Echoes and Tracks- Bull Gulch- 2/17

Arriving in Taylor Park, I once again parked at the Outpost, the berm now noticeably higher than in January. I purposefully dawdled through the necessary organization and donning of the various accouterments of winter, hoping the shaggy dog who posits himself as sheriff of these parts would come barrelling down from the cabins. After several Saturdays of resort skiing, I was in the mood for solitude and stillness, but I’ve never known a mood so dour or pensive that the company of a friendly dog is not welcome .I tied and re-tied the laces of my nordic boots, fiddled with my collapsible poles and backpack straps, tested a few different hats. When it became clear that a distant barking was as close as we would come to our friend today,  I clicked into my ski bindings, side stepping over the icy pile and onto Taylor River Road. 

A skier seeking a sleek pair of divots in which to slide with perfect cross country form would probably be better off to look elsewhere. The complete lack of avalanche danger and the temptation of a blank, undulating canvas makes this high mountain lake a playground for motorheads.

Unlike specially designed snow grooming machines, snowmobiles leave complicated, bumpy patterns in the snow. Although they do a good job of compacting the trail, the tracks of the heavy machines make it difficult to find the steady rhythm necessary to execute the gentle ballet of the classic Nordic kick and glide. Skinny skis slip in and out of the grooves left behind by the heavy machines, but, to me, the adventure is worth the price of a slower, jerkier pace.

The muted rumble of a two stroke motor reverberated across the lake. The acoustics of this great, frozen basin are such that sound can originate from any number of directions. Instinctually, I scanned my surroundings for the source of the sound. From this vantage point, the reservoir remained an unbroken plane of white. Just like the missing wooly sheepdog, I could hear, but not see, my company. I continued on my way, hoping the whirring engine was headed in the opposite direction. 

After a few large bends, the road crosses the creek just before Bull Point. At this point, there is a large-ish hill. A quick duck walk will get you to the top and after an exhilarating ride down the back side of the hill on skis without edges, the gate for Bull Gulch is on the right. 

To the North and East, Taylor Park wears a half moon of massive, craggy peaks– an enormous picket fence of granite. In contrast, Bull Gulch is a shallow drainage, the rims of which are gently sloped hills. In February the seasonal waterway is covered, but the topography suggests that, when running, the creek takes a meandering route to the reservoir, the soft sided bluffs of the gulch eroding slowly and easily. 

Our tracks were the first since the last storm and moving up Bull Gulch, we cut a deep trench through the unbroken snow. 

So complete was the stillness that the sudden emergence of a winter hare from beneath a sage bush made my heart leap and I yelped audibly to an audience of no one (except my dogs). As I laughed at myself, the quick rabbit bounded confidently up and across the hillside. Luckily for him, Charlie and Bella were far too consumed with wading through the snow to give chase. 

A little further up, the gulch narrows, the cottonwoods lining both sides. In a few months, the flat spot ahead will surely be a soupy marsh, the willows providing cover and filtration. But today all is frozen and motionless, save a slowly moving middle aged woman and her dogs. 

As we approached, breathing heavily, we found ourselves at an unexpected interchange. A pair of thick, frozen snowmobile tracks descended from the east, criss-crossed by the fresh tracks of the spooked rabbit, both of which were now met with the thin strips of track laid by my skis. I was immediately charmed by this confluence of impressions left in the snow. The scene was ripe with poignancy and the three distinct and interlaced tracks felt like their own kind of company. 

Charlie began whining about the many snowballs stuck in the overgrown fur of his paws and so we made our way to a bit of dry ground underneath a tree. As I sat considering the scene, a text came through. I’ve never minded these unexpected messages from the civilized world when I am far removed from town. These pings from beyond make me laugh and I have, more than once, taken a phone call on top of a mountain, a disbelieving aunt incredulous that we could be having such wildly different days. 

The text was from my husband. He had sent a picture of an improbable set of ski tracks cutting a repeating S through an otherwise blank field of snow. From the angle of the photo, it is as if the ghost skier was simply plunked down from the heavens, disappearing into the rocks below. Years of familiarity tells me that my spouse is inordinately proud of the elegance and audacity of the mark he left, as well as its visibility from the chairlift. Skiing a line like that is nothing short of sublime and, sitting with my back against the pokey bark of a pine tree, I felt a familiar surge of love and kinship for my most long standing companion. 

Like echoes, tracks in the snow are part time hauntings. Temporary and exquisite, there is an unnamable satisfaction in the certainty of knowing that they are yours. Looking back the way we came, the dogs and I have moved  across a white meringue landscape, what we had worked persistently for hours to create merely a tiny tear in a massive tableau. There is art in this: I was here, I happened, I created an impression that cannot be denied but will not last. It is at once amusing and comforting to know that Tom and I, separated by several ridges, are concurrently staring with satisfaction at our own temporary, ghostly imprints on the world.

Although it must be said that his were far less work to create than mine. This, too, is a commentary on the important differences between us and what we would each describe as fun. Love is a mysterious thing indeed.  

If you continue to the top of Bull Gulch, you will come to a significant forest road. Turning left will take you to Cottonwood Pass and the right continues south, heading towards the Town of Tincup. We turned around here, having accomplished our goal for the day. 

Commandeering the snowmobile track, the ski down the gulch was gentle and easy. A few good pushes off of the poles and I cruised without effort, moving at the approximate speed of an airport walking belt. The day’s hard work rewarded, it was a smile worthy pleasure cruise. 

I came to a gentle stop at the low point and considered the total silence of a late winter afternoon in Taylor Park. As I had hoped, the snowmobilers had disappeared and I could only assume the shaggy dog was now curled up on a rug in one of the small Outpost cabins. There was no indication, distant or otherwise, of any witness of my presence. 

Coming to the gate, it would have been simple enough to either link back to the road or to double back over the steep hill I came over earlier. Either direction, the ski back would be straightforward and quick, probably taking about half of the time it took to get here.

I looked out at the twinkling, untroubled, hills of white and couldn’t resist. Leaning into the work, we climbed up the side of Bull Gulch, heading due South, following the rolling hills, signing our name, if just for a day, in long tracks in the snow.