Skiing up Whiteface

On cross-country skis, John, our friend David, and I start our ascent up the Whiteface Mountain road.

It’s 20 degrees. The sun is shining. The sky is blue.

We set out three abreast then each find our own natural rhythm and separate.

I listen to the swish of my skis, the crunching sound as my heel presses first one then the other into the snow. I hear the occasional drag of my pole.  

I fall into my OM mantra. 

The air is so fresh. I want to drink it in and clear out all of the spaces in my lungs. 

The trees look dipped in snow. It is an incredibly beautiful day. 

I first hear, then see, then smell a snowmobile.

I form an objection to it, then recognize it as such, "Oh hello ego, there you are.”

My spirit interjects, "This snowmobiler has as much a right to this road as I do."

My ego settles down.

In the shadows of the lowlands, the trees laden with snow resemble an old photograph as if God is using monochrome film.

It’s a five-mile climb. We pass the one-mile marker, then the second. My left knee says "Wassup?” I mentally promise to respect it and lengthen my stride to ensure I glide rather than step.

We occasionally wait for one another at look-out posts. The guys are feeling the work out. I silently thank my ambitious yoga practice for my ability to move my body through this uphill space with surprisingly little exertion.

At this altitude, the wind-sculpted snow drifts remind me of sand dunes. Farther up, they resemble scalloped, white frosting generously applied with the swirl of a flat knife. 

The snow feels silky as cornstarch as both of my skis glide effortlessly.

Despite the cold, I intermittently remove layers of clothing and stuff them in my pack as we continue to climb.  

The vistas are exquisite.

I slide along past trees fat with snow, seemingly smothered under layers of vanilla yogurt.

There are mini-glaciers of green-tinted ice.

Against the skyline, the trees appear as a reef of prickly sea corral, strikingly white against the royal blue sky.

Mile three. Mile four. I’m amazingly not sore nor tired but I'm getting hungry, looking forward to my p.b. and j. sandwich.

Near the top, we encounter ice on the trail. I remove my skis and start to walk, which works pretty well but every so often, one of my feet plunges down through the deep snow. I'm starting to get cold through the thin ski boots. Hmm, I wonder if that snowmobiler can help me if I need him? Now, there's a twist.

We reach the castle at the top of the Memorial Highway. My feet are now uncomfortably cold. With mittens off to eat my sandwich and drink hot chocolate, my hands immediately become numb.

I’m delighted to have made it to the top. 

We eat quickly and begin our descent, having enjoyed our earned destination for far fewer minutes than the time it took to get there.

Beyond the icy section on the way down, I'm able to don my skis again. I wiggle my fingers and toes and think to send warm blood to them. The trip down reminds me of slowly unzipping a long, down-filled sleeping bag.  

If I get going too fast, I just drag my poles or get into a snowplow position.

The descent is exhilarating, yet smooth and gentle too.

In the warm car, I grin widely. We did it!

Beckie O’Neill…  a March 2008 adventure

Epilogue (also known as full disclosure). That climb was ten years ago. I was a full time yoga instructor. What a difference ten years and the absence of thirty hours of yoga per week makes. Doing that climb today would be a completely different story which, ahem, you may not get to read about. But… it was a great climb!