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New Territory

By Kate Siber

On a Sunday morning in January, the shrill notes of my alarm shattered the cold, dark stillness of my bedroom to announce the arrival of another backcountry ski day. On all but the most pressing occasions, I allow myself at least 10 minutes in my nest to ponder the day ahead.

Lying there that morning, the feat of carrying myself all the way to 12,000 feet and back down again, possibly several times, seemed damn near impossible. Even breakfast seemed like a challenge. But challenges often seem harder from a distance, I told myself. I managed to lift myself up, shake off the grip of dreaminess, and begin the business of getting ready.
Today promised to be a little different from the usual backcountry routine. I emerged from my front door into a day so clear and cold that the air felt sharp and surprising, like the first sip of a dry champagne. I joined my friends Lori and Carol, who were loading skis and packs and dogs into Lori's Jeep, called shotgun, and clambered in. After five years and countless days exploring the San Juans by ski, that Sunday was the first time I had ever traveled with a ladies-only team.
It seems women ski partners, like lynx, are an elusive breed: They're out there, but they're hard to find. By contrast, it seems all a skier has to do is sidle up to a well-polished bar in a ski town to find a willing partner with a y chromosome. I almost always ski with my boyfriend, Andrew, a veteran skier who has been criss-crossing these mountains for over a decade. Out of habit, I almost always let him lead.
But today was different. We were an all-star team. Carol, a no-nonsense mountain woman and ski patroller raises her own sheep and slices a mean tidemark turn. Lori, an engineer by day, can ski faster than approximately 98 percent of the men that I know, and though she was a newbie to the backcountry, she was game to follow Carol and me anywhere.
We set off at a slow clip that allowed for gabbing. Slowly, we fell into paces formed by the unique rhythms of our breath, steaming in the crisp air. According to my personal policies, every day in the mountains calls for at least one pit stop for beauty appreciation. We took ours at the top of the 2,000-vertical-foot climb on the windless, sun-drenched ridge.
Since all of the new ski tracks before us led west, we decided to cruise east off the ridge. What we discovered was what I'd consider God's gift to humankind: perfectly spaced glades laid with a feathery carpet of untracked snow. We leapfrogged down the mountain, bouncing through the fluff, dousing tree trunks with a sugary spray and joining in a chorus of hollers. Since we are all strong skiers, we decided to take a path even less traveled by and check out what lay to the right: a hinterland where I had never seen anyone lay tracks.
Together, Carol and I navigated a safe line down the mountain via its tree-anchored ribs while avoiding the steep, alluring, but potentially avalanche-prone meadows. The knee-deep snow sliced like butter and we saw not a single old, buried ski track. But after regrouping in a harbor of trees, I realized with a sinking feeling that we had traversed too far right to meet up with the drainage that would bring us directly back to the car.
I felt a pang of self-doubt: This is new territory! I took a moment to gaze at the unfamiliar terrain and the ice-encrusted pines, silent and sparkling. They now seemed a little foreboding. After a few minutes of discussion, however, a sense of calm draped over me like a warm coat. I realized that this, right here, was my habitat. I had grown into adulthood in these mountains, hiking, climbing, and, most of all, skiing.
We made a collective decision to keep cruising down the mountain to the road. Carol and I led the way, avoiding steep concavities and weaving through thick pine stands in order to avoid any avalanche danger. The slope became more overgrown as we picked our way down, thwacking through bushes, balancing on fallen logs, and twisting around rocks. Finally, we emerged into a clearing and spotted cars through the trees and Cement Creek below us.
Of course, wading through Cement Creek in ski boots wasn't exactly planned, but then again, it wasn't exactly unplanned either. Those who live their lives outdoors occasionally decide to push new possibilities. I realized that this was just one part of the process of becoming a leader, not only for others but also for myself. I also realized, not an hour later, while sipping beers at Silverton's Pride of the West, that all's well that ends with a good amber ale and a laugh at your own expense.

Contributing editor KATE SIBER writes from Durango, Colo.