Snow in the moonlight that looks like magic: Finding my way in a Blue Mountainscape

Last weekend, Michael and I embarked on our longest cross country ski/backpacking trip to date, although conditions were particularly cush, not just because of blue skies, beautiful snow and no wind, but also because we rented a 1930's civilian conservation core-era guard station cabin 11.4 miles from Mt. Emily Sno Park off hwy 84 in northeastern Oregon. in the Blue Mountains which, once we got to it, made our stay more comfortable than any snow tent imaginable. Even though it wasn't the most trying of circumstances, or the most strenuous or therefore challenging adventure, it offered us several valuable opportunities for learning about ourselves and each other, as well as to take a load off and let our nerves settle away from the city and into the woods for a while.

The plan was to leave on Thursday evening after work, but unfortunately a pair of illnesses made it impossible for us to leave before Friday morning. Stress levels rose as we were eager to get to our cabin, reserved for 21 dollars/night Friday-Sunday on the Forest Service website,

but the over 11-mile largely uphill trip with packs on presented a hard day of skiing, and leaving on Friday morning to get to the Blue Mountains from Portland meant we would arrive at the entry point around 2pm. (We could have woken earlier, but much-needed sleep and recovery time outweighed an earlier departure.)

As a result, we left the Mt. Emily parking lot at 2 with about 6 hours of skiing ahead of us and about 3 hours of daylight left.

At about 7pm, the overabundance of goodies we had packed for our 3 nights in paradise was taking its toll on my back. Like the kind soul that he is, Michael offered to carry both of our packs. He insisted, in fact. So he did carry them both, for about 75feet. Even though it didn't take much physical burden away from me (I then made him give me my pack back so we could keep moving forward), emotionally the gesture really lightened my load. If he could be kind enough to offer to carry my pack when he already has his own load to shoulder, his own aches and pains, his own problems, then surely I could keep going with a positive attitude for just a while longer. After all, this was what I had signed myself up for. Actually, this was what I needed.


After getting to our destination, at about 8:30, exhausted, we had one last scare as we fiddled with the lock on the cabin door attempting to get in. We did, and proceeded to enjoy the propane stove, heater, and lamps, and well as the beds and table. More than anything, the three days and nights of skiing that followed served as a chance for us to get to know those woods, ourselves, and each other better. We didn't see another person during that time, aside for a few passing snowmobilers. I fell in love with those quiet mountains, our cabin, myself in that place and us in that place. It all seemed so simple, even if only for a little while. I started to think: what if I no longer lived in the city at all? What if I could look up into these huge pine trees, overburdened with their own loads of snow and life but still standing tall, and know that we didn't have to leave them at all or carry our burdens alone, but could instead learn to watch ourselves grow by measuring our progress against something so much bigger and taller than ourselves, something real and alive?




After returning, I feel myself itching to be out in the snow daily, even now as I look out of my window onto the evening Portland skyline of warehouses, construction equipment and people hurrying home. Maybe it's partly because I've caught the bug for cross country skiing, the beautiful sliding motion that lets me go and feel the world around me in a way that invites vibrant enthusiasm into my every step. But maybe that's just it--I feel more like myself when I'm sliding along through the forest, or at least more like a self I want to be, a self I like and can relate to. Not as much like the self of the city that hurries along like everyone else. That snaps at loved ones when I've had a rough day. That doesn't have compassion in my heart for all of the people I meet. Is it possible it just takes more space for me to be that person I actually like, more healthy life around me and filling my life with everyday magic?

Because the full moon lit our way, we didn't need to use headlamps or even squint our eyes to see along the winding road leading up through the glittering trees and sparkling snow to our cabin in the woods. I felt for a little while like maybe I could
see more clearly that way even, than I can in the brightly lit urban spaces I frequent where so little magic seems to grow. And I realized it's possible I need to see by the light of the magic outside in order to find my way to the place I want to go within.