The morning route includes an almond chai stop in Ridgway whilst we motor down the valley gaping at frost-encrusted trees bared to the world around cows so motionless we thought they were frozen to the ground. -5 at our house but warming quickly. Iridescent confetti snow sparkles.
And then, grazing on the side of the road, a bighorn ram and his mini harem, his horns curling around his head like great Nautilus shells, listening for the secrets of the ancient seabeds. Fossil headphones?
My lesson today: learning to trust the warmth of the shell. Not the nautilus shell - the gore-tex shell that should be enough to combat my fears of getting - and staying - cold. The Plum Line! (Remember?). The comments I often hear in my office (aside from my nickname of Weatherbird, and the fact that eat constantly) is that I am never cold. Gee, really? Knee high ski socks, leather boots, lined wool pants, camisole and cashmere sweater? Cold, you say? As if. On ski tours my inclination is to bring crazy amounts of layers consisting mainly of downy feathers. But today, not so much. Puffy jacket, backup Hestra mitts ("the ovens"), faith.
One of the things I love about the ski tour up to McMillan is the skinning. No sun-slicked kick turns in steep tight trees, just long, mellow skin tracks leading you up up up, allowing you all the time in the world to fall into a steady rhythm as you march to the top.
The wind has savaged the snowy landscape here, radically different from our last excursion. The snow we slide through today has fins, ledges, riffles, spines, overhangs, pockmarks, divots, turrets, miniature hoodoos, and any other shape you can imagine, cast no deeper than 6-8 inches.
At the top we chat with some nice folks, one woman from Montrose and her Swiss friend, plus two dudes that seem borderline goony. I comment to JC as they ski away from us: "I make the assumption that all skiers from Switzerland are really good."
As you can see from above, a good amount of time on top of something in this area, whether winter or summer, usually ends in picking out the peaks, which can look radically different from different angles. Depth perception and directionality make the name game fun. I think that's Grizzly, right? No, the one with the jiggy jaggy ridge behind that hummocky one in the foreground… Or is that San Miguel? You get the idea.
I develop two new techniques today, both of which I thought were originals but, as JC comments, I think ski touring is kind of like playing music: someone else has probably thought of it before you. I have techniques for everything, and am often proclaiming Check out my technique for folding a towel when I have a cup of tea in my hand and don't want to to set it down! or Check out my technique for spinning the lazy Susan in the cabinet and trying to grab a measuring cup out without touching the sides before it closes! It keeps life endlessly interesting and I highly recommend it.
Another brief picnic in the sun with a thermos of Constant Comment, then we find the most delightful little tree shots back to the car, darting in and out of the woods like two frisky foxes playing hard to get. The snow in the shade is incredible and an awesome way to end our little tour. It's kind of a joke that this is my first peak, as it's not all that peak-y but wharves, I'll take it. 12,084 feet.
We decide to drive further down the highway to check out a run called Sam's that looks immensely appealing, perhaps for a birthday tour in 2 weekends? scoping for a creek crossing and a skin track, then into Silverton where a $4 bag of salty chips will keep us interested in the drive to the hot springs. I haven't been to Silverton in a few years, and it is always fun to take a tour around the town, reminiscing about the unpaved streets in Telluride when we moved there. Cords and cords and cords of wood are creatively stacked on porches, filling the spaces between steps and windows.
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