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Revel in winter’s intangibles By Lee Juillerat Dec 09, 2022 01:00 AM A A Smiles come naturally on a sunny day of skiing. [Photo by Lee Juillerat] Snow-shrouded trees are dramatic sights. [Photo by Lee Juillerat] Sometimes, actually many times, the rewards for being outdoors in winter are the intangibles. During a recent cross-country ski outing, a large part of the pleasure came from the sights, like snow crusted and draped on trees and bushes, creating a montage of shapes and forms — a sense of winter. We began skiing from the Summit Sno-Park off Highway 140 with a “maybe we will, maybe we don’t” goal of reaching the Summit Shelter. The snow was several inches deep and heavy as we made our way up the Lower Canal Trail before angling east along the McLoughlin Trail. The five of us on cross-country skis rotated time in the lead, with the person on first dropping to the rear after several minutes of trail-making. After a while, we invited the lone snowshoer, who had been making her own tracks away from ours, to join us. She stayed behind to avoid trampling our tracks. As we learned later, in the deep, fresh snow her tracks didn’t adversely impact ours. Working our way through the snow-blanketed forest was a quiet delight. We seldom spoke, just savoring our serene surroundings. The trail, along a summertime dirt road, had its ups and downs, literally and figuratively. Sometimes one or all of us paused, taking time to enjoy and appreciate the peace and serenity. The skies were sunny and brilliantly blue, sometimes accentuated by frothy clouds. Sometimes the brilliant sun filtered through drooping tree branches, creating an ethereal, fiery glow. Our supposed goal was the Summit Shelter. It wasn’t until later we learned we had skied past a junction that would have put us on the Petunia Trail, which is the most direct route to the shelter. Instead, we continued heading east on the McLoughlin Trail. At its junction with the Pitt View Trail, we headed north. While our surroundings had been tranquil and beautiful, the section along the Pitt View to the Petunia Trail was even more dazzling. Arrows high up on trees helped direct us on the route, gentle and easy to miss. We had no views of snow-covered Mount Pitt-McLoughlin, but other sights – trees made smurflike by heavy snow – were unexpected delights. After snacking near the Pitt View-Petunia junction, three chose to follow the Petunia Trail back to the Lower Canal Trail and back to the Summit Sno-Park. Three of us chose to continue east on Petunia for the Summit Shelter. I’m not sure if the snow was deeper, but after about a half-mile, my legs felt like lead. With agreement from my companions, we doubled back, eventually following the trio’s hard-made tracks. As the morning transitioned to early afternoon, the snow had warmed and become heavier. Snow stuck like glue to the bottom of our skis, causing us to lift skis one at a time to knock them clean. At a spot where the snow suddenly collapsed into a hidden hole, I tumbled head over heels. After several unsuccessful tries to stand up with my skis still on, I stepped out, stood up and stepped back in before tiredly continuing along. The short downhills were welcome, but the steeper uphills that required sidestepping were not. Once on the Lower Canal Trail we could kick and glide. We passed family groups who had ventured further away from the Sno-Park to cut what would become their living-room Christmas trees. Back at the Summit Sno-Park, other families were loading trees onto car-roof racks or, less often, stuffing them inside. One family was gathered around a flaming fire pit while their son and daughter took turns scuffling up a nearby slope then zipping down on sleds. The daughter was adept and adroit on her platter while the son mostly slid off his sled, tumbling headfirst into the snow. Another day we’ll ski to the Summit Shelter. Having a destination is incentive, but sometimes just pausing to enjoy the magic of the season, things like the ever-changing shapes of snow-draped trees and peekaboo sunlight, make goals insignificant. Sometimes it’s just being a part of being there. Reach freelance writer Lee Juillerat at [email protected] or 541-880-4139.