Coho Photography

My ski-pants flutter in the wind as I bump my hand against my nose, trying to get some semblance of feeling out of it. I bend my head in to the wind, leaning back in my ski boots in the thick deep snow. If I pull up hard enough on the tips of my skis I am certain that they will break through the wind crust, the energy to pull up that hard is what I am having a hard time mustering. And to think I’ve only been breaking trail for fifty yards! I try to think of more things to whine about, my cold nose, flapping pants, how damn hard it is to break trail, nothing else comes to my mind,
I am amazed that I can even think of that many things to feel sorry for myself about. I mean, really, how often do you get to go skiing from a warm and comfortable, albeit smelly, backcountry hut system, after it has just snowed feet upon feet of fluffy new snow? The Wallowas offer pristine backcountry, dry snow, great terrain, easy access, and luckily, not very many other people to compete with for fresh tracks.
As I pull over to the side of the trail to let Luke past, an unnecessary jab of his elbow sends me sprawling into a gasping heap in the snow, my butt sunk well below the track I just broke. The layers of gore-tex and warm clothing covering my mouth easily muffle my cursing. I struggle back up on to my feet and join in at the back of the line, just waiting to break trail again.
Then we’re at the top, as if there was nothing to it. I balance precariously on one foot, yanking and ripping at the skin that is attached to the bottom of my ski. The wind whips past, pulling me downwards. I yank, pull, swear some more, and off the skin comes. It flies out in the wind, knocking snow from a low branch, and then the loose end sails right back in to my outstretched hand. I do the same with the other ski, tighten down my boots, and leaning back to stay on top of the crust, float my way down to the top of a large burned out area.
Ten seconds later I am dipping and weaving between perfectly spaced dead trees. Snow lifts as if it had teeny tiny wings and flies away from my ski tips, encountering my rapidly descending mass on its way. Humans have an odd longing to fly, l I can tell you that telemark skiing in lots of light dry snow feels a whole lot like flying. Every one of those mumbled and muffled curses seems completely worth it as I dip down behind a blackened stump, snow cascading over my things, then dropping back in to the deep track that I leave as my only mark upon the landscape.
My flying quickly halts as the terrain mellows and I plow full speed in to Luke. I’m sure he really appreciates being hit by an out of control, shrieking with joy, telemark skier in bright orange pants and goggles that make him look like an overgrown horsefly. I turn just in time to see the rest of the group floating through the dead forest, ski tips barely visibly through the thick snow. The day is looking much better, my nose is warm, I got Luke back for pushing me over, I’ve stopped cursing every last little hill in the world, and I’m headed back downhill after a fewmore laps to our warm huts, a cup of cocoa, and the sauna tent.

For a full gallery of photos from this trip click here.