St. Lawrence University Nordic Ski Team: The First Ski Adventure of 2009/2010

“There's a big difference between being wet from being in the rain and being totally soaked from jumping into water” Bogden said as a group of us ran through the mud and mist on the campus trails. It was, for many of us, the last day at SLU. “Total lie,” I angrily thought last weekend, as I sprinted down Mt. Mansfield toward the Stowe base lodge in a torrential, thundering downpour. I was soaked through to my spandex, sprinting downhill on the aptly-named blue square Nosedive, with gear-stuffed bag and a pair of skis strapped on my back, and a pair of skate poles in hand. I couldn't look straight ahead without getting my eyes flushed by the wall of water from this fresh New England storm, so I crisscrossed the mountain in almost complete blindness as I tried to make my way back to Big Red, hoping I hadn't locked the keys inside.

Whoa. Back up. What was I doing up there to begin with?

I woke up Saturday morning with an urge for adventure. Getting back to Vermont meant tons of familiar trails and training spots, but this year I want to try some new ideas. Some of my high school teammates and I often hiked Stowe in the fall, after the snow guns had begun to blast and the ground became skiable. Why wouldn't there be skiable snow on the other bookend of winter? Unlike the US Ski Team, APU or other western teams, we don't usually have access to perfect tracks in the spring. Time to change that. I wolfed down some chocolate-chip pancakes as I scoured the webcams of various nearby mountains. Bingo, Mansfield's 4000+ feet still had plenty of beautiful snow. This could be just the epic adventure I was looking for. I threw a camera, shoes, skis, sandwiches, water and the last of my Dana-mix (my favorite snack: a mix of Frosted Flakes, Special K and Granola all stolen, erm, aquired, from Dana Dining Hall) into Big Red, informed my dad “I'll be back later. A couple of hours at least,” and was off. 50 minutes later I pulled my stuff from the car, and with some other like-minded ski-fanatics (albeit downhill shredders) started hiking up the Toll Road. The sky was grey and there was an occasional drizzle, but it felt pretty nice in the humid air. I thought nothing more of it. I wanted to make sure I got in a quality workout regardless, so when I hit some face slopes I got to the top by way of some light ski-walking intervals at a pretty calm level 3 pace. Sure enough, snow patches were appearing all around me. At the summit I looked back and saw a shirtless dude eating up dirt as he ran to the weather station at the peak. “Wow, I should probably start doing that myself next time,” I thought. I hate being outdone in endurance badassness, and I was getting shown-up pretty good by this suns-out, guns-out tough-guy. I looked across the ridgeline and saw much better snow on the far side of the mountain. Using the trail map, I navigated my way along some double black diamonds and glades. Stumbling and slipping over the icy, wet ground, I worked my way to the far side of the mountain and found what I wanted:a relatively flat stretch of snow about 300 meters long, ready for some skiing. As I put my boots on the rain became steadily heavier. I skied around for maybe 20 minutes, then huddled under some fallen tree roots while I munched a small lunch (2 bananas and 2 granola bars). The rain only came down harder, so with reluctance I pulled on the only coat I had--a retro CVU Nordic windbreaker--and started running. After sinking both feet in mud, falling through snow up to my kneecaps and tripping and sliding on my back for a couple of 20-feet stretches, I was thoroughly coated in water inside and out. I came to a wide trail and realized that I was still on the far side of the mountain. “Frick, I've only got two choices,” I thought. I could try and snake across the mountain and back to Big Red, or go straight down to the road and run 20 minutes back on the Mountain road. My quads were already screaming like a sissy from the stress of all the downhill running, so I tried cutting across. I made it a good distance over, but ended up still having to run around 2 soggy miles back to the car. I couldn't have gotten wetter if I had jumped in the snowmaking pond. So much for running not getting you soaked to the bone. I may not have won the endurance toughness award, but I was thankful I kept my shirt on. I couldn’t imagine what macho-mountain-man was doing right now. As I drove down the hill and towards town, I looked back on the resort. Like a scene straight out of a horror movie, the entire mountain was becoming engulfed in grey-black cloud, with flashes of lightning every few seconds. I hit the pedal and gunned it towards Piecasso.