The old lady of the mountains It was a day unfit for man or beast, as proven by my dog’s reluctance to leave the car. He briefly jumped out, into the biting cold and brutal wind, did two 360s, and hopped back into the backseat, where he hunkered down into a tight ball. Our instincts, however, were not as keen. After being shut down prematurely because of high winds at the ski area across the street, we decided to take matters into our own hands. We had been planning the trip all week, although the outing itself had been in the offing for years. With both kids safely back at home and under supervision until 5:30 and skies dumping copious amounts of snow, time was of the essence. With the wind howling at our backs and the promise of powder calling, I skinned up in the kind of record speed that only a salivating snow junkie can muster. We had to move fast, while the quickly disappearing skin track was still visible. While awaiting word on our skiing fate earlier that day, we had befriended another Durango couple. When it was announced that the lift would close, we still had a few hours of daylight to squander, and our new friend “Dave” suggested we venture up the skin track he had spied across the road. For the next hour or so, we climbed through the trees, hoping each switchback would deliver us to the desired outcome: a series of north-facing chutes that conveniently deposited us back at the car. However, as the snow piled up and the minutes ticked away, my better half served as the lone voice of reason in the wilderness. “We better think of heading down soon,” he called from below. “It’s 2 o’clock.” At that rate, and given optimal circumstances, we’d be back to the car by 3, with ample time to make the harrowing descent back to Durango. That is, if the pass was open. I refused to entertain the consequences if it wasn’t. For the next 30 minutes, I was able to put Sean off with promises of “it’s just around the next switchback,” until, finally, my snow lust gave way to parental responsibilities. With treeline in sight, we decided to de-skin and contour around to the north until we found a suitable shot. As it turns out, our instincts weren’t so bad, after all. A short traverse found us at the top of a steep, lightly treed opening nothing short of San Juan Shangri-La. Seeing as how he was the one to bring us to the stash, Dave took his finder’s fee in the form of first tracks. I followed, filled with the feeling of anticipation and trepidation that goes with that first backcountry turn. See, over the years I have sampled all that the San Juans could throw my way, from breakable slush and quickrete to bottomless trapdoor sugar and glare ice. More often than not, these conditions were the norm. “Character-building,” it was called. But every so often, after weeks of fruitless uphill slogs, you’d find the cornucopia – snow so sweet and soft that instead of whooping powder-day catcalls, you were rendered speechless, in a state of giddy reverence and awe. I took my first turn tentatively, cutting a wide swath and bracing for that familiar diving of tips or lurking old snow layers waiting to launch me over the handlebars. I was incredulous to find none. Nevertheless, being on unfamiliar terrain, I was slow to hand over my trust completely. Over the years, this mistrust has plagued many an outdoor adventure for me, from boating to biking. I know, it’s mostly in my head, but disconnecting doubt from doing is often easier said than done. What if I got tangled up? What if I augered in, head first? What if I did the unthinkable and dive-bombed in the middle of the chute triggering my own icy death? It was at this time that another lone voice in the wilderness called out to me. But this time, it was that of a woman. And she said, “Stop being such a wussy. Just point ’em.” But not in those exact words. See, a few years back I read a small book upon the recommendation of my husband and several of my skiing peers. In certain circles, Deep Powder Snow, by Dolores LaChapelle had become a cult classic. If I truly strived to understand snow, in all its forms and functions, I was told, I had to read it. Soon the small paperback became tattered and worn from my repeated visits. Not only was LaChapelle a pioneering female backcountry skier, but she did it with grace and fluidity that only comes from surrendering oneself completely to the mountain. All on skis not much more technical than your average barrel slat. Her words stuck with me over the years, bringing comfort and courage in conditions thick and thin, steep and deep. And this day was no different. Standing on the hillside channeling Dolores, I pointed my skis down, letting the fall line dictate my path. It turned out to be one of those miraculous runs, where effortless turns are punctuated by faceshots, not faceplants. Sadly enough, a little more than a week after that epic day, I learned that Dolores had passed away. My heart sunk as I flashed back to the afternoon I spent with her in Silverton four years ago. See, when I found out that Dolores lived nearby, I had to meet her. So, I did what any pesky reporter would do, I weasled my way into an interview. I spent a few hours visiting with Dolores, then in her 70s, talking about everything from skiing to gardening. Upon leaving her home, I remarked on a beautiful plant that was flourishing despite the cruel Silverton winter. Although she professed to know nothing about it, she cut me a clipping and wrapped it in plastic to take with me. I gingerly laid it on the driver’s seat and transported it 50 miles, over two mountain passes, home, where I transplanted it. As much as I’d like to say that the little plant is now a big plant, I’m afraid that not even hardy, high-altitude vegetation is immune to my black thumb. It seemed that the more I tried to keep it going, the more it resisted, until finally, I gave up. Naturally, when I heard of Dolores’ passing, I thought back to that plant, wishing I could have managed to somehow hang onto it as a lasting vestige. And that’s when I realized that in its own way, the plant was a tiny, encapsulated lesson in Dolores’ philosophy, that of co-existing with nature rather than forcing it to fit into your expectations. Maybe that vibrant, mysterious, fragrant piece of flora was never meant to leave the rarified, simpler mountain air for the more tropical climes of the city. And although the plant, and Dolores, are gone, I am thankful that I will forever harbor those universal, if not slightly ad-libbed, words of wisdom: “Stop being such a wussy. Just point ’em.” – Missy Votel
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