 What is that spooky light glinting in the winter woods, bobbing at eye level, blinking as it floats among the still, bare columns of beech and ash and maple? Is it some tormented spirit, doomed to haunt these chill Massachusetts hills on nights of the full Wolf Moon? Look closely, against the moonlight. There's a string of protoplasm attached to the source of that suspended light, a figure propelling itself forward with poles, sliding over the snow on long, skinny skis, and the figure--almost as long as the skis, almost as skinny--is me. I'm not yet accustomed to skiing after dark, a new battery-powered lamp strapped to my head like a Cyclopian orb, but I'm learning to like it--the silence and solitude, the scary feel of the forest at night--and I'm sorry I waited so long to buy the gadget. All those seasons only half-skied, I think, limited to diurnal outings. "It's ten above, zero forecast, and I'm a mile from home." Tonight, for instance, while sensible neighbors pull their chairs close to the fire--it's ten above, zero forecast--I'm a mile from home, skiing across open fields on the old Bates farm. Though veiled by a scrim of passing clouds, the moon casts light enough so that my own lamp is superfluous and turned off, conserving the four batteries secured in a plastic case hooked over the belt of my pants. The batteries connect to the lamp by a wire running up my back and out from the collar of the wool shirt I'm wearing over a wool sweater. I spare the batteries whenever I can. Battery life perishes rapidly in cold, and I worry that the light may fail some night as I plunge down a steep trail from, say, Judges Hill--which, as it happens, it my destination tonight. Over these unsheltered meadows, an inch of dry powder covers a couple of feet of old snow which has melted and refrozen to an icy crust--perilous conditions. I decide against any runs down the gentle slope and, instead, continue my traverse across it. "The wind carries something that peppers my face." As I come over a crest and reach the flat, most distant field, I feel the wind. It carries something that peppers my face, and I flip the toggle switch on the headlamp. Small, hard crystals of snow dance randomly through the beam of light, and to escape their sting I ski rapidly across the final hundred yards to the lee of the woods, and then onto Bates Road, which is unplowed in winter, unpassable even in summer except by motorcycle or high-rise, four-wheel-drive vehicle. The wind rags the tops of the hardwoods bordering the road, but at snow level the air is nearly still. One woods trail begins at this point, but I'm bound for a second, another mile distant, that cross Judges Hill. The snow is good on the road, packed and not so icy underneath, so I set off at a brisk pace, the exertion warming me. I flatter myself to think that for miles I'm the only person afoot for sport, and on the strength of my singular presence, this land belongs to me as surely as if I held the deed and paid the taxes. Technically, these are quasi-public grounds, a 3,000-acre reservation, but technicalities don't pertain on nights of the full Wolf Moon; officially, the reservation is off limits from sunset to sunrise, a sensible ban that keeps pretenders huddled by their stoves. While I steal on, taking possession. I have never skied Bates Road at night before, and deep shadows curtain wooded borders I should know well. Daylight landmarks slip by unnoticed and strange new ones materialize, unexpected, disturbing. I'm divided half by fascination of the darkened forest, half by fright; but I have a place to reach and I press ahead, concentrating on sensing the terrain changes beneath my feet, intruding the headlight into strands of spruce in hopes of surprising a rabbit or fox. I pass empty cellar holes, duck under broken tree limbs hanging low over the road. I slide into a hollow, climb the rise beyond, and ski one last short flat to the junction with Judges Hill Trail. The sign on the trail post shows a jagged line, indicating steep terrain, and the legend on the sign reads: MOST DIFFICULT. I am familiar with the difficulty, having climbed one slope and skied down the other often enough, but always in daylight and, even then, not without a tremor of tension at the top. Leaving the road, I start climbing, almost certain I am embarking on the first night crossing of Judges Hill on skis. In my mind are plans for a modest ceremony when I reach the summit. The trail rises in a straight line over a series of steps until it flattens on top in the midst of a stand of beech, their trunks elephant-gray by day, black by night. It takes 15 minutes of hard climbing, half the time in a herringbone, to gain the summit level and ski to the ruined foundations of an old stone shelter--Judges Fort--built on the highest point in town. When the land was cleared in the 1800s, it was possible to see the Catskills from here. When the trees grew back, the Catskills disappeared. I prefer it this way, the detail of a live forest to a smudge on the horizon. "A candle and a flask of brandy." I sweep the snow from a tree stump for a seat, remove my skis, and shrug off the pack, which contains the elements of my planned celebration--a candle and a flask of brandy. The candle, stuck in the snow, is extinguished by the wind as soon as I light it, but the brandy performs with distinction. Now that I'm here, I'm surprisingly snug and comfortable, warm enough with two layers of wool over polypropylene underwear. My down parka, rolled into a stuff bag, remains in the pack. The headlamp is turned off. Moonlight, waxing and waning through breaking clouds, illuminates the near woods. I toast the moment, thinking: On the scale of human adventure, a solo crossing of Judges Hill by night, even the first, must seem a frail contender for glory but it smacks of daring to me. To get this far I have had to put down certain alarms--apprehension of night, for instance. ". . . my confession is that of a man with night fear," wrote Loren Eiseley, "and it is also the confession of a very large proportion of the human race." "A snapping twig would stop my heart." Never mind the day's easy sophistication. When night lights in the windows of home fade to pinpoints and wink out, when forests close darkly about us, primitive dreads rise again to rattle our psyches. Somewhere out there, beyond the throw of firelight or headlamp, dance the demons that connect us all. They whisper our names and wait for the fires to fade, the Duracells to give out. In the night, it is possible to believe in anything, even mortality. Is Judges Hill-- moonlight flickering over the snow, shadows tracing the sway of trees--as benign as it seems? A snapping twig would stop my heart. Instead, I hear the snow falling, a faint hiss as crystals land and skid across the crust. Ten minutes later, my quota of brandy consumed, the demons held at bay, I face a more technical concern--the descent. My headlamp is switched on, for the trail on this side of Judges Hill twists as it falls and I want to see very clearly the line I must take. I adjust the beam to aim it about 20 feet ahead and push off. The first turn is easy, but after the second--a sharp right corner--the angle steepens. I thrust the tails of the skis out in a wide snowplow; even so, on this hard surface, I'm carrying all the speed I care to. The headlamp reveals each successive bend and bump in the narrow trail, making the run possible. I slip around the trunk of a giant yellow birch, brush by the limbs of a spruce, making all the little stepping adjustments to stay on track. As I scrape around the last curve, I bring the skis together, knowing the pitch eases and the path straightens, running it out for a hundred yards to a pole bridge over a small brook. "For the next quarter mile I ski by moonlight." For the next quarter-mile, until the trail crosses Shaw Road, I ski by moonlight, though occasionally I halt to turn on the lamp and look for tracks. I see dozens of rabbit tracks and some deer prints as well, but none of the animals that made them. Unplowed Shaw Road is the direct, sensible way home. Getting cocky, I cross the road and follow another trail into the woods. Circuit Trail is mostly flat, a good place to generate your own speed, and I ski it as fast as I can. As its far end, it enters a thick stand of cultivated spruce, arrange in neat rows, trees spaced every few feet apart. Light never penetrates the canopy of evergreen, and even on the sunniest days there's a suggestion of respiration other than one's own. Less cocky now, I hurry along the headlamp's tunnel of light, not looking back. Emerging from the miniature Black Forest, I choose a trail that returns to Shaw Road. Since this one is straight and modestly inclined, I double-pole. Then, after a short climb, I'm back on the road, at the lip of a swift downhill over which no poling is necessary. Flying down, I can feel the wind cutting through my shirt and I look forward to getting home. The road levels and I push hard, crossing a snow bank where the town plows turn back, and ski now on a thin, icy surface. The last 400 yards are blissfully downhill, and I sail past the two houses before mine, skidding wildly but upright into the drive.
Less simply, I went to confront the trembling at the thought of it; imagine a spaniel in awe of the dark. For my part, I expect no less trembling next time, or the times after, and the expectation, surprisingly, brings satisfaction. Trembling is the price and thrill of being human. Used with permission of the author. |
Go To:
I know
the perfect way to end this evening: a fire, the last period
of the hockey game from New York on the radio, more brandy--and
a conscious resistance to any flutter of hearthside smugness.
I skied out simply to cross a hill and poke through the forest
at night, alone--about what you would expect from a pet spaniel.