C and I had booked a dinner at a place called the Pine Creek Cookhouse. A friend had told me it’s a thing to do here, as it’s up in the hills and can only be accessed by cross country skis or by sleigh — you drive to a certain point, after which you must switch to a more humble form of transport. It’s dark as we head up the mountain road and we notice that there aren’t many other cars headed this way. And the snow and wind starts to increase the higher we go. Hmmm.
A few miles further and the road is completely white — it twists and turns in the dark along what looks like a river created canyon on our right. The wind occasionally blows the snow from the surrounding fields and hills obscuring the road, and then we have to drive slower, as it’s hard, almost impossible, to see. After a few more miles we spot a small pickup tilted at a 45º angle into the snow bank on the ravine side of the road. A few more feet and it would have tumbled down. I stop and suggest that Cindy walk over and see if anyone is in there and if they need a ride or help. She returns trembling, and with a slight quiver in her voice says, “The truck seems empty…let’s turn around and get out of here.”
The road here is too narrow to turn around, so I continue slowly up the mountain. The blowing snow increases and we see either a couple of grey foxes or small wolves crossing in front of our headlights, but there is still no safe place to do a U-turn. By now C is really panicking, and I agree that if this weather continues, it could be really unsafe to drive back down after a meal and some wine.
Eventually I see a road branching off on the left and I use that area to turn around. We head back down and before we even reach the abandoned truck we see another vehicle — an SUV — dangling over the edge in a very similar way, it’s hazard lights flashing. I get out this time, but no one is in the car. So we drive on down.
When we reach the valley floor the clouds have lightened and the snow has stopped, but we both reason that given the weather pattern here thus far, the snow could begin to fall again in a minute — so tonight might not be the best night for cross country skiing to a fancy restaurant.
C is more of a skier than I am — I’ve only tried it twice — but this seems the ideal place for it. We decide to rent couple pairs of cross-country skies and some booties for the week. First, we attempt the trail that passes right behind our guest-house. I panic whenever we approached a descent, and I fall into the deep snow about four or five times, but we make it around the course.
Over the course of the week, we venture out on various trails about three or four more times, an hour or so at a stretch. On the very last day, during a few hours of sunshine, I begin to get the hang of it. I can glide along like I am skating or rollerblading, and it’s a nice workout and pretty exhilarating. Maybe it was the little grooves carved into these prepped trails that kept me on track, or maybe it was just my increased confidence — but at any rate, I get it, finally.
