Saturday

          Well I got my wish.  It snowed during the night.  Not much, maybe two inches.  Just enough to make it slick, but not enough to cover the downfall from the forest canopy or the ruts in the old snow.  Just the same, it is time to get my cheap plastic toboggan, downgraded from fancy akia (sled).

          The densely packed trees allow little room for my poor turning skills.  This could be dangerous.  It strikes me that a football uniform might be a more appropriate attire than the wool knickers that I am wearing for my upcoming downhill dash.  Weaving clumsily downward I found the sled with little problem where it had come to rest; and  strapping it on the empty backpack, I decided to try a new route just below the ridge top.  This worked well.  The trees were larger and the terrain was more open and skiing became difficult only when I had to drop down to avoid rocky pinnacles fingering the sky.  On steep slopes the light layer of new snow made it difficult to hold an edge and reminded me to be careful.

          Making it back safely with most of the afternoon left, I decide to attempt to locate a small lake that we had failed to find earlier in the trip.

          The bright yellow circle of the sun back dropped the scattering silver edged clouds still releasing their crystalline innards.  I weaved tentatively through the thick barked giants, slicing down the steep north side of the ridge.  Sharp edged shafts of sunlight burst through ice laden lichens, dangling heavily from gnarled limbs, exploding their brilliance into a confusion of prismatic colors. 

           Skiing onto the narrow bench, I quickly crossed it to where it ended, in cloudy oblivion to the valley below.  Black as night Ravens rode the icy currents, contrasting sharply with the whiteness of the day, wings moving in tinseled strokes keeping time to a steely beat in the hard air.  Following this stair-step of nature I soon located my snow covered lake.

          Open and beautiful, protected from wind, with good exposure to the warming sun, I found my next camp site.

           Returning to the tent, following a swath through the trees that marked the summer trail, which I failed to notice on the way down, I made good time.

          Inattention is a dangerous pastime anywhere, but especially out here, alone.  After having missed the switchback near the top of the ridge, I found myself on a precipitous slope which ended where the cliff dropped abruptly hundreds of feet directly below.  Realizing that a slip would be disaster, fear immobilized me and my heart hammered my chest.  Forcing myself to move, I carefully flipped up the heal elevators and putting trust in the skins gave weight to each step as I slowly worked up the slippery slope.

           Little things can drive you crazy.  For instance, my face towel.  I cannot locate it.  The argument that I hold forth is:  if it has not been used outside the tent, then it must be in the tent.  Every nook and cranny has been searched.  And then searched again, in disbelief.  It isn't as if I were living in a twenty room mansion.  Losing the towel is quite a blow.  For, it represents a bit of luxury in a spartan environment.  It actually upsets me more then losing the lens.  Truly a great mystery. 

          It has been snowing hard.