It’s simple math.
Size 10 feet plus four pairs of heavy socks, equals size 15 feet.
Indeed, when I wedged, my very well insulated toes into the oversized telemark boots, I felt a measure of reassuring snugness. Yeah, this could work.
I bought telemark skis and boots from a friend who is much larger than I am. The price was cheap. I figured I could eventually sell the oversize boots and buy some cheap tele boots that fit me. The problem is, not many people want to buy tele boots, nor do many people have them for sale. I had been too cheap to buy a new pair online and too lazy to get busy trying to pawn the monster ski boots off on someone else. Now I was too bored to not to try the set up out anyway.
Powder abounds in the mountains above my Port Angeles, Washington home with access via the Hurricane Ridge Road into Olympic National Park. Traditionally, skiers start at around 4,000 to 5,000 feet, where the Pacific Northwest precipitation yields absurd quantities of snow.
But wrongheaded, obstinate me, wanted to avoid the long drive and noted that there was the Lake Angeles Trailhead at 1,850 feet, which was just below snow-line.
When I pulled into the parking lot, my Civic struggled to push its way into a snow-filled parking space. Eventually, I got it to pull in backwards and I aimed the hood slightly downhill so gravity would be on my side when it was time to drive out of there. I’d had doubts earlier, but now I was sure there would be enough snow to ski on.
Lake Angeles is a quiet alpine lake almost 2,500 feet above the trailhead. Darkness would set in at around a little after four p.m. This was a small window to work with, but I decided to go for it. No matter where I was, I planned to turn around at about 3 pm to avoid being utterly benighted.
The snow at the start of the trail was shallow enough so that the waxy green leaves of the salal shrubs still poked through the surface. I glided along confidently with the help of climbing skins that went from the tip of the skis to my toes. I’d also sprayed some kick wax beneath the skis earlier to give them more grip. The warm snow was at first too slippery for the wax to be effective. The narrow trail, meant for hikers, didn’t leave much room to set in edges and it was tough not to slide backwards. As I climbed up higher and the temperature dropped, I felt the grip engage, and occasionally it become too much.
When snow began to gum up beneath my boots, I lost most of my ability to glide forward with each stride, but it also meant that I could take on the steeper sections with less fear.
As for the boots, they felt pretty good. OK, so my shins were repeatedly slamming into the front, which did kind of hurt, but it got better after I raised the ascender bars beneath my heels.
Intermittently, the trees in front of me filled with frozen mist. It lent a closed-in, anxious feeling to the woods. In the open areas, it created a dreamlike tableaux, where the rows of pines marched up the mountainside to where they diminished, vanished.
The trail had small streams to cross, a narrow footbridge where I balanced on my skis above a brook. I felt hungry, having not eaten lunch yet, but refused to dig my pasta out until I reached the goal.
Finally, I reached Lake Angeles. It was frozen over obviously.
The imposing walls of Klahhane Ridge rose above. I could remember my first run along this trail back in July when I watched nematodes thrashing in the stagnant waters, and an occasional fish jumped out. Now there was silence and drifting snow.
Thousands of needle-like frost feathers grew out of the alder branches by the water. Above them, a ghost of sunlight tried in vain to penetrate the clouds. Even this short break was enough to make me shiver, to clutch my hands against between my thighs for warmth.
I slurped down the pasta that I’d brought along as fast as I could. It was now 3 p.m. and I knew I should get back.
The trail had been hard work going up; Going down, it was punishment. The hard snowpack and narrow margins left little room for maneuvering, plenty of opportunity to pick up speed and catch a ski tip on a root. I ended up leaving my climbing skins on so that something would kill my speed. Many skiers may see the sport as an artistic pursuit, one that allows flow, balance and confidence under speed — none of that applied to the garbage slope I was going down. This was no tango I was dancing; I was in a bar fight, swinging pieces of a broken stool, always on the brink of losing my feet.
There were a few sections where I was proud of myself for staying up, plenty of others where I fell and cursed. I could see why there were no other ski tracks on the trail. Everyone else knew better, apparently.
In an attempt to get down safe, I would cruise along a short distance, and then veer off trail on the uphill side to kill momentum. I ended up skidding along large sections of the trail diagonally. Because there were no switchbacks, 80 percent of the descent involved me making a sloppy right turn. Roots and branches tended to mess with the climbing skins, so I lost a lot of time readjusting them. The further down I went, the more challenging it became because the snow got more shallow.
All the while, it was getting darker. Finally, after the skins became dislodged for the umpteenth time, I decided it was time to take the skis off. It was just as well, because that was right before the steepest section on the trail. It was maybe only another 200 yards from there to get back to the car. I tromped the rest of the way back.
Basically, the skis had worked, though next time, I may follow the other skiers to the soft, forgiving powder at the higher elevations.
And how did my feet do in the oversized boots? I’m happy to say that with four pairs of socks on, I managed to finish the trip without cold toes.
