By Hilary Coolidge

Winter in New England often proves that the region breeds hardy, all-terrain types for a reason: many times there really isn't a winter, so you have to ski whatever's available. This season's true winter began and ended in March and evolved into a dismal, soggy spring all too soon. Being uncharacteristically optimistic, I put the winter behind me and wanted to ramp up for spring. I announced my plans to Marta, my telebuddy in crime, to make my usual spring foray into the backcountry and to my surprise she immediately agreed to accompany me. "That bad?" I asked. It seems Mad River and Jay hadn't filled the vertical bill for her yet this season.

Our destination was the Presidential Range in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. We blasted up there four weekends out of five. Weather reports being slightly unreliable at best, the only way to know what the conditions were was to be there.

Counter to the Yankee habit of delaying gratification, we decided not to resist temptation and headed up to the fabled King's Ravine. Friends and acquaintances had spoken about the spot in vague, uneasy tones, and we had yet to meet anyone who had skied it or was willing to divulge that they had. Naturally, we had to find out why. Our path up the Airline led to one of the Randolph Mountain Club Huts, appropriately named Crag Camp, perched on the edge of King's Ravine. Its porch and dining room presented ridiculously fabulous views, which scaled the heights of Mt. Monroe, swept over the shoulder of Mt. Adams and descended into the yawning, craggy, boulder-strewn King's Ravine that dove down between two peaks.

Once again, New England lived up to its reputation about the weather: If you don't like it, just wait five minutes. But this time, to our astonishment, it ruled in our favour. As we dumped our packs at Crag Camp, the sun started to peak out of the clouds and the sky miraculously cleared. The only sane response to this was to wolf down lunch while inspecting King's from the porch. Our opinions about the terrain were as divided as the recent weather: Marta couldn't stop enthusing about all the vertical lines available, while I busily concentrated on the horizontally headed slab fracture lines contained in three of the chutes. Obviously a closer inspection was in order.

We headed out above timberline and skied the snowfields above King's and below Mt. Adams, which provided plenty of delightful, relaxing turns. The mad steepness of King's, still lay lurking, waiting for the intake of breath and dropping of stomach. Given the lateness of the day and my sudden preoccupation with the stability of the snow, we summitted Mt. Adams instead and skied back down towards camp in the slowly fading twilight. A brief stop at King's Castle, a rocky outcropping in the Ravine provided moments of quiet contemplation and peace mixed with reflection, anticipation, and in my case, relief.

The next day we woke to a rainstorm's lashings on the roof of Crag Camp. Thick cloud cover gloomed overhead as we ate breakfast, but before descending to the car we couldn't help checking out a gully behind Grey Knob, only to discover it had a nasty double fall line and bushes that looked a lot smaller from below. Retreating, we drove around to Pinkham Notch, only to have the weather perform a 180. An amazing inversion effect took place, leaving the peaks clear and sunny and the valleys grey and cool. Peering out the window like a dog in a cage, I tried to convince Marta to go up to the Gulf of Slides, but to no avail. She had something else on her mind: shower, beer, and--bonus!--guys with tele bindings running around all over the place.

The next morning proved that appearances can be deceiving. As we skinned up the Gulf of Slides trail under a bright sun and semi-cloud strewn sky, we imagined the sun might be warming up the snow ahead. As we reached the bowl, however, the real weather hit -- a cold, biting wind that made us grab our shells, hats and gloves with haste. The Gulf of Slides is appropriately named, possessing some large slide paths that cross the trail as one approaches the bowl. The main bowl is generously wide and its slope decreases the farther one travels west across its base. While Tuck's tightly curved main face is framed by steep couloirs, which make the Ravine a virtual ampitheater for spectators and skiers alike, the Gulf of Slides has a wider, wilder, more open feel. Visitors to the Gulf have increased over the years but human drama and crowds are not what they seek. Today clouds scud off the ridges, soaring above and across the bowl. Sunlight and shade make ephemeral, swirling patterns across the snow. The beauty is stark and sharp, like the wind.

Looking around, I noticed that the place has totally changed since last year, the two main gullies have had huge slides, the treetops had totally snapped off, resembling ragged oversized toothpicks. "This snow's boiler plate," I remarked as I unsuccessfully tried to poke through it with my ski pole. "The inversion effect must have meant it rained up here last night before the cold weather came streamrolling down from Canada."

Marta, always impressed with my amazing powers of observation, rejoined with the equally obvious, "Welcome to New England." Her suggestion of breaking out the crampons, climbing the ridge, and checking things out left me doubtful. "But you've got insteps" I responded, "How are you going to descend?"

"Come on, I'm gonna ski this shit," was her immediate response, proving that practically every trip in New England is a character building experience.

Next weekend we're back for more punishment, with hopes of an occasional break with the weather. The signs were less than encouraging. Watery sunlight trickling through cloud cover did nothing to dispel the cold and wind that pervaded the valley. Despite the inhospitable conditions, the Saturday morning scene at HoJo's at the base of Tuckerman's Ravine was the usual madhouse: people, dogs, kids, and sleds were everywhere. A wooden porch attached to the cabin has a very appreciated wooden wind break wall. When the sun appears, huddled up against this shelter, conditions could be called vaguely pleasant. On weekends, the valley and bowl are peppered with volunteers who impart information, advice, and not infrequently, medical attention to those unfortunate enough to need it.

At the base and to the right of the Headwall are the famed Lunch Rocks, which were littered with bright splashes of GoreTex and other fancy petroleum-product outerwear clad folks. Marta grimaced up at the sky, which refused to give any sign of cheer, while I watched in disbelief as a grandmother and grandson traversed across the bottom of Right Gully and skied the snowfields down to the bottom. Marta headed up Right Gully, and I followed, not allowing myself to be outdone by the intrepid Gran. For our pains we got clobbered by chunks of frozen snow loosened by skiers above and when I donned my boards to descend, a hapless snowboarder crossing above me fell and slid right over my skies, nearly taking me out. Shaken, I gingerly scraped down Right Gully, not quite in the style I had imagined or hoped, but happy to remain uninjured and on top of my skis.

Back at camp, Marta and I found a situation that put our Yankee ingenuity to the test. Our tent was a perfect wind tunnel and had to be moved. Darkness was settling in thick and fast. Our neighbors settled in to watch, wondering if we could break everything down, move, and reset it before we had to break out the headlamps. Unintimidated, we removed the fly, unstaked the tent, picked up the ends and carried it, bedding and all, to the new spot, where we re-staked it, set the fly, and fluffed the pads, bags, and clothes. Total time taken: 7 minutes. Our neighbors straightened up and invited us over for a beer. Marta was suitably impressed with their selection of bottles of Magic Hat #9. We found out the two guys have an annual character building contest to see who can bring up the heaviest pack. This year's winner weighed in at 110 pounds. Now, would any sane Californian be a party to this type of behaviour? I tried to convince them to carry my pack, a measly 35 pounds, for 5 bucks a day on my next trip. Instead, they lent us a spoon for our spaghetti, since I had tried to scrimp on weight and had forgotten our utensils.

The next morning Marta and I left our snoozing neighbors and broke camp in the pink light of dawn in favor of a teeth-chattering ride down the John Sherburn Trail to reach Pinkham Notch in time for breakfast. We stuffed ourselves in 15 minutes and drove around to the North side of the range to ski Oakes Gulf.

Oakes is a remote, south facing bowl whose more obvious slopes are not as punishing as Tucks, save for the straight and narrow Gun Barrels on the West side, for those wishing to test their mettle and aim. The sky was cloudless and the bowl was sheltered from the wind. There wasn't a soul in sight. Oakes' temperament is more for those who wish to enjoy a day that includes a fair amount of approach time and willingness to travel above treeline. We dropped in, ate up the fabulous conditions and lunch, bootpacked up the main face and saturated ourselves with the perfect slush-pow conditions on the way down.

We called it quits and exited via Monroe Brook, which was in shadow and facing the wind, causing the snowpack to resemble a close relation to the Right Gully conditions of yesterday. As we descended the gradually narrowing drainage, the snow softened to a more welcoming condition. Unfortunately, the conditions did not extend through the shaded, winding approach trail, which was full of hardpacked ruts. Emerging from the trail and into the parking lot, Marta exclaimed, "That was joy! Never knew the East had such great terrain."

Unable to let such a perfect day overtake my dour Pilgrim roots I couldn't help blurting "Oh, we haven't been to Baxter yet." I ignored the look of horror crossing over her face as she recalled that it had a heinous overnight approach. I couldn't help but add with a smirk "Yeah, it'll ruin your aim for vertical for sure." We called a truce over a beer and examined the Franconia Range for potential trips instead.

Hard boiled Yankees are renowned for their perseverance and frugality. Marta and I wrap both into the same package. We headed a week later to Pinkham Notch breakfast hall, again bound for King's Ravine. At breakfast, we tried to improve our speed consumption record. I ineffectively attempted to eat and make lunch at the same time. This garnered Marta's helpful insight: "Just slice the banana and put it on the toast, the peanut butter'll make it all stick together - this isn't an art class, you know." I told her she's lucky I'm sacrificing my full recipe and am not adding any bacon to the sandwiches.

So up we went again, to the snowfields above King's Ravine; this time the weather was consistently unaccommodating. Any heat generated by the sun was immediately cooled by 30 to 50 mph winds. Bright rays reflected glaringly off the few windblown spots at the top of the King's chutes, where pure ice discouraged any attempt to descend. We decided to embark on a tour around Jefferson so we could inspect the Monticello Lawn and Great Gulf chutes. The wind's force increased considerably as we approached Edmonds Col, a narrow junction between Jefferson and Adams, whose sole purpose was to take cold air from the north and hurl it towards Mt. Adams' summit at great speed. This area's predilection for having bad weather was hinted at by the numerous large cairns marking the traversing Gulfside Trail. In good weather the cairns seem needlessly numerous and large. In bad weather, they are often not frequent or large enough. The wind also prevents any real lasting deposit of snow. A thin layer of ice and crust cover rock and scrub while large deposits of rime on the cairns indicate the ferocity and direction of the prevailing winds.

Skiing down the Israel Ridge Trail, we traversed our way past rocks beginning to protrude through the melting snowpack. We then removed our skis and followed an overgrown trail leading to The Perch, a sheltered area with a few tent platforms and small shelter where we ate lunch. The shelter honored J. Raynor Edmands, the man who built and maintained a small bark dwelling on the site in the early 1900's. It is in his memory that the Randolph Mountain Club was started.

Clouds loomed large so we called it a day, plunging down the steep Hinck's Trail back towards the parking lot -- snow receding behind, spring still ahead. Coming up with yet another statement of the obvious I observed: "So, another trip. Lesson learned? Doesn't hurt to hike up what you want to ski down to get a better idea of the conditions. Wonder if we'll get to ski King's this year at all..." Marta was focused on other, more important items, though. She asked if we could come back on a Saturday, since Pinkham has waffles on that day and in her book, they're much better than Sunday's french toast.

The next weekend was our last bid for snow. We went on Sunday, pancakes aside, to hit Oakes and Monroe. Unbelievably, the conditions were perfect: soft, forgiving snow, bright sunshine, tiny breeze. We met up with Randolph locals and friends, all strong telemarkers, and spent the day exploring the area.

One favorite was Airplane Gully (so named because three Santa Claus's in full regalia crashed their plane smack dab in the middle of the gully on the way to Portland, ME one Christmas Eve). The chute sported a steep 600+ foot drop with narrow granite walls and three inches of soft slush-pow on its shoulder. At the bottom of the chute a small stream leapt out and off the rock, a natural fountain providing ice-cold refreshment. We discovered other areas, some wider and less angled, some shorter and steeper, throughout the afternoon, providing plenty of sweet challenges and delights. We created snow wheels with our turns on runs with sticky surface conditions and the white walled discs charged and bounced down the slope under the wide blue skies. Ravens performed stunts and called throaty croaks of joy above us. Marta checked out a corniced ridge on a slope easily 45 degrees; her first few turns sent 6 inches of slush down its slope and she waited a moment to chase it down to the bowl below.

We skied till we couldn't ski anymore. We then soaked up the sun on the rocks above the snowfields, sated with what we'd done, yet still reluctant to call it a day. The breeze picked up, making the decision for us and we descended via Monroe Brook. This time the sun and wind combined to make a gorgeous ending to a stellar day.

As I exited the trail, however, I found Marta digging about in a dirty snowbank. Alarmed, I asked if she lost her car keys. Being prepared is a valued New England trait, one that has gotten many a soul through challenging situations. In this case I could only hope for the best. "Nope, just thinking ahead," she said, pulling out a cold six pack of beer, "but you better promise me not to break out that damn peanut butter sandwich recipe again." 'Nuff said.