Backcountry lessons

We all do dumb things in our 20s, right? When you are testing the boundaries of life to see which lines are flexible and which are legit. But in your 20s, you don’t have any experience in life, and you certainly cannot imagine listening to those who went before you. You might not mean to break the rules, but you are sloppy; you don’t really care about what the rules mean and how they might affect others. You just want to live your life and screw the man.

I like to call these moments the times we almost died, but luck was on our side. We’re a lot smarter now. We make much better choices. We’ve read the mountaineers’ bible, Freedom of the Hills, and taken Wilderness First Responder classes. The BF was even a ski patroller for a few years, back when they made minimum wage. Since those early years, we’ve purchased ice axes, crampons, and beacons…and studied how to use them properly.

Our first mistake was going to a party at Cooper’s at the end of the day. We went with a large group of people with various experience levels in skiing and backcountry awareness. At the end of the party, we skied back down and went home. Only to find out that one guy hadn’t told anyone it was his first time there and didn’t return to the trail for hours and hours, having gotten lost in the woods. If you ski with me now, I am paranoid about everyone making it back to the trailhead.

Literally. A few years later, we made the mistake of talking about going off the backside while in the gondola. We had our backpacks full of our backcountry necessities, but the random dude must have missed that part. Because when we stopped at the first meeting point, the random dude was there. He followed strangers into the woods, thinking we were getting the powder. We were pissed that he would endanger himself so easily. Who just follows tracks into the woods when you don’t know where they’re going? Even Team PomPom knows that. We got the guy out of the woods and left him at the trailhead to find a ride.

I’ve made decisions where I’ve been too powder-hungry to notice my surroundings and see that I’d reached the point of no return. You know, where you see a line going in the wrong direction, get stuck in a brush bog, and will have to walk/shuffle at least an hour in deep snow to find your way back. So unbelievably stupid. There’s a very good reason why I spend all summer hiking—I want to know exactly where I am at all times. So I wasn’t lost, but I sure didn’t like where I was at the time—and neither did my friends who didn’t know where I’d gone (pre-cell phones). Thankfully, we made it out before nightfall—at the exact point where I thought we would.

We didn’t confine our stupidity to the Killington Area. We’ve done stupid stuff at Tux, too. Like the time our golden retriever, Vespi, saved our lives. We were hiking up Left Gully with a group of friends. Everyone was focused on the terrain and minding their own business when Vespi got in front of the lead hiker. We called her off, but she went right back and blocked him. She never did this, forcing us to pause just long enough to notice our surroundings. The sun had dropped behind the ridgeline, and the snow had frozen.

We were screwed. Everything was so firm that our pole tips were bouncing off the snow. We didn’t have axes and crampons then (this trip was the catalyst for those purchases). In order to put your ski on, the person below you had to hold your downhill ski because there was no way of digging in to make a shelf. There was no way you were going to put a ski down and have it stay there. So we held each other’s gear on a 35-degree slope while we fumbled around with our transitions. Three out of five of us fell, each sliding about halfway down. The BF had forgotten to zip his vents up and ended up with a nasty raspberry on his thigh. To this day, it’s still my scariest moment on skis.

As we skied into the bowl, our tails between our legs in shame, a group of old, wise men stood drinking beers and laughing at us. Wildcat Ski Patrollers. They had the idea to stick it out and see when we would realize our stupidity or if we would need them. Thankfully, Vespi saved the day. And the patrollers rewarded her with treats.

Backcountry wisdom takes years to develop, as well as knowledge of the terrain and your limitations—like when your powder stomach gets so hungry you cannot hear your safety voices.  While this is some of the best snow in a really long time, remember to ski within the limits of your knowledge. Study the topo, read “Freedom of the Hills,” and get your WFR. And never, ever follow tracks into an unfamiliar terrain.

Merisa is a long-time Killington resident, global real estate advisor, town official, and Coach PomPom. She can be reached at Merisa.Sherman@SothebysRealty.com.