Light Touring
by David Huebner

Swish! I kick off, and start gliding away from the cabin, zzzzzzzippering waxless pattern base wizzing as I hurtle onto the icy packed road and fly out along the edge of the meadow. Starting into a kick and glide rhythm, I stride quickly by the meadow and off the road to cross a small creek and head into the national monument.

Steady sidestepping carries me quickly up and across a steeper spring snow covered, sunny aspect. I decide for a short detour for a little instant gratification and switchback up to the top of the small knoll, stop, and just turn and start gliding down. The snow is perfect, and I alternate between alpine turns and telemark turns. for a few hundred feet down the openly gladed, sunny knoll. What effortless joy! I yell within my head, feeling as if I should be hollering and hooting like a powder day. At the bottom I turn right and continue along my previous path, not ten minutes later for the act of skiing that run. No skins, no stopping, no tightening boots, none of the already minimal hassle of standard telemark skiing. Just a good sinch on my leather boots and a nice pattern on my skis and I can go anywhere, getting there fast if I choose.

Used to the option of going slower, I feel unaccustomed to the sensation that only my personal fitness, and level of motivation limits my speed across the terrain. Maintaining regular bursts at the ski equivalent of jogging, I find a pace that keeps me breathing steady, burns the quads, and I can fly through the woods. It really does feel like flying, as if the skis were wings, I seem to almost soar along the snow compared to the usual skin laden plodding. Crossing a creek, I head up openly spaced trees and onto a sunny moderate gladed ridge. Rich blue sky overhead, the sun has hardy moved as I alternate smoothly between traversing sidesteps and straight up herringbones and simple gliding climbing up the flank of this small high point. The slope faces southwest so it's glistening with corn perfection, and it's February corn perfection at that, which is even more wonderful, and I feel like whistling a tune but I'm a terrible whistler. The view to the left reveals a tooth-like jagged crest, distant but only distant a few miles, and it sits seductively over my shoulder, calling, motioning, waving to come see. I will I will, I tell the wind, as I lightly pant my way quickly up.

Where skins present two completely seperate worlds: the up and the down, skinless pattern based touring creates a sensation of constant glide, speed, the wind in your face, even if you're sidestepping or having to herringbone up a slope. After spending day after day chained to a fat pair of heavy skis, plastic boots, and slow skins, the sudden release to the world of glide is heavenly. The terrain around me is so big, just acres and acres of good corn snow, and good tree skiing, ahhh what is a bum to do?! I reach the top of this small high point, and sit down for a super dense Pemmican Bar, some water, and the view.

Pulling on a wind resistant fleece, and some gloves I step back into my pins and push off, heading back down. I hop fun alpine and tele turns down the perfect corn. Occaisionally I hit shady icy sections, and on one of these spots in particular I pick up speed and am trying to pull off a tele turn, as my straight, skinny touring boards chatter, with three distinct hops off the snow, digging in sufficiently with each landing, I drive the back foot, keep focused and ride it out into the sun and corn and continue arcing on down. At each resting point I head up and over to the next good looking line in the trees.

You can't do this sort of traversing on skinless skis or you'll really be sweating, and I revel in the ease and pure fun of linking up seperate lines along the gentle ridge in this manner all the way down to the creek, and the shade. Cutting turns through the undulating icy woods I get back to the national monument, the meadow, the bridge, the river, and soon I'm home; all with essentially one continuous glide.

Zippering along the road to the cabin, I think about how very little is written on the joys of such touring, as magazines go for more and more extreme hype to attract readers. Stepping out of the pins at my door, I think about how glorious a tour I just had, with plenty of excellent turns, a good burn in my legs and lungs, using skinny skis and floppy leather boots. Light touring is like the fierce wind howling up a canyon after a storm ‹ carrying you uphill as well as down, all in the same motion; it is simply wonderful.