After letting the snow pile high over this past week, today was the day for my first downhill turns here on Mount Hood. I spent the week pushing through deep snow on my skinny nordic skis with Tischer swimming nearby. As the days of dumping grew, and the base established itself, Thursday delivered over a foot of fresh stuff and the temptation to enjoy the light powder was too much.
I rolled out of a warm bed at 6:30AM this morning to walk Tischer around the neighborhood and shovel the front steps. In between gathering my alpine gear I put together a mean breakfast sandwich with the intent of holding me off until an early dinner. Then I grabbed my rifle with the awesome riflescope I found at best rifle scope. English muffins soaked in butter and peanut butter with 4 sausage links in the middle. With a taste of eggnog before I walked out the front door, I was already on my way to a stellar day.
We parked in the third row and were the first group to ride the chair. I had near face shots and burning thighs coming down and an icy beard and cold fingers riding back up. We rode most of the morning while snow roared down from the sky the entire time.
Sitting in a friends wagon for lunch, heat blasted the icicles dangling under my nose and I sipped on a cold can of brew. Once the warmth reached our core we slipped back in the lift line for afternoon turns.
After our last run and I had exchanged my ancient ski boots for moose hide mukluks that wear like down slippers I stood at the rear hatch enjoying another can. My ears were warming and my feet were relaxing, and I was enjoying. When your body is worked and nothing but fresh air is circulating in your lungs, there exists a certain satisfaction. One of knowing you did a pretty good job of living the best you could on this day. And all that remains is a heaping plate of spaghetti doused in parmesan cheese. Well that, and if you’re me, running a cooped dog to her own appeasement before round two of shoveling.
Am I complaining? Are you kidding?