ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, January 14, 1996 TAG: 9601150099
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C9 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Outdoors
SOURCE: BILL COCHRAN
It was a cross-country skier's dream: snow coming to a region where there is a paucity of snow, and on the weekend. And a follow-up storm - icing on the cake - the next weekend.
Every field became an alpine meadow, every hill a virgin powder run. The finest, lightest powder imaginable, dryer even than the artificial kind shot from snow guns. It reached 30 inches in spots.
Wow!
But 2-feet-plus really is too much, thank you. That's enough for three or four skiing snows scattered across winter.
Precious skiing time had to be squandered digging out of your driveway, a six-hour task at our place. It took three heaping scoops in a single spot to reach hard surface.
Once you got out, chances were the public road was impassable, and if you were able to traverse it with your vehicle, where would you park once you reached your favorite skiing spot?
Then the big question: Would the deep, fluffy snow hold the weight of your long, skinny skis?
Your mom was right, you can have too much of a good thing.
It was mid-week before I finally got away, and late in the day. I waded through snow above my knees, carrying my skis over one shoulder, to cross a board fence. Beyond it were discovery and adventure - and very deep snow.
The temperature had not pushed above freezing for days, but the sun had hardened the surface of the snow and the wind had polished it. It was soft enough for my skis to carve bold tracks, yet hard enough to hold my weight. That's what counted.
I shoved off into a scenic and silent landscape, where the loudest sound was the swish of my skis cutting the snow and the accelerated rhythm of my breathing.
With a kick and glide, I moved across a meadow and through a clump of trees, their brown limbs a contrast to the snow even in the fading light. Down a steep hill a creek gurgled, and from it rapidly rose a mountain adorned with a scattering of pines dressed in the garb of Christmas. The familiar had been transformed.
This is the joy of cross-country skiing, when the points of your skis cut snow beyond the lifts and groomed runs of resorts, where there are no lift lines, just solitude and beauty, yours alone.
I was pretty proud of my form, which is all too infrequently tested in this latitude. So why not take a plunge down the hillside? The snow appeared to be stable enough.
My skis traversed the slope slowly at first, then picked up speed. I crouched, bent my knees and tried to keep my profile low and my weight evenly distributed on the skis. The wind whistled in my ears and the coldness reddened my face. Here was freedom.
And here, also, was a soft spot.
All the snow ahead of me looked the same, but snow goes through a metamorphosis. It changes from day to day, hour to hour, spot to spot.
New snow, when it is powder and stacked high, is fluffy and unconsolidated, and it contains air pockets. When my skis hit such a pocket - something like a banana peal in reverse - they took a nose-dive and stopped abruptly, and I kept going, headfirst, thankful for the softness of the blanket of whiteness that nearly buried me.
It is best to fall backward, rather than forward, and better still not to fall at all. But falls are part of skiing.
Another thing you learn is getting up from a head plant in deep snow can be the toughest thing about a fall.
This makes Tom Clark's idea of using a snowmobile to create a track for skiers in city parks all the more appealing for beginners. This week, and throughout the winter, Clark plans to organize cross-country classes for beginners. You can get the details from him by calling his Roanoke City Parks and Recreation office at 981-1339.
LENGTH: Medium: 74 linesby CNB