First Tracks

For me, a skier since I was 5 years old, first tracks meant getting out the door at some ungodly hour to brave challenging road conditions (traffic or snowpack or both!), and/or find a mountain and start moving. The goal was to be the first person on the mountain, either riding the lift up or hiking up to ski down. I've skied--downhill, cross-country, and backcountry--in 7 states and Canada. Blizzards, snow-packed roads, jack-knived semis, and traffic jams were my frequent companions. I have poor circulation in my feet from standing around in the snow during too many avalanche classes. But I've logged many miles in the mountains in pursuit of something else, something beyond, and yes, the bragging rights that come with being the first one there (or maybe even the only one!) and doing things that few others will or can do.

When I lived in Colorado's Front Range, ski traffic was a horrendous ordeal: it caused more fear in me than the impressive Rocky mountains, and contributed to the desire to move. Avoiding traffic motivated creative schedules (up at 5 am to beat the traffic then leave the mountains by early afternoon), added expense (meals out, lodging, etc.), off-the-beaten-path destinations, or spending the night in the car. Here's a morning after a chilly night on Tennessee Pass, CO in my wife's old Subaru: We got up, had our oatmeal, and toured around the pass, but we were back on I-70 by early afternoon to, you guessed it, beat the traffic.

Then we moved to Los Alamos, where Pajarito Mountain is 20 minutes from town. First tracks are closer, but, in some ways, more difficult to get because the outdoor community in Los Alamos is extremely motivated. There's always someone who got up earlier, went further, and climbed higher.  

While I've slowed down a little, I don't plan to quit the mountain lifestyle any time soon. Here, Rusty the dog and I are getting first ski tracks on a beautiful Spring day near Wolf Creek Pass (photo by Ryan Hess)

in the Nambe Chutes near Santa Fe on another, cloudier, Spring day (photo by Scott Hsu)

 and on Wheeler Peak, New Mexico's high point (sans Rusty; photo by Scott Hsu).

Come to think of it, though, those pics were all taken about 10 years ago. A lot's changed since then.

Like having kids.  Here we are in our local Jemez Mountains, getting a different kind of first tracks (yes, that's me pulling a kid in a sled on my lightweight Nordic gear; photo by my lovely wife):

As you can see, my accepted meaning of first tracks has relaxed a little. I was musing on this little revelation the other day while out walking with Rusty the dog. Even at 8:30 in the morning, we were the first ones out on the local trails behind our house. I could hear the crunch of the snow, feel the crisp, cold morning air, and see the tracks that the crows and coyotes had left during the previous night's snowfall as they, too, were looking for something.  Rusty and I got first tracks that morning, and it didn't involve traffic or treacherous roads or a long hike. Rather, it required an openness to what was: the fact that we were the first ones out on the trail, getting some exercise, and enjoying a little fresh air and solitude.

Maybe that's just the persistence of time, the willingness to compromise on what we will endure for bragging rights. Now I'm as apt to brag that we can get the kids to bed by 8 pm, or that I got a chilly but beautiful moonlit walk, as I am about anything else. That said, Pajarito Mountain is currently blanketed in snow, and I'll be digging the skis out for their season prep sometime this week. Hopefully Sundance run stays un-tracked for another few days, but I doubt it will.

As a parting shot, here's a picture I took that I think captures the essence and spirit of "first tracks."

After a light snow a couple years ago, the boy put on his winter clothes, went to the garage, grabbed his cross country skis, headed out to the back yard, and toured through the garden. Adventure, it turns out, is where you find it.

Thanks for reading, and have a great week!