There is no brush to slog through, no marshes or swamps to worry about, no problem being off a trail. No bugs. A compass and a map and we could go anywhere. Brian called and suggested we go further north on this trip, higher on the slope, to an area call Bull Moose Ridge. We would skin up, and it was steep in places, but once on the ridge we would have an easy time and then could ski back down through steep stands of old beech and maple trees.
The last time we went we did not bring our dogs -- Brian has two and I have one, Dexter, a young Aussie. We were out for hours and I thought it would be too difficult for the dogs. And I felt guilty when the trip was done; the dog would have been fine. So this time we agreed we'd take the dogs.
For those who've not done it, skinning is a way to move uphill on skis. Climbing skins are applied to the bottom of skis. One side of the skins has a special glue on it, which adheres to the base of your skis. The other side has either animal fur (old school) or synthetic fur (nylon) with a directional nap making it easy to glide forward but creating terrific resistant pressure in the other direction. Well cut skins can secure skis to steep slopes (not all slopes) and allow skiers to go up. It is hard work but well worth the effort. Here is some background on climbing skins.
We headed off and were in deep snow. The dogs were having a hard time, swimming like seals, and figured out they did best if they stayed in our tracks, or even walked on the backs of our skis. This was annoying but it was fun having the dogs with us. If the dogs did bound off they would surf through the dry, cold snow, all smiles and frozen whiskers and noses.
We skinned north for about an hour, working hard. We stopped below a steep slope. We snacked and I drank some sweet tea. (Earlier this year I was skiing out west. We were in the backcountry in Utah. A new friend, Michael, pulled out a thermos of sweet tea and offered me a mug. We were on the top of the broad Wasatch Days Canyon. The air was bone dry and the sky a deep blue. We were tired from yet another climb before leaping back into the bowl to shoot downward. The hot tea, with a little milk and sugar, was nectar. I am addicted.) The dogs were running all around and wrestling. It was cold but not too windy and it was not snowing. We were dry and warm and, after our snack, ready to head back out.
We climbed. The forest thickened and no traces of old logging roads eased our way. It was steep. I was having trouble with my skins -- Dexter was again walking on the back of my skis, which made the skins come lose, which got them covered in snow and detach from the ski. We had to stop twice so I could dry the back of the skins as best I could and then reattach them to the skis. It was frustrating but I think a part of any adventure is knowing everything won't go like clockwork. There's excitement in getting lost or, in my case, having a minor equipment failure. We took our time, ate more snacks, I drank more sweet tea. The dogs were having a blast. Finally, we came to the ridge and started a gentle ski along the spine.
Brian noticed it first. We'd been cruising through a small patch of spruce. Brian said, 'I think your dog is bleeding.' I didn't see it and Dex was neither limping nor showing signs of pain. I said, 'I think he's fine' and kept going.' 'No, he's bleeding.' Brian was sure. I stopped and called the dog. I took hold of him and examined him. The dog had sliced his left front leg. The gash was about six inches long and deep. He was not only bleeding. He had macerated a vein along his 'wrist' and blood was oozing out thickly. Luckily the snow made a terrific ice pack. It wasn't as bad as it would have been without the cold and ice.
It's funny when we go for skis near home. If I am going on a big ski, especially out west, I make sure and have fully stocked first aid kit, whistle, exact list of extra clothes and gear, repair kit, a phone, a map, enough food for twenty four hours. When I go essentially in my back yard I bring whatever I grab heading out the door. I am too casual about it. Not anymore. Fortunately that morning I grabbed a first aid kit.
I wrapped the dog's forearm with gauze and cling wrap. I said to Brian 'we need to head down.' We took the skins off our skis and stowed them. We prepared to head down the slope. I was below Brian and he said 'I'm going left' and was off. I skied down another fifty feet or so and stopped to wait for Brian. He did not appear. I decided to hold my place and wait. I noticed Dex's bandage was seeping blood so I rewrapped it.
The dog was not limping or complaining. Aside from having a hard time in the deep snow he did not seem too bad.
I stood on a small saddle for another five minutes. I was calling out for Brian but not getting a response. Of course I had no whistle. I was not too worried; just worried enough not to want to go forward on a different track. Calling to him was not working. I decided I had to hike back up to where I last saw him, both to make sure he was okay but also to make sure we were on the same track down. Dex was seemingly doing fine. I was worried about his leg but it seemed okay to ski out and have him follow.
Things were not great. I did not like being separated from Brian. The mountains we were skiing became suddenly big. I was worried about the dog. Without a whistle I could not call to Brian effectively. I tried his cell but there was no answer. Dex and I hiked uphill for ten minutes or so and finally I found Brian's track heading down the east side of the saddle.
I called to the dogs and followed Brian's track, skiing through a steep glade. The bone dry snow peeled away. My turns carved around tall, gnarled, gray maples. I settled into a fast rhythm: pole plant, turn, pole plant, turn .... I carved a sweep to my left and stopped, out of breath. I looked uphill to see Dex. Typically he'd be bounding through the snow, smiling, barking, essentially laughing. He wasn't.
The dog walked to me, slowly, in my tracks, and lay down. He closed his eyes. The other dogs came behind him and lay next to him, one on each side.
I hiked up and kneeled next to my dog. He was breathing but not doing much else. I checked the bandage. It was still bleeding through. I held Dex's head in my hands. He opened his eyes and looked at me. He smiled. 'Come on,' I encouraged. He got up, took a few steps and lay back down. He still was neither limping or favoring the leg. He was just out of gas, possibly bleeding out through the gash. I packed snow on the outside of the bandage and wrapped the leg one more time with gauze.
There was nothing to think about. I stowed my ski poles in my pack, making a mess of things as anxiety pressed in. Once the pack was secure I picked up my dog and started again to ski down the hill. I was now skiing down a steep glade carrying not only a heavy backpack but a sixty pound dog.
Usually Dex does not like being picked up. He squirms like a fish until released. Not this time. He hunkered as close to me as he could. He lay still.
I skied as fast as I could downhill toward the trail. Every fifty feet or so I would pause and put Dex down and catch my breath. The other dogs were right with us, huddling close to Dex whenever I put him down. A few times Dex tried to walk but would soon lay in the snow, letting his head sink into the cold.
Finally I put the dog around my neck the way I imagine shepherds carry sheep. He lay still -- I labored to feel him breath, to know he was alive. I flew down the hill, letting tree branches cat scratch my face. I turned as well I could. I had to drop the dog twice just because I was exhausted. Fortunately the snow was so deep and soft, he just sank a bit.
After about an hour I saw Brian on the trail. He was skinning back toward me -- his route down had taken him much farther along the trail. He took the dog for a spell. Between the two of us we made it to the car park in another half an hour.
When we reached the parking lot I was done. I dropped to my knees and put Dex down on the snow bank. Brian went and got the car. We loaded the gear and the dog. I called the vet.
One hour more before I held the dog on the exam table. The vet cleaned the wound and snipped away some skin. 'Lucky it's winter,' he said. 'Cold might of saved him.'
Dex received ten staples in his wrist. He and I were covered in blood. He got washed off. He's fine now. I keep him closer -- he rides up front when we go to town.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio
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