After packing up the car, I threaded through town again, retracing my steps from the day before, and heading north on the highway, this time in full day light.
But I went only a couple miles this time before turning on the side road up to the Arizona Snowbowl, the ski area at the base of Humphreys Peak, the highest mountain in Arizona, in the cluster of small volcanic range that towers majestically above Flagstaff and the surrounding plateau.
After patiently waiting in the long line of cars to enter the gravel parking lot, I got waved into a spot by the attendant in an orange vest. I got out of my car amidst a hundred other people, all of whom were in the process of donning ski clothes, or taking their skis or snowboards off racks on their vehicles or from the backs of their pick-up trucks.
I felt a bit out-of-place when I took out my snowshoes and collapsible trekking poles from trunk. But there was some kind of pride in walking past them carrying my gear, and following the road further uphill to the Agassiz Lodge at the base of one of the ski runs.
From my research the night before, the trail up to the summit of Humphreys Peak went from the lodge across the face of one of the ski runs and into the wilderness area of the Coconino National Forest.
It was a brilliant sunny day, perfect for climbing in snow. I put on my snowshoes and starting walking down one of the side trails of the resort, then across the face of the wide ski run, as snowboarders and skiers whizzed past me. Given the number of amateur snowboarders flopped down in the middle of the slope while taking lessons, I couldn't have been much of a hazard as I crossed.
On the other side of the run, I located what I thought was the trailhead into the forest. I soon found myself in very deep powder in the thick forest, blazing my own trail through the recent snowfall. It was hard to believe that I could be the first one to be on the trail.
It turns out I wasn't. After about twenty minutes of very going around the trees, I stumbled on the obvious trail, which was well beaten down and easy to traverse. It was quite a relief to be out of the heavy-duty trekking in virgin powder. But in the process I learned that the MSR Lightning Ascents had plenty of flotation for my body weight.
I followed the trail through the trees along a gentle uphill slope until I reached the bottom of Dutchman's Glade, a long steep open field of snow that went directly upwards on the mountain. According to the trail directions I'd found, in summer this was an impassable rock slide area. It was usable as an ascent trail of the mountain only in winter, allowing one to shave off several miles of switchbacks on the official trail.
There were already a smattering of tracks up the steep glade in front of me, as well as sets of swishing ski tracks coming downward. A pair of college-age guys had passed me earlier in the forest trail and were already about halfway up the glade when I reached the bottom.
The path looked daunting. It was like climbing a very long set of steep stairs. But the MSRs, designed for exactly this type of slope, performed perfectly with their traction.
The only limitation was my energy reserve. Unfortunately the side trip through the deep forest powder had already left me worn out. Moreover I had stupidly forgotten to eat a hearty breakfast. Thankfully I had least packed a small Toblerone chocolate bar to replenish myself.
It took me over a half hour in shifts of climbing and heavy breathing to ascend the glade and begin following the trail further up the mountain into the forest. I stopped above the glade to finish off the chocolate while sitting on a rock. By the that time the college-age guys had already skied down the glade and had climbed back up to my position, on their way to the summit of the mountain.
The view out over the plateau was marvelous. Exhausted I found myself just wanting to linger and meditate. I had less than two miles to go to reach the summit above the tree line, but it was almost all straight upward on the mountain. After considering the day ahead, the little voice inside me said that my energy stores were too depleted to reach the summit that day. I knew I'd be risking some foolish injury if I continued. I'd already begun tripping on my snowshoes in my tired state.
So with a bit of regret, I started heading back down the trail, then down the steep glade along the path I'd followed coming up. I discovered it was in many ways more difficult to descend a steep slope in snowshoes than to ascend it. I kept having to remind myself to be careful and take it slow. I was in no hurry at this point.
In an all too short time, giving the effort of climbing, I was back at the Agassiz Lodge, tramping around the long lines of skiers and snowboarders waiting for the chairlift. Within ten minutes more I was back at my car and stripping off my snow pants and outer layers.
I'd given myself a good hike, but of course I couldn't escape the mild feeling of defeat. I would have been so good to stand on the peak that day, but reaching the summit of Arizona would have to wait until another time. I resolved to return and finish the task one day.
But it had been quite a victory in the sense of testing out the limits of my new snowshoes. They would surely cope with nearly any snowy terrain. I loved the feeling of flexibility that would give me.
Moreover, I'd been able to add Arizona to places where I'd snowshoed, something I didn't anticipate even a month ago.
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