Seizing The Moment With Conditions At Their Peak This Season, Skiers Have To Weigh Their Options - Binge On Vertical Or Savor The Powder

This has been a tough winter to have a job.

Ski areas have been blessed with more powder snow than anyone can remember.

The agony comes from knowing that somebody without a job has been skiing powder every week.

Hate ‘em?

Me, too.

Loathing ski bums is justifiable, even during Lent.

Of course, there are more constructive alternatives when powder happens:

Take a sick day. Drop off the kids with a neighbor. Leave the plumber a key to the house. Delay the wedding. Post bail.

Once you’ve made a break, the decision becomes one of how to savor the moment.

The temptation is to binge. Buy a ticket and pack in as much vertical as possible before the chairlifts close.

Skiers with more refined tastes, however, might opt for the sensuous option. For instance….

By coincidence, they met at the end of a plowed road in Mullan, Idaho, all headed for the magic waiting high in the Bitterroot Mountains.

Denny Burmeister must have left Chewelah before 5 a.m. to be there that early. The recently retired manager of 49 Degrees North said he was “simply looking for something different”

Powder and solitude.

A carload of skiers from Eastern Washington University showed up, as well as a group of Spokane Mountaineers.

They wasted little time at the trailhead. Climbing skins were attached to skis, and the parade was off. There was a purpose at hand, and damned little time to achieve it before dark.

One skier stood with his avalanche transceiver to his ear. They skied by him one-by-one, getting his nod of approval that each beacon was transmitting a signal.

With packs hugging their hips and shoulders, they took turns breaking trail. Clothes were peeled off a layer at a time as body furnaces fired. By 10 a.m., they were down to underwear tops.

Temperature: 15 degrees.

For two hours, they climbed through the timber until their eyes began to feast on the first good views of the bounty awaiting them. Then the climbing got steeper.

Slogging is good therapy. You notice things. The powder is feather-light. The sky is epically blue. Your buddy’s ski boot squeaks with every step.

Their skis never left the snow. Anticipation was the only lift.

Two-and-a-half hours ticked by, step-by-step, climbing through the thinning forest without so much as a tickle of downhill. The trip was a Bolero on white.

Hanging out just below the top of the ridge to snap photos, I listened to my heart pound in my chest as the others proceeded out of sight to strip the skins off their skis and bundle in jackets and goggles.

The quiet seemed to pile like pillows on my ears.

Then I heard the whoops and yells and saw the powder blasting into the blue sky.

The skiers scattered, screamed, schussed and swerved through the scattered trees. Then they regrouped.

Skins on. Climb.

For all the work, there would be time for only three runs. Quality time.

The last shot was the best. Trackless powder stretched below for as far as they could imagine.

Their skis became intimate with every inch of powder, relaying the sensation up through their feet and burning thighs.

Down through trees and meadows they plunged. Each skier looked for the best line. The best snow was everywhere.

Statistically speaking, they didn’t have much elevation to show for that day in the high country.

But they savored every moment.

, DataTimes ILLUSTRATION: Color Photo