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The Devil’s Cold and Bored These Days
By David Huebner

Chopping wood, echoes of the axe ringing in the cold morning air. Our second major storm of the season ended yesterday, and left the valley covered with a foot of dense wet snow. Today’s a bluebird. It’s been most of a week since Mariah and I got our final lift into the valley by a gracious friend. Cooking over a wood burning stove fits our slow morning mood, and we eat a simple breakfast of oatmeal with raisins and sugar. Today will be our first ski day of the season.

Heading out from the cabin, we take the cut off trail into the National Monument. We can barely make out the route of the trail, covered with 12-18 inches of dense snow. A few hurried deer tracks, wandering coyote tracks, and the manic ramblings of the squirrels provide entertainment. We pass a sign telling us we’re entering the Monument. Who makes such odd decisions, drawing such straight lines? Cresting a small hill we point our skis down towards the basalt formation that is the namesake landmark of the Monument. Dramatic under an amazing sky, we look up at the snow decorated columns of the Devil. Surely he must be cold in his little postpile right now. And bored, with no crowds of visitors to possess and lead astray, except for us of course. Nevertheless, the postpile stands with a natural serenity that is absent when surrounded by the summer hordes. No longer being pointed at, posed in front of, climbed on, or discussed by a ranger as if it were an animal in the Zoo, I think in the Devil’s winter boredom there must be a sense of relief.

Crossing the bridge over the San Joaquin River, orange afternoon light dances in the slow moving pools, and we begin heading towards Minaret Falls. We’re excited to see what the cold temperatures and a fresh cover of snow can do to the classic granite cascade.

Breaking trail through the woods on the west side of the valley, it feels good to get a little burn in the quads. The trees are covered with snow, and occasionally a breeze drops "bombs" from the limbs. Amazingly we are able to follow the trail’s subtle indentations under the snow, and we turn at the sign for Minaret Falls poking out of the snowpack. So quiet, calm, the forest seems to be breathing, not so park-like as in the summer, more wild, free. Stopping, we hear the faint sounds of water moving. Sure enough we ski out into the fan of Minaret Creek at the base of the falls. There’s still water moving, but very little, all the cliffs laced with snow and icicles dangling from the overhanging sections. I marvel at our crazy lifestyle, like the vast emptiness pressing all around us in this wild valley returning to its own solitude, completely nameless and unknown, are we too returning to deep, primordial roots? Seemingly left behind by modernity, skiing through the cold, snowy woods, it all feels wonderfully unimportant.

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