-8″. Blasting through another knee deep pillowy drift, I wonder where the bottom is? But I realize that is just another useless thought, clutter in my brain that doesn’t matter. I banish that thought and all the others, losing myself, descending into an abyss of white. I’m ten again, on a playground and swinging, swinging, releasing at the apex and then I’m flying. What a feeling.
I knew it had to end eventually. Since Smuggs is my home mountain for the 2013-2014 season, I knew that I’d finally get to see the mountain in its entirety, warts and all. Which isn’t to say that my expectations were high for opening day featuring 1.5 routes off Sterling. But my expectations were decidedly higher than “some of the worst frozen man made that I have ever skied”.