Wallowas woo and win skiers

Lewiston Morning Tribune, March 27, 2003. P. 1C.

Photo 1:  Mac Cantrell cutting a nice tele turn.
Photo 2:  Skiing up to the ridge.
Photo 3:  Wallowas view from above

COMMENTARY by PHIL DRUKER

Above me, snow was cascading down a windblown basalt cliff. Below me, a snow-covered slope beckoned. I stood at 8,500 feet on a ridge high in Wallowas on the first weekend in March. But before I could ski the run, I had to remove the synthetic skins from the base of my skis.

The skins were attached to my skis with glue to keep them on while I skied up the ridge from our camp about two miles below. Now the trick was to pull the skins off my skis without falling. For a young, limber person, this might not present a great challenge, but for a middle-aged (and rapidly aging) 55-year-old this wasn't the easiest task.

To perform the operation, I could have taken off my skis, but then my skis would not remain attached to my feet, creating the risk of losing a ski down the 25- to 30- degree, quarter-mile-long slope, and this would mean I'd probably never see the ski again.

So, I balanced myself on my uphill ski while managing to twist my downhill leg and ski around so I could grasp the tail of the skin, pry it loose and strip it from the ski. I did it without falling. The task was half done, but I still had to remove the skin from my uphill ski. This was even more difficult because to do that, I had to face down the slope, balance on one foot, twist my uphill leg and ski around in front of me (to my downhill side) and pull the skin off without losing my balance.

Finally, I accomplished the mission, and stuffed the skins into my parka pockets so they would stay warm and dry, which would make them easy to reapply after I skied down the run.

Meanwhile, Connelly Brown, our guide and the new owner of Wallowa Alpine Huts, finished testing the snow for avalanche hazard. He had dug a pit and found the snow reasonably stable, so we were ready to ski.

The 10 of us were eager to make the first tracks in the pristine powder snow waiting beneath our feet, but the slope offered so much space we each were assured of having our own line.

One by one, my friends dived down the slope, cutting perfect telemark, S-shaped turns. When each skier reached the slope's base, he or she would move to some trees to keep out of harm's way in case the slope broke loose with an avalanche. Finally, everyone had skied down except me.

I stood looking at the slope and trying to envision myself slicing perfect telemark turns. The first few yards, however, were steep and crusted with windblown snow -- two things I just don't do well with. I knew if I could get past that, I would have a good run, but skiing the crust would be tough.

I bent down and pushed off with my ski poles. My speed began to build, wind whistled past my ears, and my skis made a scratchy sound as they hit the crusty snow. I tried to turn and fell.

So I picked myself up, brushed snow from my goggles and parka, looked down the slope and envisioned a perfect set of tight S-shaped turns. Again, I pushed off. My skis made a soft swoosh as they cut through the powder snow. I began my turn and headed down the fall line. Wind whistled in my ears as my speed increased. I completed the turn -- not a perfect turn, but a turn. Then, I bent into the next turn, increased my speed and completed that turn.

Now, I had a rhythm going: as I rose at the end of each turn to take weight off my skis, I inhaled, and as I sank into the next turn, I exhaled. My skis floated through the soft powder. About three minutes later, although it seemed much longer than that, I arrived on the flats at the bottom of the slope. My thighs were burning and my knees ached. But I was ready to take off my skis, put the synthetic skins back on them and climb the ridge for another run.