Tag Archives: Snow

Catching up on Winter

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Snow storage. It’s a term I learned in Valdez, Alaska. I visited in the summer, but I couldn’t miss the extra wide streets with large medians down the middle. Yards had extra space near driveways. There were massive open lots. All designed to pile up excess snow to make room for more when an average of 300″ fall each winter.

Now I get it. In Duluth, this is the winter that just won’t quit. The snow keeps coming, the banks climb higher and our plow service had to bring in a special machine to make room around our driveway to clear the snow yet to come. With over 125″ of snowfall, it’s already the 6th snowiest winter on record, just 10″ from the top.

Rich and I have done our best to find respite from this relentless winter. Two weeks in Hawaii, a trip to visit my son in Seattle, and a week in Tucson were all welcome breaks from the snow and cold. And yet winter still reigns.

Don’t get me wrong. I love winter. And I love it most when it is snowy and keeps refreshing the ski trails and piles up for snowshoeing. So I’m all for this snow. But April is beckoning.

Perhaps this is my payback for checking out of winter this year. The weather gods were giving me a chance to catch up on what I missed. So who was I to argue? It was time I embraced it, even if it felt like the wrong season.

Thirteen inches of new snow just begged for snowshoeing. I’ve learned that I need to get out early in order to plunder untrampled trails, to sink into virgin powder and share the forest with only the birds and animal tracks. Snow still blanketed the trees and even though I ducked low beneath the branches overhanging the trail, snow still slithered down my neck now and then. But in the late season’s mild temperature, I didn’t care.

I got antsy to ski. I knew the groomer had not yet worked its magic, so I grabbed my classic skis and prepared to trudge. I was relieved to find that one or two intrepid skiers had already broken trail, and I slipped my skis into their tracks. It required more push than glide, but that wasn’t the point. The brilliant sunshine, peaceful shush of my skis and the smooth undulation of the snow filled my senses. Winter at its best, no matter what the calendar said.

By the next snowfall, I had succumbed to the draw of upscale snowshoes. Tired of trying to work resistant buckles with stiff frozen fingers, I salivated over some Tubbs with easy in-and-out bindings and extra features like heel lifts. I pressed Add to Cart and they came in time for the next six inch snowfall.

Since I wasn’t as quick to get out, the local trails were already groomed for fat tire bikes. I took to the banks as often as I could, finding soft snow atop an older crusty layer. The spikes gripped like a dream and I floated over the snow. Even on the packed trail, I had all the traction I needed. That short trial run only whetted my appetite for more.

Skiing in warmer conditions also has its own unique guidelines. I’m a morning person, but in the season of melt and refreeze I have to exercise my limited patience and wait until afternoon when the snow will begin to soften. Sure enough, the skate deck that was rock hard the day before was melting in the sun and had just enough give to provide my skis with the edge I needed. It was a delight to ski in minimal layers as I made my way around the Lester-Amity trail system.

I’ve only been home for two weeks, yet it feels like a winter’s quota of outdoor splendor. I think I have caught up on winter.

Trapped!

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The wind howled all night long, whipping around the 5+ inches of new snow dropped by the storm. I tossed and turned, hearing our windows rattle and the moan of the gale. What I didn’t hear was the crack of falling trees.

It wasn’t until I ventured out in the still-dark morning, backing out of our unplowed driveway and inching down our remote road that I noticed the downed power line and a shadowy hulk that loomed beyond my headlights. A tall pine tree claimed the road from edge to edge. My trip to the pool at the Y was scuttled. Our little strip of 4 houses have only one way out and it was blocked.

The power company was on it right away, severing the line and carting it away. But the tree remained. There was only one thing to do. Ditch the swimsuit for my snowshoes.

At 6-degrees with a fierce wind still raging, I had to dig for all my warm layers, find my gaiters, heat up some hand and toe warmers. The minutes fled as I wriggled into my stack of insulation and struggled to bend over far enough to lace my boots. Did I really want to do this?

As soon as I crossed the street and headed down the multipurpose mountain bike trails, I knew the answer was Yes. In the silence of the woods, the only sound was the wind in the trees and the creak of my left snowshoe. Surprisingly, someone had beaten me out there and I followed boot tracks down the narrow path. I mentally thanked COGGS for creating these twisty, curvy and playful trails with short bridges over deep gaps.

I lost the footprints about a mile into my trek when they disappeared down a steep embankment. Hmmm, really? Continuing on, I relished the unmarked snow even if it was more of a challenge to discern its route. My favorite bits were the hairpin curves, steeply banked for the cyclists and carving a luge-like chute still discernable through the drifts. The sun was high enough to lay shadows across the snow, and I admired the snow’s artwork on pine branches. It was a morning for taking in my surroundings, letting my whirring brain slow and being in the present.

My nose reminded me that it was exposed to this cold and wind, requiring periodic warmups from my bare hand. But my hand and toe warmers blazed, keeping my other most vulnerable body parts toasty. I trudged on, warming my core with the effort even while breathing in the crisp cold air. I was in no hurry to finish and let my footsteps lead me on down the trail.

Why did I think this was a good morning for swimming? Because it was cold and windy? Nature knew better. This outdoor fix beats chlorine any day. I didn’t mind being trapped one little bit.

Nocturnal Wanderings

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A brown Christmas seemed a certainty. As the days ticked by with narry a snowflake in the forecast, I resigned myself to the inevitable.

I admit to appreciating the clear dry surface of the Lakewalk for my morning runs. I felt grateful for the unseasonably balmy temps and shivered when they approached normal. I became accustomed to the ease of good driving conditions and not needing boots. I began to despair of losing my love of winter. And then it snowed.

It was entirely unexpected. We arrived home from a short trip to the Cities to find the trees blanked with snow. Our house lay nestled in the softness of white, our footsteps muffled by the residual snowfall since the walk had been shoveled. Outside our windows each branch bore a layer of fluffy frosting.

As darkness fell, I couldn’t resist the urge. I had to shuffle through the new snow, walk among the giant trees cloaked in white, traverse the silence surrounded by the muffled woods. Donning warm clothes, boots and headlamp I crossed the road and left civilization behind as I followed the footpaths.

My headlamp pierced the darkness, preceding my progress just fast enough. The rest was a hidden world of discovery.

Lester Amity trail at night

The moon shone softly through the trees, a heavenly presence on this wintry trek.

Moon and snow covered trees at Lester

The contributions of a nameless Christmas elf graced the evergreen branches.

Christmas decorations in the woods

I wasn’t gone for long. I didn’t travel very far. But it was enough to transport me into a renewed sense of well being. And a rekindling of the frosty spirit that comes with our coldest season.

Home beckoned as I approached. A warm sight after my nocturnal wanderings. Welcome winter.

Hoeg H'Arbor glowing in the night

Million Dollar Views

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We arrived in Durango, Colorado by pure happenstance two years ago.  Today’s return was very deliberate.  On our last visit, we took a short drive on the Million Dollar Highway, a 70-mile stretch through the Rocky Mountains with hairpin curves surrounded by snowy peaks in all directions.  We vowed to return to complete the journey.

We were selective about our plans.  For days we monitored the weather reports, only intending to make the drive if we had a clear sunny day.  Luck was with us, and with the promise of good weather we booked our room at the Adventure Inn once again.

Over dinner last night, we eagerly shared our plans with our waiter.  “You know, that road’s only been open for 4 or 5 days,” he said.  It never occurred to us to check the snow conditions.  At breakfast this morning, motel owner Nigel showed us videos of the double avalanche that blocked the road between Silverton and Ouray.  Two massive columns of snow blew down the mountainside, taking trees and boulders down with it as it ripped through the forest.  Crossing the road, it filled the 150-foot canyon below and “splashed” up the opposite side.  Leaving 60 feet of debris-filled snow on a lengthy stretch of the highway in the Red Mountain Pass, it took highway crews 20 days to reopen the road.  Little did we know.

Today we drove that highway under blue skies on perfectly dry pavement.  We had learned that they had record snowfalls this winter, topping 360 inches.  It was still very much in evidence even on this April day.  With each turn of the road, we had more snowy peaks to admire.  At our elevation, the snow was pristine with only a few snowmobile and ski tracks crossing its silky mounds.  Occasionally I could make out curvy trails through the mountainsides, evidence of some intrepid skiers enjoying pure powder.

Million Dollar Highway 1 Million Dollar Highway 2 Million Dollar Highway 3 Million Dollar Highway 4 Million Dollar Highway 5

The wintry journey from Durango to Ouray was well worth the return trip.  With the avalanche video replaying in my mind, I had renewed respect for the seemingly pastoral scenes passing outside my car window.  Million dollar views indeed.

On Location

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Donning every possible layer of outdoor clothing I own, I pull on my mukluks, fling a camera around my neck and grab my notebook.  It’s time for the start of the Arrowhead 135!

At the 7am start, it’s -9 degrees with a touch of snow falling in International Falls MN.  Bikers, runners and skiers line up and head down the Arrowhead Trail as fireworks light up the inky sky.  The race takes its heritage seriously, ranked as one of 50 toughest races in the world.  The finish line is 135 miles away.Skier in Arrowhead 135

These intrepid athletes will endure up to three days on the trail, with temperatures predicted in the -22 degree range by morning.  My role is far easier.  And warmer.  I am here to cover the race for the Lake Country Journal, a beautiful glossy magazine that covers all things related to our northern lakes area.

Teaming up with Rich, we have created a new niche for ourselves – find fun events that interest us, sell the idea to a magazine, attend and experience them, then produce a story.  I write, he takes the photographs.

Today we leapfrog the trail, catching the racers at intervals along the way.  Rich looks for unique photo opps, I make mental notes of what I see – the steadfast determination in the racers’ eyes, the thick boots, the ice encrusted beards and fanciful antler hat.  We have time to warm up in the car.  The racers have only their energy to heat their bodies.

Biker in Arrowhead 135I would never be here if it weren’t for my writing.  Seeing folks pursue the impossible.  Following the Holiday Train.  Leaning the ins and outs of sled dog racing.  Attending a home grown radio show.  Then bring them to life for others.  New horizons, unique adventures, a break in my strict daily routine.  It’s a privilege to be able to write about topics of my own choosing.Runner in Arrowhead 135It wasn’t always this way.  Getting here has a been a seven year journey of my own.  I got my humble start in writing with Lake Superior Magazine, which accepted my first cold submission.  Editor Konnie went on to gently mentor me year after year, offering me more stories as my skills improved.  Just seeing my work come out in print was a big thrill.  And it remains one of my favorite magazines to write for.

As today’s racers doggedly push on toward the finish line I remain vigilant as we chase them down the trail, composing lines in my head, shaping the story to share with my readers.  It’s already been a memorable adventure, and we haven’t yet seen them press on through the dark of night.  But when they do, I’ll be there.  With my talented photographer husband at my side.  On Location.Molly and Rich at Arrowhead 135

Gliding Again

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Fickle winter.  It teases us with cold weather but fails to deliver on the snow.  It wreaks havoc with my motivation and my love of the outdoors.  My identity as a cross-country skier is in shambles.

For weeks I have been unable to get excited about skiing.  I can’t drag myself across the street to ski on trails that are barely covered, and I convince myself that I’d rather go running anyway.  Despite slipping and sliding on the icy or snow-clogged Lakewalk, I take refuge in the familiar.  I just can’t get over the hurdle to embrace skiing instead.

But the recent snowfall engineered a shift.  It actually looks and feels like winter.  Distant memories return.  Suddenly I feel the draw of the trails.  The pull of a new blanket of snow.  The sun filtering through the trees and glinting off the soft white powder.  The crisp air brushing my cheeks.  It is mine for the taking.  This time I can’t help but answer the call.

On mySkiing ungroomed Lester first foray into the woods I discover that I beat the groomer to the trails.  Instead of crisp firm corduroy, I find soft untouched snow with a packed base not far beneath.  All sounds are muffled by this new fallen splendor.  The hush quiets my mind as the powder slows my skis.  I am moving in slow motion, but it makes no difference.  For once it’s not about the pace, it is all about the experience.

Lester on groomed trails

Day two and I’m eager to return.  The groomer has worked its magic in my absence.  I am early enough to enjoy some virgin terrain, cutting my own diagonal slices through the sculpted surface.  The tall pines still wear their mantle of white and the forest floor is a series of soft undulating mounds pocked with occasional animal tracks.  Whether real or imagined, the air feels fresher than ever.

I knew there was a reason I loved winter, I’d just forgotten what it was.  I’m glad to be out gliding again.

A Snowy Farewell to the Grand Canyon

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I was sure this Grand Canyon story was finished. We had covered the Rim Trail from end to end, had stunning sunrise and sunset views, and witnessed an awesome rainbow display. Surely we'd seen it all. Our plan was to exit early in the morning and move on to our next destination.

Mother Nature had other plans for us. Depositing an inch or two of wet snow overnight, she provided an entirely new view of the canyon. Could this really be the same place we were cycling in 70 degree temperatures just a couple days earlier?

Bikes on snowy car
Snowy bikes at Grand Canyon

We made slow progress out of the park, as we stopped at every pullout to check out the view. Although the snow lay in thick layers on the trees surrounding the canyon, there was none down below.

Rich photographing in snow
Grand Canyon with snow 1
Grand Canyon with snow 2

Eventually the sun came out and shadows played across the canyon.

Grand Canyon after snow 1
Grand Canyon after snow 2

We were in no hurry. As long as the canyon morphed and changed in front of us, we were happy to linger. It was a long, snowy farewell to the Grand Canyon.

 

Winter Resurgence

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It seems a strange scene.  I stand in my bare feet and swim suit, peering out into the darkness at 6:15am.  The outside floodlights are on, and they illuminate a world blanketed in white.  I expected the snow.  In fact, it’s the reason for my one-piece lycra apparel.  Assuming it would be too deep for running, I had decided on an alternate workout this morning.  But I hadn’t counted on the landscape now in my field of vision.

Every branch is outlined in white.  The thin boughs are magnified by a fluffy coating of snow much thicker than their own sinewy skeletons.  The woods surrounding our house are no longer a transparent winter veil but a lacy wall enclosing our abode.  I can already picture the Lakewalk rimmed by more ghostly shapes.  It is much too good to miss.

March Snowfall 1Despite the dim predawn light, many have preceded me down the trail.  Footsteps are plentiful, crisscrossed by bicycle tracks and the wide treads of fat tire bikes.  The snow is not as deep as I feared, but the wet fluff lies over a layer of slush.  Messy but not slippery, it makes for slow and arduous progress but poses little danger of falling.March Snowfall 2

The world is silenced by the snowfall.  Footfalls and tire rotations are muted, but faces are glowing.  “Isn’t this beautiful?” seems to be on the lips of all I pass.

I don’t normally take the small bypass in front of the town homes at The Ledges.  But the chance to get closer to the lake draws me down the indistinct path.  My impulse is rewarded, seeing the dry stalks of fall flocked with snow silhouetted against the gray-blue of Lake Superior, and framing the iconic Aerial Bridge.

March Snowfall 3 March Snowfall 4While just yesterday the Lakewalk was perfectly clear for easy running, I have no complaints about this resurgence of winter.  It taught me to seize the moment, change my plans, stop and take pictures.  And best of all, enjoy my surroundings.

March Snowfall 5March Snowfall 6

Snow in Abundance

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When snow declines to come to the cross-country skier, the only reasonable response is for the skier to go to the snow. It doesn’t take much research or experience to know where to find it. The Gunflint Trail consistently delivers on snow accumulation.

The drive up the North Shore is typical. Lake Superior’s warming influence reduces the snowfall near the shore. A leap of faith is required to believe one is indeed headed for significant snow. Turning inland from Grand Marais and slowly ascending the hillside the transformation is not yet apparent. But within a few miles, there it is. Snow. Lots of it.

An island along the Gunflint TrailThe road is snow covered, the only sound the scrunch of the tires as they turn over frigid squeaky snow. The sky couldn’t be bluer. And the star of the show is the forest. A heavy wet snowfall earlier in the winter has covered the trees with huge deposits of snow. This is not your standard Christmas tree flocking. It is deep snowballish accumulations on all available branches. And it is stunning. In case I’m still not convinced, one step outside the car to take a photo lands me in thigh-deep powder.

Unnavigable ski trailWe quickly learn from the locals that the snow is both a blessing and a curse. The blanket of wet snow brought destruction as well as beauty. Bending and breaking trees, miles of trail were blocked and closed. Despite massive efforts to clear the trails, the clean-up work exceeds the available resources in some areas. In particular, the Banadad Trail‘s 28k of ski trail are largely inaccessible, with clearing efforts able to open only seven kilometers on the western end.  Indeed, many fear for the state of portages in the BWCAW.

Our destination is Bearskin Lodge, home of the central Gunflint cross-country ski system with over 70 kilometers of trails and excellent grooming. Fortunately, Bearskin’s trails are nearly all open. Four days of unlimited skiing await us. And so does the cold. Arriving in the midst of a cold snap, we encounter overnight lows down to -19 and daytime highs in the single digits below zero. But the brilliant sunshine and blue skies are more than fair compensation. Donning layers of suitable apparel, we are easily able to enjoy the amazing beauty of the Northland as well as the skiing.

Snowy trail at Bearskin Lodge 1 Snowy trail at Bearskin Lodge 2 Stride after stride delivers more dazzling scenery.  I can’t help but think the tall narrow pines cloaked in snow are the spitting image of Dr. Seuss’s whimsical trees. Seuss-like trees on the Bearskin trailsAnd snowshoeing takes me even further into the depths of the magical woods.

Snowshoeing at Bearskin Lodge Yes, this skier is happy.  With abundant snow on the Gunflint Trail.

Super Silent Sports

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I love the term “silent sports.”  It embodies what I treasure most about outdoor activities.  Human powered, surrounded by nature, testing one’s physical strength and endurance, going the distance.  My day isn’t complete without an hour or more spent engaged in this pursuit.

Lester new snow 2When the snow fell yesterday, I couldn’t wait to get out in it.  Six inches of fluffy new powder lay on the ground, and I knew the ski trails would not yet be groomed.  But for once I actually preferred it that way.  Admittedly, I had new waxless classic skis I wanted to try out, but I was also anxious to just get out in the deep new snow.

Lester new snow 1Cross-country skiing undoubtedly qualifies as a silent sport.  But skiing the untamed fresh snow brings it to the pinnacle of silent.  Normally my skis would swish over the groomed trail with a satisfying sound that testified to a long glide.  My poles would make squeaky complaints as they pierced the snow and angled against the crust until they were released for the next plant. Natural sounds, yes, but noisy in their own way.

The fresh layers of snow muffled all those sounds.  Those that had skied before me were long gone, leaving only a vague trace.  My skis slid quietly through the downy snow and although I made slow progress over the hidden tracks it was deeply satisfying.  There was no need to hurry, no urge to push to the max, no impulse to get in a good workout.  Just plowing through the snow was enough.  My poles too were muted as they stabbed the soft snow, gaining just enough purchase to help propel me forward.

The woods lining the trails were equally muffled.Snow shadow  The pine boughs were layered with snow and the ground under the trees was blanketed by the snowfall.  Any noise I managed to make was immediately absorbed by my surroundings, as if it had never existed.  It was a world shrouded in stillness.

All it took was six inches.  Half a foot of fresh white snow to transform a silent sport into a super silent one.  I relished every bit of it.