February, in Bozeman, is my favorite time of winter. It is cold; the chill is inescapable. The world is white; the land is buried; streets are encased in layers of ice and snow, tree boughs are filled to the brim, bright white clouds with their promise of more snow fill the sky.
Skiing is at its peak. On a good year, it snows regularly, some years almost daily. The sun stays hidden behind the Bridger Bowl Cloud. The base is deep, at least this year—we won’t talk about the winter of 23-24. We armor ourselves in layers of gear, buckle our boots and our helmets and head out into the squeaky cold.
We all age a little each year. I am at the age where the call of the snowbird is getting stronger, but still I resist. There are things that are so beautiful about skiing; it is hard to let go. There are of course the powder turns, a vertical ballet with the added bonus of face shots.
The craving to hike to reach powder that is less accessible, less tracked, is always there. Encased in layers of gear we sweat while being blasted by bitter winds once we reach the ridge. Pack our skis to climb the old ridge hike, to climb to the Football Field or all the way to the top of Saddle Peak. Skin up to head up Bradley’s, the Ramp, maybe Wolverine Basin or Texas Meadow. It is the search for powder with few or no tracks, the desire for separation from the crowds below. The search for an encompassing quiet, for ethereal beauty, for exceptional turns.
When we were kids, making friends was simple, show up, meet another kid get down to playing. Skiing reawakens this childhood simplicity in us all. Young and old chat while on the lifts. Isn’t the pow amazing? On vacation? Are you a local? Shouldn’t you be in class? Born and raised here, really? How did you survive the lean years? We take runs together; we do hikes together. We feel exuberant together. Visitors love when we show them around, and we enjoy sharing our favorite stashes.
Trail running in February has it challenges. The only trail we can count on to be packed down is the M, but even it is often not accessible too much farther up than the M; the foothills trail is a fail-safe, but it too is sometimes inaccessible after a short distance. Still, there is something magical about crunching through a snow filled forest, a cloud of breath hanging in the air, a light snow falling. Packed trails, for as far as they go, when the conditions are just right, are softer, smoother than their rocky core.
This year I have added skate skiing to my winter repertoire. Less pounding than trail running, more flow, more grace—at least once I work out the kinks.
But the days are lengthening; the sun is strengthening. The promise of spring, is not far off. This cold, this beauty, this season of perfect snow lasts for but a moment in time. The temperatures will soon begin trending upward. The foothills will start turning green. The sun will leave its mark on the slopes. Spring skiing, then mud season. We pack away one set of gear, excitedly pull out another. The seasons will change, we will change with them. We will reminisce about last February, we will dream about the ones to come.
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