Seasoning

As far as the tug of war between winter and spring goes, winter definitely took April. When it wasn't cold, it was raining, and when it wasn't raining, it was cold. The final kick in the teeth happened on April 22nd, when most Mainer's woke up to a couple inches of snow or more.

May started far more kindly. The first week ushered in some well-needed sunshine and warm temperatures. On the first Saturday in May, the temperature approached 70 degrees. After a long, cold, wet April, we took advantage of this beautiful weather by...heading for a snow-covered mountain. It was our long-planned annual trek to Tuckerman Ravine in New Hampshire. What better to do on the first nice day in months than to hike three and a half miles with a pair of skis strapped to your back?

This is the third year I've hiked into Tuckerman, but this was the first year that there was enough snow left in the bowl to ski it - in previous years, we settled for Hillman's Highway to the left of the bowl. The bowl was a whole new experience. Whereas the Hillman's Highway trip was primarily a solitary affair, skiing the bowl was anything but. Picture a few hundred people scattered about sitting on the rocks at the base of the bowl. Picture a steady stream of potential skiers, hiking up various trails in the bowl in their ski boots. Picture the occasional skier actually skiing down the bowl. Cheers go up for a successful run. Cheers go up for a crash and burn. A sigh of relief emanates from the skiers who successfully complete their runs.

You will hear no sigh of relief from me. My journey begins with the decision on which run to take - a long slide on the left side of the bowl. The higher we climb, the more apparent it becomes that this thing is a lot steeper in reality than it looks from the base of the bowl. The crevices that appear near the boulders that we climb past on our way up do little to build up my confidence. About two thirds of the way up the run, the cry of "ice" comes from the crowd sitting on the rocks below. We turn to see a couple of chunks of ice careening down the bowl. This late in the year, it is common for ice chunks to let loose from the cliffs on the headwall and other areas throughout the bowl. In this case, one rather large chunk of ice ends up smashing into the rocks at the bottom, sending spectators scattering. No one is hurt, but it is a stark reminder that we are on the mountain's turf, and the mountain will continue to make the rules.

There comes a point when we can hike up no further. After two plus hours of hiking, it is time to face the mountain head on. Peter, who I've followed up the mountain, is the first to take the plunge. He skis down flawlessly. I take my time at the top, lamenting the fact that it is a darn sight steeper than I had calculated it to be from the ground. At lat, I can hold out no longer - there are people behind me waiting to go.

So I cautiously start skiing down. But, I find, on terrain this steep, there is no such thing as cautious skiing. Three turns into my run, something doesn't quite work right. A ski pops off. I fall to the ground. And I continue my trip down the mountain unabated. At some point, my second ski pops off. And somewhere, I manage to lose the ski poles as well. And I continue to slide.

My body does not come to a stop until I am nearly at the base of the bowl. Aside from a little bit of "snow burn," I am unhurt. It all happened so quickly that I'm not really sure all that was going through my mind, but I do remember a couple of thoughts. The first was thinking back to what I learned from my ice and mountain climbing training - don't try to stop yourself by using your legs to slow down. So I didn't, and by doing so, I'm sure I avoided sprains or a broken leg. The second thing I remember was feeling embarrassed. "This is not the way I had planned on coming down," I said to those hiking up the mountain as I zipped past them.

When I finally did stop, I wondered what the reaction would be from the crowd on the rocks. As I got up, I heard nothing. Either people weren't watching my fall, or they were being considerate. A few minutes later, the man who was behind me on the hike up, skied down to me with one of my skis, both of my poles, and, surprisingly, my watch. This angel on skis saved me the trouble of having to climb up the mountainside again to retrieve my equipment. My second ski ended up burying itself about 50 feet up from where I finally came to a stop.

I was embarrassed and blew my only opportunity to ski Tuckerman that day. But I was unhurt, and that was good enough for me. On the hike back down with my girlfriend, I was tired and looking forward to a shower and a cold beer. The gods must have been felt I deserved a break, because about two-thirds of the way back, we rounded a curve in the trail and there, sitting smack in the middle of the path, were four unopened cans of beer. We could only speculate what led to their abandonment, but we didn't speculate too long - Denise said "I'm taking one, how about you?" And we finished out our journey, beers in hand, and bid goodbye to winter.

Floating with the Dead

If a ski trip was the symbolic end to winter, then it only makes sense that a whitewater rafting trip the next weekend served as the symbolic start of spring.

The Dead River is a special river to raft since it is only run six times a year, coinciding with the "big" dam releases at the head of the river. The normal daily dam releases on the Dead are around 5000 cubic feet per second (CFS). Think of five thousand footballs, which represent about a cubic foot, escaping through the damn gates every second. During the "big" releases, the water runs upwards of 9000 CFS. On this particular day, after a week of steady rain, the release was 13,000 CFS, the highest experienced in about four or five years. Big water for sure.

Lots of water, however, does not necessarily result in huge rapids or waves. The size and shape of rapids is determined by both water level and obstructions (typically rocks and boulders) in the riverbed. At low water levels, some areas of the river may be impassible, while boulders in other areas, just below the surface, churn the water into rapids. As the water rises, these boulders may get covered and not contribute significantly to the surface characteristics of the water. The bottom line is that part of what makes running the Dead so exciting is that you never get the same "river" twice - you have to go with the flow and seek out the best ride.

The big releases on the Dead happen in May and September. If you choose to raft in May, you will, of course, be sitting on top of (hopefully) some very cold water. As such, it is mandatory that you wear a wetsuit, which all of the outfitters will cheerfully rent to you for $15. The first "jolt" from a May whitewater trip comes not from the splash of the icy water in the river, but from the immense uncomfortableness that one must endure in putting on a cold, wet wetsuit. Imagine being soaked to the bone by a cold rain. It was universally agreed that this was not a pleasant experience.

It is a small price to pay, however, for the excitement of the trip itself. The river was very fast (the trip, which normally takes 4 to 4 1/2 hours, took just 2 1/2 hours), and the rapids were nearly constant. I've been through bigger rapids on other rivers, but, all in all, it was a fun run from start to finish. In our raft, anyway. A group of women in the raft behind had, shall we say, a bit more of a "natural" experience. About one fourth of the way into the trip, they got stuck in a "keeper" wave and flipped the raft. Often referred to as a "near death experience" by those involved, they were quickly reined in by those of us in the other rafts. A short time later, two of the women in the same raft were again tossed out by a wave. They were smiling and laughing at the end, however, so things apparently got better for them.

Although the trip was two hours shorter due to the speed of the river, nobody was complaining about being gypped. In fact, most wished it would have ended a bit sooner. That has nothing to do with the intensity of the experience, but it has everything to do with the fact that a wetsuit only goes so far in keeping a body warm in 40 degree water. Although nobody was officially hypothermic, more than a few were clearly in the early stages. Getting out of the wetsuits helped a lot, but I wasn't the only one that was struggling to hold a fork at the cookout afterwards. In the future, I'm sure most of those on the trip will opt for the September Dead releases.