How owning a cell phone can improve your skiing opportunities:

Yesterday afternoon, I made a date to go cross-country skiing with my brother R. That evening, I went off to a meeting, leaving my cell phone--my only phone--in my office. Meanwhile, R was offered the chance to work an overtime shift at his fire station, and took it. He left two phone messages to tell me he couldn't go skiing after all, and his wife J tried again this morning. Knowing nothing of that, I came home from my meeting, set the alarm for early-morning wakeup, pulled out my topo map for our intended destination, Mt. Amabilis, and packed a trail lunch. This morning, I pulled into R and J's driveway just as J was pulling out, on her way to take my nephew O to school. R was already gone. She explained.

Had I gotten R's message, I doubtless would have switched off the alarm, slept in, and spent the day on chores and holiday shopping. Instead, I pointed my car towards the Cascades and headed off to the nordic trail system at Snoqualmie Pass. An hour later, I took a seat on the chairlift and headed up to the upper trail system. And what a lovely day I had! The snow was fluffy and freshly groomed. Over the course of the day, a new North Pacific front slowly chased out a high-pressure system, sending shafts of sunlight and dark, scudding clouds playing back and forth across the landscape. One moment, a ridgeline was outlined as a bright arc of sunlight; the next moment, it darkened just as a different peak ignited into light.

Avalanche hazard had blocked off the long trail around Mt. Catherine--my usual choice--so I contented myself for much of the day with a series of small loop trails, alternately circling up and then down a series of small hills.

Climbing up, then sliding down, over and over...the action reminded me of a long-ago day during a sailing trip in Prince William Sound. Dad and I sat on an rock outcrop above a channel that connects a small bay to the Sound proper. A tide rip was running strongly down the channel, and a sea otter was playing in it. Over and over, the otter slid down the channel, propelled by the current, then swam back up and slid down again.

So I spent much of the day like a sea otter in snow. Later, when I stopped in the bottom of a quiet canyon to eat my sandwich, alert grey jays soon congregated. I held up small crumbs to them. One by one, the jays fluttered bravely down onto my upheld palm to take them.

Driving back, I found myself heading into darker and darker weather, and raindrops began to spatter on my windshield when I reached the outskirts of Seattle. I didn't stop by the office to pick up my phone.