...nwood...

Cross-posted on TelemarkTips

The first hints of trouble came with a call from Mom:

"Oh Brian, are you sure you should be going to the mountains? Weren't you just sick??? How high is it? How far to the hut? Do you know how much more treacherous 80 is these days???"

Why is it that when Mom asks valid questions, I hardly hear them? Mostly I hear the concern in her voice, and that translates to questions about my decision-making ability and the possibility of imminent death. Never mind that I WAS on the phone to her just days ago complaining about my fever and lamenting all of the fun weekend activities I was missing. After all these years, Mom still fights an uphill battle to get her message across. Then again, I haven't quite forgotten how she had the Mexican Coast Guard track me down in the Caribbean back when I was 25...but that's not what we're here to talk about.

Thinking about heading out. Sugar Pine Point parking lot. 2:15 p.m.

"Don't worry, it's gonna be sweet at the hut!"

Afternoon into evening...

In spite of dropping out of Cub Scouts and developing a profound disdain for a classmate who became an Eagle Scout at a ridiculously young age (I think he's now retired after hitting it big during dot com), I have never-the-less adhered religiously to the "be prepared" mantra. That is, until this trip. Rather than fill screens with excuses, I'll just say that my thinking prior to departing for the Ludlow Hut weekend went something like this: We'd leave San Francisco Friday at 8 am, make it to the trail head south of Homewood in 3 hours, don skis, hoist 70 pound packs (full of wine, smoked salmon, swiss chocolate, brandy, an extra pound of honey for hot toddies, Sonicare toothbrush etc) and ski some vague number of miles into a hut I'd never been to -- all before sundown. My companions had googled some reliable GPS coordinates and had done a little math which resulted in TOPO! placing a little dot on the side of Richardson Lake, just north of the drainage. Furthermore all of us had reaffirmed our intentions to buy one of these handy GPS devices. How could we go wrong?

At 7:45 p.m. my Petzel cast a timid beam into the densely forested night on the north east side of Richardson Lake. "One of these sets of frozen ski tracks has to lead to the damn hut... Did someone MOVE the hut???" Looking up I question my orientation and wonder about the direction back to the lake. A faint dizziness distracts me from gnawing hunger.

"Essssssther?"

"Peeeeeeeter!"

(Silence.)

"Mooooooom!!!!"

Not quite the plush Sierra Club accomodations we were dreaming of, but it will have to do...

Date next week...don't singe off eyebrows this time...

Why can't all mornings be like this?

The next morning we all stumbled into Home Sweet Hantavirus and sacked out for a nice long nap. Esther and Peter delighted in showing of the power of their dual penny ultra lights. These diminutive dynamos did successfully boil a large pot of pasta water (the gourmet dinner that we were too exhausted to cook the night before). I didn't time how long it took to boil, but to give you an idea, it was roughly equivalent to the time it would take to chase down the weakest member of your party, hack off a plump limb and roast it medium rare.

(To be fair, the victim would need to be on their last legs. The penny stoves work surprisingly well.)

My car is tiny and so is my stove!

Thankfully the big dump waited until we were inside the cozy hut to unload it's bounty. Just as Peter and I were heading out for some turns on Sourdough Hill, Rain and Alan pulled up at the hut. As I watched Alan smugly stow his GPS, I noted their high spirits and surplus of energy. Without a second thought they dumped their packs and struck out for the slopes with us.

Rain over Richardson Lake

Alan coils the spring

Tele Art by Alan

The grand hall at Ludlow. (Brian Wood, Rain Sussman, Alan Baker, Belle Wang, Esther Kim, Peter Gunzenhauser)

Sourdough for breakfast? Anyone?

Can we really catch a snowboarder with this?

Bonding to the old ice layer wasn't too bad. I got a 17, ragged shear. We still skiied the trees.

Rain strikes a pose for possible Ladies Home Journal cover

Woah, were's the bottom?

I'm Swiss, not Austrian...

...I don't do Schwarzenegger impressions.

Sweet as our morning turns were, measured voices prevailed and we opted to begin breaking trail back to Alan's truck and then shuttle to the cars at Sugar Pine Point. Predictably, the trip out started with a gear challenge. Apparently a very important part of a split board binding, a pin crucial to conversion, was lost in the plentiful powder. Alan, the trip's offical handy man, saved the day by pulling off a jerryrig comparable to the beauty of his turns.

I need to skip my turn breaking trail - my butt itches.

World's most efficient car shuttle: One truck. 6 smelly people. All of their gear.

Once back on the road the CalTrans hotline squaked "no restrictions" over my cell and I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of avoiding the chain ordeal. Besides my rented Chevy Aero had proved itself a veritable mountain goat on the drive up! At the summit the wipers were on max and the headlights were full of swirling flakes. I down shifted an murmured a few soothing words to the determined little car while my passengers snoozed peacefully. At Kingvale things turned ugly. Cars began pirouetting on the left and right and I nugded our meager vessel to the shoulder. Just in time too. A semi and four cars piled up right in front of us. When I got out to chain up the highway easily could have been used as a skating rink. After a lengthy wait we were able to continue our journey home. As I hit the sack at 3 am I couldn't help thinking...Mom had been right again.

Photo Gallery