Submarines, Sundogs, and Silver Hoar

by Laurence Smith

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Jan 10, 2003

Pulled up at the Switchback Trail near Hurricane Ridge about 9am yesterday. Looking up at Mount Angeles was dazzling, with the shimmering white against cobalt blue sky. The switchback trail route to the top of Klahane Ridge was crunchy and perfect for crampons. What a contrast to visiting in July when the wildflowers and buzzing bees carpet the whole hillside! The air was cold, the cirrus clouds were scudding along, and it was great to be converting oxygen to hemoglobin! My lungs were very happy, and so was I. As I pigeon-toed my way up the hill, the view to the south into the interior Olympics just rolled up with me, revealing curving ridges stretching to the Bailey Range and beyond. Olympus was shining gold with a pelerine of blue color from the icefalls. Directly ahead and about 5500 feet below me on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, a submarine was partially submerged, looking like a very large Killer Whale, heading east towards its base in Hood Canal. Port Angeles looked like a paper map of streets and buildings, while Vancouver Island rose out of a low mist about 40 air miles away.

After about 90 minutes of climb, I topped the crest, and looked down the elegant north-facing bowl of Heather Park. The wind was up, and spinnakers were flying off the black rocks on the flanking ridges. I could just as easily have felt like I was in Peru. The "powder" from 10 days ago was still lying about 6 inches deep over the ice, although it had turned to a granular silver hoar. This was going to be good!

I mounted the old Karhu Kodiaks, battened down the hatches, and shoved off. Whooomp! Face down in the snow! A raven flew over, cackling with glee at my embarrassing start. I brushed off the shockingly cold crystals, straightened myself out, and pulled a low, curving right turn to "feel it out". I cranked a bit harder to the left and found the groove with the Karhus! The final few turns, 1500 feet lower in the bowl, left multiple sundogs from the roostertail of hoar, backlit by the sun.

I grabbed the nearest rock for a chair, scrutinized my tracks, pulled out the water, and thought about how truly lucky we are to have the freedoms that allow us to visit these wonderful wild places at our discretion, and to be lucky enough to get to do such a thing as skiing. I am reading Slavomir Rawicz' book "The Long Walk", recommended on the TelemarkTips forum. The impression has been great, and I wept a little bit on my rock perch, thinking about his ordeals and tortures and ultimate triumphs. One is inclined to possibly be a bit more "weepy" when surrounded by the magnificence of these mountains, as well as having the luxury of being alone where no one can see you cry. I cried for him, and I cried for the people I've known and lost, as we all have, over the years. This was not a self-pitying cry, it was just cleansing release of emotions. The raven swooped overhead, letting me know that it was time to climb up and make some "eights" out of my tracks with another crystalline run on just another perfect day to be alive.

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