foot, I can only agree – good skiing definitely lies ahead. Actually, the quality of what we’re appreciating – light density , cold smoke, champagne powder, it’s known by By The Grace Of Snow many names – can be described with Jackson Hole numerical precision. Each day from November through April, the Bridger- 2000-2001 Teton National Forest Avalanche Hazard and Mountain Forecast does exactly that, posting the amount of new snowfall over the last 24 hours by Ted Kerasote and its equivalent water content (both expressed in inches) on its recorded telephone message and website. Global warming . . . impoverished Floridians and Texans, with their : these are the times that try insufficient, all- radial tires, their “Equivalent water content” is the my soul, especially right now as clogs, Birkenstocks and cowboy boots, amount of water you would find if you the midwinter weeks wind down their lack of shovels and gloves, and melted a sample of the new snowfall toward the equinox, and the their misplaced faith in the sanding and measured the result in a standard sun, edging up in the sky, softens the truck. The only redeeming part of our gauge. If you then divide the south-facing snowpack, making the wait is that many potential backcountry inches of this equivalent water content newly fallen powder dense and less skiers grow impatient and turn around by the inches of snowfall, you will get a than carefree. It’s when my reverse for the ski area. When the road percentage that describes the density of Seasonal Affective Disorder kicks in, suddenly opens, but a handful of the the newly fallen snow. For example, ten my depressing mental toboggan slide faithful remain. inches of new snow, with an equivalent starting at the end of January when the water content of .5 inches, equals a light increases, and I start counting the Most of them, carrying snowboards and snow density of five percent. days before I have to go back on Prozac downhill skis, walk up Mount Glory to keep the spring blues away: warmth, as Merle and I head south from the As a rule of thumb, light density chirping birds, budding trees, flowers, parking lot atop the pass. When I take snow falls at low temperatures, denser green grass – the full catastrophe. off my climbing skins a few minutes snow at higher temperatures, closer later above the run known as Powder to freezing. This is intuitive, and why Yet, even in these sad interglacial times, Reserve, two snowshoers pass us, going warming trends are so devastating to my hopes can be rekindled by one good toward Black Canyon. Within 200 the physical and mental well being . Of course, I’m not talking about yards, they’re gobbled by the falling of powder skiers. What isn’t so your classic , dropping feet snow and low , leaving Merle immediately apparent is that negligible of snow with high winds, which are and me alone. differences in density translate into hardly the ingredients of remarkable large differences in the enjoyment we backcountry powder skiing. Rather Lying on his belly, he sticks his perceive swooping downhill. what I want are those steady orographic muzzle and entire head in the snow, pulses curling nightly over the Tetons snuffling and inhaling deeply like a Ten percent snow is very skiable – and leaving four, six, nine, eleven wine connoisseur, before rolling over effortless, carvable, quick. In fact, inches of light-density snow, so that and over in the powder, jumping to some of the most memorable powder two to three feet of fluff await, buoyant his feet and giving himself a wriggly days I can remember have been in as a soufflè, unmarred as first love, shake of sheer delight. He wags his nine percent snow. But increase the alluring as terra incognita on a blank tail so hard, it slaps his ribs, and he snow density only slightly, to 12 or and ancient map. laughs a panting grin – real snow again! 15 percent, and you get those gloppy Merle’s methodology may not be very porridges that clog the mountains Thankfully, one of these is scientific, but he knows what he’s of New England and the Sierras and taking place right now, and Merle, looking for: snow that seems more air force skiers to point their skis straight my Golden Lab, and I leave the house than substance. downhill even on steep terrain so as early and sit at the base of Teton Pass to generate enough speed to move. while plow drivers and deputy sheriffs Poking with my ski pole at the newly Anything less than seven percent snow clear the road of southern Californians, fallen half foot, lying atop another half is the elixir called light powder. Snow everywhere, but also a mental one, each Equipment check list done, I look that is less than five percent in density traveler having the opportunity to be an again at the slope dropping below us, is an amazingly ethereal substance, explorer in a landscape that becomes calculating where I will turn out if mostly not there. his or her own mythological geography. something releases – not that the slope will slide, or else I wouldn’t be skiing Today, the snow’s density is five No sun has touched the Goddess; the it. Still, one doesn’t take anything for percent, which means that in any given snow lies deep; she is her usual fulsome granted. It would be a long time to hold volume of it, say, the sinuous track self. Even though the conifers grow one’s breath. that Merle and I are about to leave on thick on the ridge, there is nonetheless Powder Reserve, 95 percent of what a narrow twisting glade on her spine, “Ready?” I say to Merle. we’re going through is nothing but air. invisible from afar and dropping 800 This is why powder skiing is the closest feet to the valley floor, with a steep and He looks at me seriously, one eye human beings and dogs can get to luscious finish, a wave of descending staring down the slope, reappraising the flying while still being attached to the snow matching me turn for turn down line, one hanging on me. earth. It’s also the reason why the slope. Like some sea mammal, only in the mountains is literally such a drag. his head visible, Merle swims down “Let’s go!” You have to plod downhill instead of behind me and emerges, a dog again, float. from the cascading snow. Ecstatic, he I turn downhill and he jumps behind dances his front paws up and down in me. The snow, locally trapped by the The first turn doesn’t disappoint us. a jig. embayment of trees, is shockingly The snow, like vaporous spindrift, deep, up to my hips. Like a cloudburst rises around my waist, cascades over The wind has come from the west, and on a windshield, it erases the world my shoulder and hits me in the face. the huge open bowl, rising before us in front of my goggles. Then I rise During the next several turns there is and facing east, is clearly loaded with into the turn – trees, pelting snow, the no bottom, just the platform that my snow. It’s what we’ve been heading slope unrolling below. And another sinking weight creates under my skis for; it’s the crème de la crème; but it’s cloudburst of white. There is no and off which I turn. Merle surfs behind a route that I don’t care to ski alone, for bottom to the snowpack, only the me. Emerging from the trees, we hit a it has a convexity at its top, where the sense of soaring through a delicate and rude crust, left over from the last few snow is stretched and under tension, supportive space – amniotic and with sunny days, and I decide on the route and below it there is a gully. A perfect the dreamlike experience of my own we must take during the rest of our tour. little avalanche trap, and I’m not sure body being a wing. It will be mostly in forest. that Merle, who is the most patient of souls, wouldn’t simply sit there if I This is precisely the sensation that At the creek bottom, I put my climbing were caught in a slide and wait for my has now disappeared from almost skins back on and head up Edelweiss, emergence instead of digging me out. every ski area in the world, high the 1200 foot-high ridge that separates speed lifts carrying so many people Trail Creek and the East Fork of Mail Foregoing a traverse of the bowl, we uphill each hour that nowhere does Cabin Creek. The skin track is filled in; climb up through the trees, tour along snow accumulate untracked for days, at the top there is nothing to be seen but the top of the ridge in perfect safety, becoming “bottomless.” One is always and falling snow; we drop off the and at its far end, I take off my skins skiing on yesterday’s traffic, which is back side, finding, just as on Powder next to another thick stand of conifers all the more reason for these journeys Reserve, deep fluffy snow at the top, in that descends steeply back to the valley to the backcountry. the trees, and crust half way down on floor at the very edge of the catchment the open slopes. No point in continuing basin. It’s not the hero’s line, but it’s The temperature has fallen; the snow on these exposures. a sweet line, and a secure one, and has become, if possible, lighter than getting to it has made me feel like an it was this morning; and I am almost We angle north, onto a secluded and ancient mariner, skirting the coasts, entirely in it, wrapped in home. The heavily treed ridge called the White tacking uphill through forests to find skiing – or the flying – is so good that Goddess, a name invented long ago reliable trade winds and safe passages Merle and I return to our skin track, by me and a ski partner, and used through the reefs. reascend it, and do the run again. by no one else whom I know. It’s one of winter’s many charms, snow I clear the snow from my boots, tighten Then, as the afternoon darkens, we creating not only a physically altered the buckles, see that my bindings are make our third climb of the ridge and topography, potential new routes in release mode, and cinch my pack. find a line that we’ve never really named, leaning instinctually toward the belief of old cultures that you never utter the name of what is most powerful and sacred. From the ridgecrest it’s hard to discern that there is even negotiable terrain in the subalpine fir below us – one of the reasons this line is so rarely skied.

But the line is there, opening suddenly into a narrow slope a little over 40 degrees in steepness, facing northwest, shaded, hidden, and with a sudden left and right turn, then a one-skier-wide plumb line to the valley floor. It is often filled with boulders and fallen trees, but now they are all erased by the winter’s snow, as if the world were newly made and had not yet seen its first erosion.

As eagles, as children, as pups, Merle and I drop off our perch and float down through the clouds.