Christmas Eve 2015 was to be a choice day on Mt. Spokane. Several inches of fresh snow from an overnight storm, on top of the accumulation from days of snowy weather, promised top-of-the-line conditions. Yet in spite of our excitement, it turned out that the road to the mountain had been closed by the DOT because of downed trees and dropped power lines. We had to drive to the signs to prove it to ourselves though. Surely they could open up the road to the mountain post haste. No! And the line of cars waiting to go up was a sight to behold. Our hopes were dashed and it was “iffy” for the next day.

On Christmas morning we called the mountain and checked the website early. Things didn’t look good. My wife Lindell decided to take our dog, Nina, out for a three mile walk about 7:30, and I stayed home and read the paper and kept calling the mountain. Eventually I switched to the website, frustrated by phoning. It turned out the road would be opened at 9:15! Lindell was back now, and I shouted the good news to her.

After a rushed breakfast we jumped into the car and drove as fast as prudently possible out onto the slick roads to go SKIING! One catch. Others had the same idea. The long lineup of cars was barely moving when we got there. We inched ahead, seldom going over 20 mph in our slowest ascent to the ski area we’d ever had. The minutes dragged on, but in spite of our worry that going up the steep sections that slowly might be chancy, we got there with blue sky and sunshine. Only a few wispy clouds drifted across the trackless terrain!  

We charged up to the lodge from the parking lot and jerked our skis out of the locker. The boots had never seemed to take so long to get on our feet before! After a quick “pit stop” we were on chair 3 and on our way to the day of dreams. We jumped off the chair and went straight to work. I was a bit too enthusiastic about the deep snow and “spun out” quite quickly. I am a very aggressive skier and follow the rule “No falls, no balls” so I got right up, and we were on our way. 

It is hard to describe the feeling that you get from being knee deep in untracked powder snow to a “civilian.” Others have done that much better than I am capable of doing, but it is a sensation like no other. The resistance is different than what you find at lesser depths or on a packed slope. The feeling of almost weightlessness settles you into a world of wonder and drives you to try to experience it with all the speed you can handle. To say you float along is a gross understatement!  

Most of the time I ski on the cutting edge of control because it is such an exciting place to be. When you know you are cheating gravity and obstacles, you know that this is your time and place. This is what joy is made of. This is the time to savor and breath in the moment for the next turn into skier heaven. Then you realize that this is not an endless sensation. Your legs tell you!  

Skiing in powder is not a relaxed walk in the park. Even at slower speeds it is demanding of strength and endurance. Maybe the young and the restless are able to make it from top to bottom without stopping under these conditions, but more mature devotees enjoy respites to stop and drink in what has been done and gather courage for the next “thrust” into the beckoning downhill. The drive is to get down so you can start over while the untracked snow is still available. The chairlift takes you up all too slowly!

Now it really helps to enjoy all this better if you don’t ski alone. You enjoy it so much more when you are able to express joyful feelings as you experience slightly different slices of the same pie. Stopping and looking down those steep runs is always a bonding experience that never grows old. I am so fortunate to have all that in my life partner. 

When Lindell and I first got together one of the first questions she asked me was, “Will you teach me to ski”?  Indeed I would! It was a real labor of love and she took to it like the proverbial duck. The first time getting off the chairlift at 49 Degrees North was almost a disaster, but she is a “gamer” and a marvelous and graceful powder skier in her 70s.

That Christmas Day she glided down the steepest terrain on Mt. Spokane with as much élan as the best of the younger set but maybe not quite as fast. However, when we ski together in deep snow, whenever I stop she is, usually, at my elbow, just uphill from me. And that is how it was on run after run that day.

We dashed over to Chair 2 from our start on the Nastar run and were well on our way for the “perfect day.” The run down the chair line is somewhat rolling with two pretty steep pitches. Without very much traffic we were able to find all consuming, mostly untracked paths for several laps. Christmas day helped make this possible because, in spite of the magnetic attraction of the current conditions, the day has built in limitations for a big crowd. While Mt. Spokane can get tracked up fairly quickly, there were fewer skiers to do it that day. 

We almost wore ourselves out under Chair 2, but the lift had mechanical problems. Rather than wait for them to fix it we rushed over to Chair 3 and then scooted over to 1 on the lower cat track. Chair 1 is our preferred area on a day like that day. We figured by then it would be mostly tracked up but we still found some good stuff left. The legs were calling to us now though. We stayed for two more runs before it was time to bail. And it was a relief to go back on Rulon Run which was well groomed. 

It was a day of days for the two of us, and we never had a more enjoyable and exciting time with our clothes on! It truly was one of best days of my life. I call it a perfect day.

At age 84, Bart Haggin still runs an average of 1,400 miles per year and skis 30-plus days each season. He has been a certified ski instructor with the Professional Ski Instructors of America for over 60 years. He emailed right before we went to print, with the March-April 2021 issue, with this exuberant report on his latest epic ski day: “Number 1 has never been better! Like an Olympic downhill run! Got up to 58 mph on the first run and 48 mph on a later run… Great day! Gorgeous!”

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Clouds were gathering over Oregon’s high desert as I searched the steep slope below for the trail that would lead us back to our campsite at Campbell Lake. My husband already had begun angling down through scattered brush and lodgepole, hoping a closer look would reveal the path that had led us to the bluff’s edge, then suddenly vanished. Nothing. 

It was 3 p.m., with the lengthening shadows of a mid-fall day. The thought of returning the way we’d come, through miles of dense blow down deep within the Fremont-Winema National Forest, made my legs ache. But moving ahead could mean slogging through confounding forest debris, perhaps past sunset. 

Ron and I have been hiking together for decades. To us, backtracking hints of retreat. It was no surprise, then, when he wanted to push ahead. Let’s descend into the gulley, he urged, then follow the ravine north to the lake. We’ll be sipping beers before you can say, “frothy effervescence.” 

I stared at a shoulder-high cairn at my side, seeking guidance but finding only neglect. Had these crumbling rocks once marked an intersection? Were they a warning? Nearby, a faded sign, “Campbell Lake Loop,” poked from toppled trees. Again, I scanned the hillside. Again, nothing. 

On the ascent, we’d skirted Deadhorse Lake and zig-zagged ridges, all the while scrambling over trees and sleuthing the on-again-off-again trail. We’d made a game of it, often splitting up in hopes of discovering the route first. We became so immersed in our competitive trail hunt that we gave little thought to the time or to turning around. 

Now, as I rummaged through my pack for a remaining fig bar, I questioned the wisdom of plunging ahead. Maybe I should resist my husband’s challenge, end this game of “I will if you will,” and lobby for the known way home. Maybe. 

Ron and I love our adventures. We often egg each other on, whatever we’re doing—hiking, skiing, biking. It pushes us to places we might not otherwise go. Thrilling, satisfying places. 

Yet, there’s a problem the size of a cockroach in this sporty stew of ours. Competitive temperaments and marital harmony aren’t the best of bedfellows. One-on-one challenges thrive on conflict, not the likes of compassion and compromise. How, then, can any healthy relationship support both rivalry and partnership?  

Further complicating matters: Ron’s the better athlete. He’s a stronger hiker, a more aggressive skier, a faster bicyclist. It’s not just that he’s a guy. He’s simply more agile and forceful than I. I might display more finesse, but that’s hardly enough to keep me in the lead. 

Sports lie at the heart of our relationship. I met him at an after-ski party in Bend. 47 years later, we’re still at play. We’re now retired and living on a farm in Central Oregon.  The slopes of Mt. Bachelor lie just 45 minutes away.  

Ron’s an ex-racer, and I’m not, so, I know he’ll beat me down any hill. But I’m a strong and capable skier, and it can be disheartening to always bring up the rear. Just once, I’d like to whip his ass.  

As the years have passed, I’ve done a better job of blending my competitive proclivities with reason and understanding. I’ve tried to nourish the thrill while discarding the hostility. In short, I’ve worked to purée that cockroach right into our spousal concoction, aiming for both consistency and spice.   

I tested my recipe on that bluff above Campbell Lake. “I think we should turn back,” I called. It’s late. Risky route, risky terrain. If we get lost, we’ll be lost for hours. Ron hesitated, then, quietly, agreed. 

Three hours and countless tree-crawls later, we rounded the last switchback. The bright blue of our pop-up camper flashed through the trees.  

We cracked a couple of beers and stood at the lake’s edge. Clouds hazed a setting sun, but the threat of any storm had passed. We watched goshawks circle overhead, searching the rippled water for dinner.  

We gave each other a double hand-slap, our sign for a day well done. I took a sip of beer. Then another. I smiled as a voice inside me instructed: Finish it first.

Gail Kinsey Hill spent more than 20 years as a journalist, meeting deadlines for Oregon’s major daily newspaper in Portland. She replaced those professional rigors with more expansive boundaries east of the Cascades where she’s an adventure and landscape writer and spends her free time skiing, biking, and hiking. 

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Their wanderlust has already taken them to ski resorts in British Columbia, Canada, and Salt Lake City, Utah. With Ikon Passes, they anticipate skiing at Jackson Hole, Big Sky, and Squaw Valley for the first time, and revisiting Utah resorts. “We’re just going to see where the ski conditions are good and go wherever we want,” says Lukes. “We watch the weather and snow reports, and we sometimes go up anyway, because it’s often better than what you think it might be.”

Kim and Craig both grew up in Spokane and learned to ski in the 1960s as young teens. “At Sports Creel, you could rent gear from their basement and take the weekend bus that left the shop and took you to Mt. Spokane,” she says. After high school, when Kim and Craig met and started dating, their shared mindset about outdoor recreation got them skiing together.

Now, a combination of factors makes their Boomer “ski bum” life possible. Three years ago, they retired after selling their business, Pacific Ice; but alpine skiing was always their family’s go-to sport—skiing with their two children on Thanksgiving Day and nearly every day of Christmas break and taking ski vacations. 

They’re also not haunted by old injuries. “Everybody has aches and pains, but we go out there and ski as long as we can, as long as the conditions are good,” she says. “I’m not a big fan of moguls—I’m too old for that…Craig is much stronger than I am. I wouldn’t consider myself an expert skier. We’ll split up and take different runs, and if we don’t see each other at the bottom, we see each other at the lodge.”

As for powder and tree skiing? Bring it. “We just love to be outside. It’s quiet. Everybody’s there to have fun, so it’s a good atmosphere,” she says. Having good gear also helps. “The ski gear can be fitted so well, so you can really find what fits your foot and ski style. And same with ski clothes—better gear than what we [used to have],” says Lukes. They also backcountry ski—taking all the necessary safety gear and relying on their avalanche education.

“A woman once told me, ‘The best skier on the mountain is the one with the bigger smile.’ And that’s so true. Get air and exercise, find the run you like, and ski at your own pace, and do your own thing. There are so many nice people that you’re going to meet up there…Just get out there. Enjoy your day.” 

As grandparents they have even more incentive to not slow down. During fall and spring, Kim and Craig are avid bikers, and during summertime they enjoy camping, swimming, and boating. As for wellness secrets, she doesn’t have any. When I ask her if she eats vegan or gluten-free, she laughs and says, “We eat whatever we feel like. We like bacon cheeseburgers and all the bad stuff.” Staying active is her simple mantra. She says, “We don’t want to look back 20 years from now and think, ‘Why didn’t we do that?!’ We want to be active outside as long as we can.” //

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