snowshoeing the southern whites

8/6/2019 Snowshoeing the Southern Whites

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Snowshoeing the Southern Whites

A crisp, cold scent mingles with pine and silence. Everywhere there are blue-

white snowdrifts that move by granule, according to the wind. Icy and clean, the pre-

dawn breeze is more like a comb than a wind, parting any two things long enough to passa chill then closing behind - it is an omnipresent companion to the Southern White

Mountain dawn.

I feel the power of the cold as I strap on my snowshoes. It nicks at my fingertips

and they respond by instantly feeling…less. Technology in shoeing has come a long way

– but tightening these polystyrene and aluminum frames to one’s feet is always a battle of

wills. Under the eave of my Adirondack shelter, adjustments are simple – compared tothe frosty endeavor of reattaching a shoe thrown in mid-jog and finding oneself waist

deep and off kilter miles from home. So, I take extra care to cinch the shoes well and tuck

the loose strap-ends well out of harm’s way.

Starting up the short slope into the tall pines, my movements seem clunky, and

unsure. These flapping oversized planks don’t seem to want to flow. Like running inshallow water, an unseen force pulls in defiance of my efforts to lift each leg. Pressing

on, a rhythm slowly begins to emerge and a fine sift of snow lights into the air behind

with each passing stride. My pulse begins to beat back the surrounding cool air, but parts

remain keenly aware of the sub-zero temperature: Knee caps feel like lumps of cool jellydangling from toast’s edge; fingers still be-numbed from the exposure during fit up, swell

within my Gortex® lined gloves like ten angry sausages. My feet, more like dead roots,

are sending signals of distress – regardless of the fur lined, sub-zero rated snow boots;Answering need, I step up my pace.

As I crest the rise the sun slices through a stand of altitude-stunted pines,outlining the snow dunes beyond like so much bleached desert sand. Up here in the

southern Whites, these dunes can be treacherous and bottomless. Lightly built grain by

spherical grain, they are often little more than a pile of tiny marbles. Stepping out ontoone can lead to a surprisingly sudden drop of several feet into a freezing bank. Once so

ensconced, the snowshoes mutate from walking aid to encrusted anchor. Even so, there is

a technique for escape – called ‘post holing’ – that pits the hiker against endurance as he

digs and flops his way to the edge of the drifts. Today, the dunes are bearing up – sofar…

I turn east after the pines and begin a series of zigzagging lunges down the far side and into a dell between the foothills. I feel a fine crust of ice affixed to my mustache

– my breath condenses quickly and hangs in the air above my trail as I pass. The suns

rays have added nothing to the overall temperature, even so, its light enlivens the mindand body, and I feel a surge of power as I near the nadir of the dell. At bottom, I slip from

the reach of the weak sun, and am surprised at the contrast in the shade. What were the

distinct rills and ridges of drifts on the way down have become a see of rolling grey

shadows and humps.



This is the danger zone. At the bottom of most dells runs a brook, rivulet or full

stream – throughout the coldest winter snaps this chilling unfrozen flow lurks silent and patient under thin crusts of ice and shrouds of powdery snow. Jack London wrote of this

true threat in his desperate tale of a greenhorn in the backcountry: “Call of the Wild ” –

people die from wet things.

My desire is to cross the valley floor and hike the two peaks ahead. It is an

ambitious trek of about 4 miles. As I feel my teeth frigid against my inner lip I pause, thecold is profound today, and I am alone – for this land belongs to no man, and the chances

of inadvertent companionship register nil. After a two-minute breathing stop I strike out

across the dim, flattish floor. The snow gives differently here in the ‘perma-shade’, it has

settled in shifted layers and the footing is unsure. I slow, choosing each step with all myfocus and sense.

Luck is with me; in an intervening pause between steps, I hear the faintest licking

babble; a small waterfall, feet below – but perilously close – thumps a plunking gargling pulse; a sound almost felt rather than heard. I reset my course and fiord the unseen stream

at where I guess the top of the short fall to be – likely the narrowest point.

Leaving the cool of ‘neverlight’ I clamber back into the rising morning and for an

instant, feel the sun may actually be made of warmth and not just cool, bright light. My

dark ski-pants radiate a faint convection of the so distant sun and the sensation runs upmy spine in a blast of energy and heat. I blink a flushed tear from my eye and feel the

trail of ice it leaves as it leaps from my cheek into oblivion. Ahead, the hill beckons…

…I have made the summit. Standing atop the first peak, my breath come hard and

sharp – my throat feels like it is lined with icy nettles, each breath pricks my lungs. I have

rotated several compass points south as I climbed the mount and the sun is now well behind and left of me, I realize that there is, between these two high peaks, a small upper

mountain pond. Scanning the far side I see a snow formation in a ragged couloir 1. The

beetling berm of a massive snowdrift defies gravity and is hanging like a petrified oceanwave. The steely blues and grays show from underneath, a world of contours and

articulated whorls.

With camera at the ready, I try to capture gravity defied – but it is not meant to be.The stark light blurs the depth and the viewfinder, even on full zoom, reflects only a

fraction of the stunning contours. I estimate that a quarter mile jaunt around to the north

will improve the vantage and determine to sidetrack for the thrill of the great photo.

1 “…a couloir (from the French word meaning "passage" or "corridor,") is a deep gorge

or gully formation found on the side of a mountain. An ice couloir is a regular couloir filled with ice that is formed during the summer time when the winter snow melts and

condenses eventually forming ice.” Source:

http://sierramtnguides.com/administrative/documents/NewsSept_Oct.pdf





I am soon at pace again, with a fine spray of up thrust granules resettling in my

wake. The line of the shore is distinct – the snow abruptly drops several inches in a

continuous line that is easy to see. Footing is sure and the metal claw under eachsnowshoe gains solid push, vaulting me forward in a lengthening reach. As I reach my

peak stride I suddenly curl over on my right side. Surprised, I press down with both hands

only to watch them submerge into the soft white abyss of a feather drift. My exertion,having peaked, I breathe deeply and feel my heartbeat thrumming at every major artery –

thighs, chest and neck. I realize it is time to start the arduous task of post holing to get

free.

As I right myself, an unusual sensation fills my frame; I am still passing through

the wispy snow and have not reached a firm base yet. As I sink another foot, I feel a

peculiar tugging at both of my feet.

The first pangs of panic rise in my throat as I feel the icy claws of water seeping

over and into my left boot. Instinctively I draw my dry foot up, but this plunges my left

deeper into the water, I feel my shin, knee and lower thigh succumb to the icy enclosure – I am in trouble. I lunge with all of my strength to my strong side, trying desperately to get

prone – to disperse my weight over as large an area as possible.

My mind screams, “Move!” as my sluggish and sodden left leg remains

perpendicular to the rest of my body.

“No!” I yell, as I feel the sinking sensation draw me inch by inch deeper into the

numbing pool.

With a grunt and a desperate flail I feel a crust of ice under my right hand. Too

desperately, I grab and pull and the one-inch crust crumbles – spineless under my hand.

Exerting every ounce of self control, I carefully reach through the panic which enshroudsmy mind and ever so gently grasp the thin crust, trying its strength I find that I can arrest

my sinking, but do not dare to pull my weight. After a series of delicate tugs, I find I am

able to pull my soaked left leg slowly up, even as I feel the coldest of possible sensationsenter my groin.

Prone, with one arm outstretched and the other grasping hazardously to a brittle

crust of ice, I pause to assess my status: I am in deep snow, for sure, and can only see two possible conclusions. Death below and life, somehow above…

Rolling over, slowly onto his back the man sinks another inch, not

a sure now, if instinct was to be trusted. Left arm gingerly gripping the

thin shelf of ice, he finds a measure of stability…taking a chance, hecarefully begins to auger a hole with his free hand and elbow. Delicately

tamping the floor of the small cave he presses down on it—it holds.

Growing confident he shifts his weight to get more leverage on the

excavation, but the thin hold gives with a pinch and a slow tumble, as the



ledge near his head and chest gives way, he flings his arms up, and into he

hole he had dug. Hanging now, with both legs in the icy running stream,

he began to deep breathe to abate the shock and fear welling in his mind.

After a few moments, he paused with elbows bent and reviewed

the only possible escape. A steady and slow chin up and then mini-postholing with both outstretched legs, might be enough to start up the 4 foot

throat he created as he fell down to the swift mountain stream. The plan is

methodically executed with frosty legs, creaking an popping as the icecrust snaps and falls from his Therma-lite® pants—both inside and out.

Inch by quaking inch, the man breaches from the frozen pit crawling on all

fours, and simply lays there in the dust light top layer of snow breathing

deeply, grateful for the good free air.

Urgent as it is for him to return from this exposed waste, to the

relative protection of the three walls of his shelter, he grunts into a sitting

position. Sliding a hand up to his shoulder pocket unzips it and pulls hiscamera out. As he sits at the south end of the lake the ice couloir gapes

ahead. A few clicks later he rises slowly to his shaking feet—grateful for the time he had taken to cinch the straps—and bounds back down. For the

first time in his life following the exact path he made upcoming.

Surviving this ordeal and limping back down the mountainside suffering from ice-

shock and hypothermia rendered me a great truth: Snow shoeing in the Southern WhiteMountains is thrilling and a great exertion, but, of all the layers and high tech gear there

is one piece of equipment which must never be allowed to malfunction – the cautious and

considerate mind. But, looking down on me from above my fireplace, it sure is a heck of a picture.

snowshoeing the southern whites

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