Annie popped out of the woods just above me, and collapsed backwards on the snow. She was one big grin, holding up her left hand for a high five.
“You like that, huh?” I ventured.
“Ooh!”, she cooed. “That was sweet!”
She calls herself a ninja boarder. She is dressed all on black (except for white boots) – black helmet, jacket, pants, gloves, goggles. Whenever I get a chance to look at her on the slope, she’s got a little kid appearance (she’s 18). I think the helmet is what does it – babies and young children have outsized heads for their bodies. And, I spent so many years teaching my kids to ski, that I still associate any time with them on the snow as dealing with the needs of a ten year old (or under).
That’s why it’s such a thrill to be zooming through the trees with her. She insists on following behind me, so I rarely get a chance to see her in action. But I remain amazed that, every time I stop or look behind me, there she is, cutting her path through the firs right behind me.
I have so deeply assimilated skiing into my being, that’s it’s hard to tease out the joys I find there, or how it feels, or what I love about it. According to the ski manufacturers of the 21st century, I am an AME – an all mountain expert. Meaning, I like to do almost everything, go almost everywhere, in any conditions on any part of the mountain. Skiing for me is an exercise in pure pleasure. It’s just that I’ve found so many ways to feel good while skiing.
So tree skiing is only one part of skiing, and there are many kinds of tree skiing. But anytime one is in the trees, rule number one is: aim for the spaces, not the trees! Tree skiing requires one to give up all control to the terrain and the vegetation over where to turn. My choices are made for me; my job is to execute the game plan the mountain dictates.
There are two main advantages to being in the trees. First, on days when it is snowing, or foggy (“white-out”), or windy (or a combination of any two or all three), the trees offer protection. Although one can’t really see any better in the trees, the dark branches and trunks provide some much needed contrast, a series of edges to define the external world when snow or fog becloud the sight. And the wind, so biting and lacerating out in the open, is buffered by all those rigid, yet forgiving needles and twigs.
Second, the snow is always better in the trees The tighter the trees, the better the snow, for two reasons. First, all those branches are capturing the snow which is being blown across the hill, piling up not only the snow which is falling from directly above, but also that falling up wind. Snow depths can double or triple within the groves during a storm. And second, fewer skiers venture into the trees, so all that snow is not being churned and packed as much as out in the open.
The snow is better, and the light is better.; those are the advantages. So why doesn’t everyone ski in the trees? I think its because they are not seeing the forest for the trees. People see all those solid, immovable objects, and fear not being able to turn in the spaces. On an open slope, you can turn where YOU want to. In the trees, you have to turn where THEY want you to.
Out of this loss of control, the pure pleasure of skiing appears. On the first day we skied together this year, the first time in years, I took Annie into the trees. Well, actually, I took myself into the trees at the bottom of our first run together, down a cruiser called Fast Draw off the Sam’s Knob lift. It had snowed 11 inches in the preceding 24 hours, most of it during the previous ski day, so the snow was soft and cut up by the other riders before us. Snowboards natrually excel in stuff like this. For a skier, the secret is, aim for the fluffy patches, not the shiny ones. Snow piles slow you down; go slower, and it’s easier to turn, and less frightening as well. So she on her board, and me on my skis had a great first run.
Hitting the flats, I noticed a little patch of aspen trees below me.
“I’m going to go through those trees there,” I told her.
“Don’t do that, Dad. It looks dangerous,” she warned.
“Don’t worry; it’s not steep, I do this all the time.”
And it’s true; I have come to a point where I am no longer afraid of a tight aspen grove, when there is fresh, untracked powder in it. Worst case, I can always just sit down; the fluffy stuff stops me instantly, and protects me from those unforgiving stalks, so pale and peeling, all around me. I entered, took a few easy turns through the feathers, and felt fully in control.
It’s imperative to look two spaces ahead (but ONLY two) in the trees, as setting up a turn usually requires getting positioned properly near the end of the prior one. So as you start a turn through a space (and you should always be TURNING through the spaces, not going straight), you really need to know where your next turn will be, or for sure you will hit a tree. Which really hurts, and stops you cold, in an aspen grove, unlike among fir trees, which cushion any mistakes with the soft give of their lower branches. Four or five turns, and I saw ahead the pop out, which unfortunately was onto a flat which had been groomed for ski school, leaving a drop of about 18 inches from the fluff to the hardpack.
This requires an adjustment of down unweighting, a technical maneuver in which the skier, while keeping the skis in contact with the slope, quickly drops his hips, causing momentary weightlessness, to allow some cushioning as the give of the surface abruptly changes. Then, straighten the legs to regain control. The arms must either rise as quickly, or lift the poles so they don’t get caught in the snow by the sudden drop.
Well, whatever. For some reason, my right hand/pole grip rose up, and smacked my neck in the muscle just to the right of my windpipe. Stunned, I lost control, and flopped onto the snow.
Usually, such a fall is insignificant, and I can pop right up. Not this time. For some reason, my brain didn’t feel quite right, like it wanted to sleep but was not tired. Also, my right eye seemed like it was letting in a lot more light than my left. This went on for several minutes, and Annie kept asking if I was all right and if I needed anybody.
I procrastinated, assuming things would come around. While I waited, I tried to figure out what had happened. The carotid artery goes through that general area, and has some sensors in their which monitor local blood flow and pressure. If too much blood seems headed for the brain, they shut down the flow a bit. This is a great mechanism for an athlete who is working very hard, or a person suffering from uncontrolled high blood pressure, to avoid a stroke from excess blood flow and pressure in the brain, which basically wants an unvarying volume of blood flowing through it at all times.
I must have disrupted that blood flow somehow with the blow, and needed about five minutes (and the warmth of the sun) to get back to reality. That was Annie’s first exposure this trip to the joys of tree skiing. And a good lesson – it is more often than not the entrance and the exit to the trees that presents the riskiest moments. Go too fast into the trees, and you’ll hit one for sure. Exit in a similarly uncontrolled fashion, and the abrupt change in snow quality, surface, and visibility can play havoc with your senses.