With our two scouts disappeared into the white out,
the remaining six weekend warriors of the snow a
glimpse at our surroundings. We were stopped in our
tracks underneath a giant grove of Evergreens ad-
jacent to a meadow clearing. Some of us had their
packs off, to give aching shoulders a moment of respite.
Others remained geared up, half-expecting/half-hoping
that we would hear good news and be able to make a
final push for our destination. My gloves were soaking
wet from the Spring-style blizzard that was upon us like
a rising tide on a northern California beach. Relentless.
Frozen to the bone and with tears crystalizing to my cheeks
I expressed my anger with a loud cry to the white skies
above.




Were we to bivouac in the woods for the night? I had
no tent, no tarp, and no means of shelter. The others
were confident that we could endure any condition
thrown at us, and for that I was very thankful. To be
surrounded by men who were undaunted by such dire
circumstances was uplifting, and they encouraged me to
be strong. Emotions were running throughout my entire
body, and the knot below my clavicle was throbbing like
a beacon of pain.

Suddenly a warbled call came across one of the radios.
"The tracks lead to the hut." Hearing those words was
like a dark veil being lifted from my very consciousness.
We were saved! Heavy packs adorned again, the six of
us traced back our tracks that were rapidly filling in
with fresh snow to the spot where we had originally
split, sending our two scouts to find salvation.




But it was not a hop, skip and a jump - this last
section back to shelter nirvana. The coup de gras final
elevation grade to the triangular wooden structure
that would be our home for the next two nights was an
arduous final half-mile. My snowshoes felt like iron
lead weights, my poles, each time depressed into the
pillows of white powder, sunk deeper and seemed
heavier and heavier to lift with each stroke.

Finally we arrived; the rustic cabin, established in
1955 and named after a 23-year-old ski enthusiast
who died in the Korean War, was more than adequate
for our disheveled state of mind, body and spirit. With
such a high snowfall total this year we were forced to
enter through a ladder into the top floor, then subsequently
climb down another ladder into the dungeon-like bottom
floor. Sitting like two iron statues were the wood-burning
stoves that would resuscitate feeling into our extremities.
Never had the noxious gases of carbon-monoxide emissions
smelled so sweet. Poor Willow, the Tennessee Coon Hound
that was part of our pack of four dogs, she was so cold and
tired that she did not see the ten foot drop off at the hole
where the down ladder was propped, and free fell into
the dungeon. She made nary a whimper. As soon as our
fire master had some logs from the well-stocked backcountry
hut blazing in the bowel of the stove, Willow curled up inches
from the hot iron, and could not be coaxed into eating,
drinking or moving. It took her longer than my sorry self to
regain her mobility and appetite. This was rare for a crumb-
sniffing, Hoover-like dog of her nature. But both Willow and
myself would be back to normal at sunrise of the next day,
and our inner glow would return in conjunction with warm sun-
shine, blue skies, and the promise of more exploration and
downhill sliding.

ER Harris