It's almost solstice. Just the beginning of winter really. The beginning of the ski season and all the movement through trees and snow that this entails. I just started heading into the backcountry again after barely getting started 20 years before. I took an avi course, got geared up (with a beacon, shovel and probe.. and skins to go on the bottom of skis to help with the climb), and headed to a cabin last year. That trip inspired this poem.
Hydromajestic
The tension of wind on slope
wrapping bowls with convex shards.
It is considerable,
but we rip our skins in the tree line
and keep watch over all that is happening above.
We cross a line below shadows, one at a time
quick slip, smooth slide
thigh shots of powder and curving
lines laced through tree stubs. We stamp
and pace and regroup for the climb.
The sound of snow;
the wind funnelling through jagged teeth on the ridge line.
We rip again, then gulp
shots of cold
tongues extending down gullies
the sun translucent through lips of ice.
The wind pulls more
snow than a storm throws,
it loads through the notch,
crusts over surface hoar from three days before.
We ride humps and meadows,
marshmallow trees, wedding cakes, baked Alaska slabs.
We climb, we ride.
We climb, we ride.
The wind piles on the cornice.
What is its breaking point?
What is ours?
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