Crónicas de Viaje

Viaje de Vermont y Norway

Early morning start with writing

In the Lyngen Alps ski lines fall into the ocean endless. In a few hours I’ll be on the road to Northern Norway and its midnight sun. I am ready to see what my friends have been telling me about, hop on my bike and explore.
With four friends on bikes with skis in tow this trip cries out freedom. In a few hours I will be on the road, heading for mountains that are buried in snow. I worked my way on to this adventure, skiing the lingering snow and riding to the mountains on a bicycle for free.
When I meet my friends we will ride into the midnight sun, leaving behind any excess, we will have each other, the mountains and creativity on the snowy canvass. The frozen mountain waves are ready to be surfed to the curling, active waves of the ocean.

What more could a skier ask for?

I am home now, back on a musty old couch in Vermont with snow falling outside. The memories of Norwegian ways are so vivid in my mind, I just have to write about my experience. At the time, powder and skiing are so abundant that I am almost taking it for granted. Taking a few moments to reflect:

Swish, Swish, Swish, My skis cut through the blower, fluff! I can’t stand it any more, I have to go skiing again and again.
From October to June my skis rarely see the same zone twice. The Adirondacks beckon in the fall and the spring. My blue Subaru becomes home at night after long hauls in New York’s high peaks.
A mid winter trip to New Hampshire takes me in the opposite direction. My favorite high alpine zone is free from the thick trees that make up Vermont’s green mountains. Fully addicted to the skiing and traveling I get blown around and rained on but the snow remains soft all season long.

The Karhu spirit is still alive and well here in Warren. Look through the eyes of a Vermont skier, two ski tips pushing upward. Listen closely, a Blue Jay warning the forest of our passing. Hard wood forests give way to Conifers and morning sun.
Skinning, we slog and poke, dense forest opens to a moosewood misty line. Slow and steady vertical grinds away. Powder snow cloaks a mossy ground at the top of another Green Mountain. Rip skins. “The whole sate skis.”
Streaking down a steep line, “Bup, bup, bup, haa, haa, haa”, over a cliff, airing and landing in untracked snow. “Yes I” good inspiration.
Ripping couloir’s I see a baseball capped skier surfing a rolling wave of snow. Back in the woods we converge for more skinning.
“It’s about the tour not about the turn,” yet at the ski area another rear end meets the chair lift. I load a downhill skier, racing time warp speed laps on ice and moguls. “Thank me at the bar.”
Bamm! Last chair wraps around the bull wheel and tags steel on steel against the guide assembly. The lift stops and I get my run. The sun is dim on the slopes. There’s fresh snow in the woods and at seat waiting at the bar. Where is the tour?
In the woods, wip, whack and shwack, meets my boot cuff. Busting through the choke the skiing is smooth powder snow through tall forest.
Crack, tromp, stomp! A moose passes through the zone. Like the moose Vermont ski culture is wild, leaving behind expectation and responsibility to find little gems amongst a state of trees and sugar lines. Knock it till you try it.

Copyright Tom Hite 12/21/10