Wednesday, April 22, 2009

End of the season

I can't stand to see the snow go.

Ron and I have been milking the season. Every chance we get we head to the back country to ski the Noquemanon off County Road 510 in Marquette County and the trails near our camp on the North side of the Dead River Basin.

So for the past month we've been out exploring.

Two weeks ago Donna Marlor along with Kirby and Debi Juntilla took us up the Noque trail west of 510. Snowcover was fabulous so on the return we ventured off on an untracked trail and came back near Rainey Lake. The adventure ranked our best back country ski of the season. Well, maybe second to skiing the Devil's Track river in Minnesota in March. But anyway, it was worth a repeat.

So last Saturday we went again. This time we met earlier because some warm temps had started the meltdown. Five of us set off at 11a.m.: Jo Samuelson, Nancy Bradbury and Marie Peasley joined us.



10 minutes into the ski, I sunk knee deep in water. It looked like stable trail, but was I fooled, and now with cold wet feet. Wait, this isn't supposed to happen. At least not so soon.




Ron dodged for a detour. Jo, on wood skis was trying to keep them from getting soaked. Snowshoers Nancy and Marie headed away from the water too. Of course everyone laughing as they scattered.



About an hour into the adventure we reached Granite Point. We stopped at the overlook for a snack break and water. Even in cloudy skies the view of the basin-still frozen--is something to behold.

As we headed back, Ron convinced us to extend the adventure and detour to Rainey Lake. Afterall, we had done it the weekend before. Surely we'd remember the way.

Soon we had our doubts. Ron took the lead and heading down a slope of thick wet snow he got stopped dead in his tracks, landing on his head. It's rare to catch Ron in a fall. And watching him squirm to get back on his feet, particularly with a broken ski pole, was good comic relief.

Not long after that we lost our ski tracks from the week before. They disappeared into fresh dirt. Consequently we turned right when we should have stayed left. Everything looks different without snowcover.

Soon the trail narrowed up in the balsams to nothing more than a game trail and Ron and I knew we were heading wrong. We ended up slogging through the runoff from Rainey Lake. What looked like snowpack had pools of water underneath, and even some nasty muck in spots. For the second time I had to ski my feet warm from an ice bath.

I pleaded to head for high ground so Ron changed course and we were back off the flats angling the slopes like mountain goats. I nicknamed Nancy and Marie the "Baraga Babes." Not because they hail from that town across the bay from L'Anse, but because they are such agile snowshoers they would have given Bishop Frederick Baraga, the legendary snowshoe priest, a run for his offering plate. Nancy replied, "That's the first time in my life I've been compared to a Priest!"

Then, as we rounded a knoll high under the hemlocks we heard a roar. All along we'd been keeping our eye on a stream down on our left, believed to be Rainey Creek, but now where was this new water coming from?




Worried we were trapped between two forks of open water, one flowing like gangbusters, Ron went scouting a route out. He found it quickly. A log. . .over a waterfall.

He took off his skis and poles, tossed them across the narrow stream and crossed on the log first.

Jo was next to pitch her gear. Her power was good, and her aim even better, if she was at the county fair trying for a bull's eye. In flight, her ski pole hit a tree and bounced back into the water wasting no time heading downstream. She scampered to get it, bounding in the deep snow to a tree at stream's edge where she used the trunk as a support and snagged her pole. Catastrophe averted with reflexes.




We all got across, safely, and it only took a few more minutes of wandering before we were guided by survey markers back to the main trail out.




On the way back we were so tired we didn't even bother to take our skis off when we crossed leaves and mud and more flowing water. As long as it was less than ankle deep, go for it. My toes were never so shriveled. . .and icy.

Tired, but smiling we got back to the truck before dinner. My beat up ole S-Bound Fischers are still making the rounds. Maybe one more this Saturday. Anyone up for an adventure?

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