Skiing at Apline Meadows on a Tuesday in the spring is having your own private ski area. Favored by the locals per my earlier post, this little gem accommodates several thousand skiers, perhaps into the 5 figures for super-weekends. Tuesday, there might have been 250 of us.
In spring, the mornings bring hard pack snow as the slush from yesterday has glazed over during the night. Staying on the groomed runs can be a rush when you are carving fresh tracks unimpeded down the mountain, cruising down alone over and over again leaving llong archaic "f"s in your wake.
By mid-morning, things have loosened up. The trees called my name for the same reason they keep everyone else away. Trees mean less sun and fewer people, which together mean deep snow. There is, as always the mixed blessing of the trees themselves, buy, hey, where do you think slalom came from? Sliding off your line and throwing a quick turn in "traffic" is what clears the mind.
Just before lunch, the north faces of the mountain should be primed. The area to the left of the summit lift is a bowl - the south faces get hit by the sun and go soft, the north facing sides loosen in the lighter heat. The bowl chair is closed, so not a soul has ventured there. Two days ago, it was kind to say that this was best snow on the mountain. Tuesday, it is damn-near perfect to my taste. 65 degree grade, light moguls on which the puffy stuff perches. I test it with my tips, gut check the cliffs to my right and, swing my first right curve. 45 seconds later, I've lost 400 vertical feet and my thighs are begging for a break. Huffing, I glance up at my fall line. These things always look steepest from two spots, the top and the bottom. When you are actually carving your way down, it just doesn't occur to you.
Lunch. A much needed rest for the quads because after lunch, there is the high traverse. This is why Alpine is known to be the best spring locale. Hit the summit chair, get a push off the lift and glide as far up the mountain as possible before you start to use your downhill skis like cross country ones. Duck walking, left, hop, right, hop, for a very long five minutes. If you don't ski, imagine climbing six flights of steps by skipping a foot in the air between each one. I am warm by the time I reach the summit in position to drop over the backside of the mountain.
The backside is "corn," it crunches when you drop slice into it. The top is soft like powder. Find a speed and rhythm and you can ride this down for several minutes without seeing a soul or a lift. Even the traverse back to civilization ain't bad. Still, these cruisers are too luxury-hatchback for my taste. I lift back up and head back into the double diamond trees.
Maybe the only problem in the tough stuff are the are chutes, little drop-ins usually to more than 12 feet wide. Sure, the rest of the run might have powder on it, but these are natures bottlenecks. Everyone has to run the same stretch of steep bumps and even last week's skiers can mean bulletproof conditions for me today. My edges hold - I sharpened them by hand on my way back out for the afternoon - and again, I look up to see I've left behind a pretty decent drop.
A run to the left, to the right, to the trees, and even to the terrain park to kick a few daffys and I am done. Spent. Tired. Content. A clean condo, a beer, and a cab ride to the Reno airport gets me on a plane, to Los Angeles, and through to a red eye as fast as humanly possible.
I still feel the undulation and pressure of the skis flexing under my feet when I lay down. I am holding on to that until next year's ski trip.
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