Walker was a good sport this morning. He allowed Dave and I a quiet coffee hour, before Dave served him breakfast. Afterward, he settled into his first morning nap while I tapped out a few hundred words for his book. By 9am the third cup of coffee coursed through my veins like electricity in under-spec’d wires. I sizzled right off my seat and started whisking eggs, sliding into pants, and stuffing a pack and apres ski bag, simultaneously. I stuffed a flask of hot ginger tea in the side pocket, and a quartered hot dog in the top, minus the niblet I held back for the pre-hike motivator. That commotion was cause enough for Walker to peel back his eyelids, lift his heavy mellon, and ease himself out of my bed, one paw at a time. I took advantage of the slow turnover of his diesel engine and gathered his gadgets, tossed skis in the car, and strapped snowshoes to the back of my pack. By the time he arrived at the door, I was zipped into my last layer and lacing gaiters over ski boots. “Hello, sir,” I greeted, and ushered him out the door. Have fur, will travel.
He climbed into the shotgun seat while I ran through my mental checklist, and texted my plan to Dave: “Skiing the Saranac Jackrabbit up to the col, then snowshoeing backside of Haystack.” It was the first such trip in NY, but similar in distance and elevation to Blueberry Mountain in NH, which we’d ascended in this fashion dozens of times, day and night.
The all-purpose classic skis I use for such excursions are not back-country skis, per se. I bought them on impulse, or even in retaliation, after one too many spring marathons involving klister kick wax. “One too many,” being exactly one. The point is, they’re light, skinny, fish scales. They are rockets in a set track, adequate in ankle-deep powder, and fall between dubious and dangerous on broad icy surfaces. The Saranac stretch of the Jackrabbit, turns out to be immensely popular with skiers, unlike Blueberry Mountain. Forty-eight hours after a decent snowfall, this trail had been reduced to a four-foot wide ice slide. But, I had made a plan and sent out a text, which is as good as writing in blood or stone, right?
I remembered the first two miles to the pond as being fairly flat, which I’m sure they were back in August. At the moment, with the wobbly momentum of an extra twenty pounds on my back, it seemed annoyingly hilly. Especially that steep bit with the open water under a narrow bridge. That narrow target happens to have wide gaps between boards that run parallel with the path of travel. I judged the gaps to be safely skinnier than my skis, but changed my mind mid-flight and shifted my weight to take them on at an angle, forgetting the pack until it shifted more than I did. On the bright side, the crampons protruding from the snowshoes strapped to my back brought me to a stop before reaching the boards, rocks or water. Walker looked back from the other side of the gully, but quickly turned away and trotted along without interest. Next dog wears the pack, I thought.
I gathered myself up, undaunted, convinced that the trail would be less treacherous once we got beyond the heavily traveled section between the road and the pond. Walker waited at the junction (one of his relatively new skills) and I must admit to hesitating at the sight of so many tracks, ruts and roots on our intended path. But a plan is a plan so I kibbled him for waiting and stepped up.
This next bit of trail “bumps and benches,” which is what cyclists say when they’re trying to convince unsuspecting training partners that the mountain on their route is just a series of gentle little hills. Walker crowded me out as I attempted to herringbone the first steep pitch. I shooed him ahead, but he did it again at the next pitch, and the next, and the one after that. I finally caved and turned out my kibble pocket. I’m aware that rewarding his persistence is dangerous, but this was a test as much as anything. It’s extremely unusual for him to be so relentlessly… close by.
He heeded the “go ahead” signal but stopped in five feet, bugged out his eyes and whined. Hmm. Not tired, probably not cold. Possibly amping up the pressure for better treats. “No way,” I said. Hot dogs are for the summit. He blocked my path, pranced and whined some more. Hmm. “Turn back?” I asked, stepping aside to point my tips just slightly downslope. WHOOSH, he leaped over my skis, tucked his tail, and bolted. The black stinger missile coursed over every bump and bench I could see, then banked the last corner out of sight. Hmm.
I gave the straps on my pack a tug, and launched myself after him. I soaked up waves of ruts and roots with my knees, bled speed in powder as best as I could, and wailed like a banshee the whole way down. Walker appeared to be running back up at me. He looked worried (with good reason). “Hup Hup GOOOOO!” I yelled and he bolted for all he was worth. We skidded to a stop just above the junction. He danced and I Iaughed until tears filled my eyes. We took the last two miles like a couple of pros, at least that’s the way we imagined it. He climbed through my door at the car and waited patiently for me to slough off the gear. At last, I produced glistening semi-frozen chunks of hot dog, which he lapped up, one-at-a-time, chewing each one before swallowing. He settled in and I drove his chariot home, just in time for his mid-afternoon nap.
rascalchaser 