So on I swept with threshing oar.

So, winter comes to an end, if that sorry season we just had can truly be called winter. A few warm days and the snow melts back to piles by the mailbox and a few patches safe in the shadows. A few warm days and boys play soccer in the street in t-shirts and everyone goes to get their bikes tuned and already Snowbowl has stopped spinning the lifts on Tuesdays. 48 degrees, 50, 53. I call about a lawn fertilizer service. Someone comes and chops down the pathetic ash in the front yard. The cars get washed.



We gain light at the rate of 4 minutes a day. Everywhere in the world south of us still has a longer day at this point, but still we get civil twilight at just after 6 in the morning and until after 7 at night. So there's enough time now to make work of the mountains after work. I called the owner of old Marshall Mountain and get permission to tresspass past the no tresspassing signs.



Like many mountains, Marshall is often beguiling on the ascent and a horror on the way down. On Tuesday I make good time up but of course what I think is the top is not the top. An hour later I turn in and start down, and on the way down falling, face planting, losing skis, and generally getting quite worked. I made it down in complete darkness and was quite happy to retreat to the sale aisle at Albertson's to hunt for dinner.



Mountains = good = things I like = climbing = climbing up the mountain = hiking to the point and back = hiking up the mountain + pain + cramped thighs + sun swinging around the southern horizon = swing around the ponderosa = snow lying light in the shadows = snow light in the shadows + crust in the sun = up too early in the morning + one more cup cup cup of coffee and the truck idling = all part of the experience, or whatever.



So on I swept with threshing oar. I head up to the snowbowl to practice being a patroller. I like being on the mountain a full day without actually having to climb it. We sweep open, patrol, drink coffee in the hut, argue over bullshit, and sweep to close. Sometimes it's a nice day, sometimes you may as well be on Everest. Pictures don't really capture the feeling.





And sometimes we meet in the bar.





Yes, he's typing already.