Feature Articles
Silverton Mountain: In A Class By Itself
Sucking wind.
That’s what first pops into my mind when I recall my trip to Silverton Mountain.
Note to self: No matter how fit you are, flatlanders should build in at least one or two days of acclimating before trying to hike to terrain above 12,000 feet. Scheduling prevented us from doing that this time, but never again, I vowed to myself.
Wow! Check out those views!
That’s my second thought. Once I could find it in me to look up instead of at my plodding ski boots, vast wilderness greeted me. Tucked up into the mountains far away from civilization, the only evidence of people was Silverton’s one chairlift and camp-like base area, plus cars lined up in the dirt parking lot, and you don’t see them for long. Everywhere I looked, I saw steep chutes and bowls sliced by jagged cliffs. Some of it looked unforgiving, some offered lines that begged to be skied.
Photographer's Notebook:
Lose Yourself in the Mystique
of White Sands National Monument
White Sands, New Mexico. If you’ve heard of it, you’re either a history buff or a landscape photographer. White Sands was the test site for the infamous Manhattan Project and also is one of the most beautiful albeit otherworldly places in North America.
Nestled into Southeastern New Mexico in the Chihuahuan Desert are 275 square miles of gypsum dunes. This is the largest pure gypsum dune field in the world. Gypsum is a water soluble material. Consequently it can only accumulate in extremely dry environments. The Tularosa Basin, besides being sufficiently dry, also is an area that has no drainage. Rain, when it does fall, has no where to go. Dissolved gypsum dries and is then recycled into the dunes.
Unlike sand, these dunes are almost completely white and very fine. At first glance, they look covered in snow. At twilight the shapes and shadows create an eerie feeling. It’s completely quiet and if you’re all alone, you start to feel like you have somehow been transported to a magical place. It’s a bit disorienting, as well. White dunes spread as far as the eye can see until they abruptly end at dark mountains in the distance. Commonly, distant mountains whitened by snow are the expected sight, so this view is strikingly upside down…and it’s so quiet.
Avalanche Course is First Step to
Playing Safely in the Backcountry
By the time we’d skinned up into the notch, we were covered in a light layer of snow. We’d removed our skins, dug a snowpit and evaluated the snowpack to determine it was safe to ski. As the six of us stood there, snacking and pondering which lines to ski, a man ran up to us, waving his arms and frantically yelling, “An avalanche! There’s been an avalanche! We need help!”
We quickly peppered him with questions to figure out what had happened, how many people were involved, and how many might be hurt. It didn’t take long to realize he was not part of the group caught in the avalanche, rather he and a friend had witnessed it from below, so he didn’t know how many were caught. He thought he’d seen two people, but perhaps there was only one, although maybe that person skied away and no one was buried.
We gathered our backpacks, probes and shovels, clicked into our skis, and rushed to the scene of the slide. We had been through training, we’d practiced beacon searches and we were level-headed enough to designate a leader from our group to organize us into duties. But it still felt chaotic. It was up to us to find anyone who had been buried, and it was a heavy feeling. We all turned our beacons to receive, hoping that anyone caught was wearing a transceiver.
Tree Well & Deep Snow Safety:
Why It Pays to Have Friends on a Powder Day
Reports of two skiers and one snowboarder dying in separate inbounds avalanches out West in December overshadow what is a more likely danger inbounds on powder days: falling into tree wells or deep snow drifts and suffocating before someone rescues you.
On a recent powder day, my husband, friends and I were traversing to an area of Jay Peak Resort, Vt., where we hoped to find untracked snow. I suddenly clipped my ski tip on a stump and went down. I found myself on the side of a large pine tree, clinging to the branches, my head pointed downhill and my legs uphill, still clicked into my bindings.
I floundered in the snow, trying to push myself up, but realized I would first need to remove my skis. I managed to find my ski pole and reach above to release my bindings. Fortunately, my head wasn’t buried under snow. However, the more I moved around to try and get myself up, the deeper my body sunk into the snow.
Mad River Glen: Skiing in the Moment
Just like a Grateful Dead concert, skiing Mad River Glen is improvisation at its best.
It’s the same mountain, but it always skis differently. The ski area, preserved pretty much in its natural state, relies mostly on natural snow, so it’s up to Mother Nature’s whim as to what you’re going to find.
Fortunately, skiers often find the ski area, high in Vermont’s northern Green Mountains, draped in powdery goodness and dripping riffs of inspirational skiing.
Powder-encased trees soundproof the mountain and silence greets you, except for the a cappella "woo-hoos" from skiers around you. Stop and you hear the beat of snow plopping off trees. Move and you hear the swooshing of your skis slicing through the snow.