A couple of winters ago I made my way through deep snow to the bottom of my driveway at four o’clock in the morning, to be picked up by the town plow—a ride I had arranged the evening before—when a major storm had been forecast.
Out of the darkness, first came the rumbling sound of the plow, then lights flashing orange through the trees. I climbed up into the monster, which for the next three hours the driver navigated up and down many back roads. » read more
Photography by Hubert Schriebl
Ah, Sun-flower! Weary of time
Who countest the steps of the sun
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done:
Where the Youth pined away with desire
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow
Arise from their graves and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
William Blake
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Photography and Essay by Hubert Schriebl
Last year I hit one of the “big” birthdays, and as I always do on my birthday, I climbed Stratton Mountain. I cut a small notch on the rail of the Hubert Hutte to commemorate my ascent. The trails were still covered with snow and I had a good run down on skis. The following days and weeks I repeated the climb frequently on foot, witnessing the changing of the seasons from spring to summer and fall and winter, each time leaving a small mark on the rail when I reached the top.
Usually starting at 6 a.m., I was able to avoid the wet grass soaked by rain or dew. I followed the rocky path under the gondola up to Interstate, which leads to the high west meadows. From there up to Times Square where Wanderer meets Drifter and straight up to the top.
I enjoy the summer sounds of babbling brooks, rustling leaves, the melodic sounds of mountain birds, as well as the sights of the ever-changing flowering slopes. Then there are the mornings when the howling wind pushes low clouds and fog, like ghost trains, over the mountains with a current only a crow would challenge.
By the beginning of fall, I counted over 50 notches, and I thought I could challenge myself to 100 climbs in a full year. But from then on, it proved to be more challenging. Ice-covered rocks and early snow would sometimes make the descent more difficult. However, I was often joined by friends or my son to share the experience (and make it more safe). By the end of Stratton’s winter season, I had four more climbs left to do, and on April 18th, I cut the last notch in the railing.
Photography and Essay by Hubert Schriebl
I had been away from the high mountains too long. So finally last summer things came together, and I was on my way to Switzerland. Like seeing friends you have not seen for a long time, I was anxious to see once again these mountains that I had climbed fifty years ago. How had they changed? What would it feel like to put on heavy climbing boots and make the long walk to the mountain hut, sharing the space with friends and other people with the same dreams? On August 24th last summer, it became a reality when my Vermont neighbor, Bill Thomson, and my longtime Austrian climbing partner and Himalaya companion, Klaus Gurtler, and his daughter Katrina, were all sitting together outside the Monte Rosa Hut, watching the darkness move in on the mountains around us. The next morning we rose at 2 a.m. and began hiking. Soon after we started, we came to a long stretch of boulders and ledges that took hours to navigate with only the help of the small beams of light from our headlamps. As we reached the glacier, still well before dawn, we roped up and put on crampons for another long stretch to reach the ridge that leads to the summit of Monte Rosa. Along the way, we were rewarded with a magnificent sunrise. After a long day of climbing, we descended and reached the train station on the Gornergrat around 7 p.m., where we could look back at fantastic views of the mountains and glaciers, now scarred by climate change, but still beautiful. So, what they say is not true. You can go back!
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Photography and Essay by Hubert Schriebl
Early in October, I started bringing firewood closer to the house, as I had seen a couple of wooly bears among the fallen leaves. These particular fuzzy caterpillars had black stripes in the front and back, and a wide light brown stripe in between. A sure sign of a long and snowy winter - or is that a short and mild winter?!
But if you really want to have snow on the trails, the best thing to do is to rely on the snowmakers who roam the mountains at night, moving and positioning the mighty snow guns - and mixing compressed air with water to create snow, supplementing nature! Snow is considered by skiers and snowboarders to be White Gold -- would making it be a kind of alchemy? Creating valuable snow out of thin air, like creating pure gold out of simple lead (that in the middle ages was considered blasphemous -- no messing around with nature - punishable by death)? The difference is, of course, that our mountain crews today can actually accomplish this, making snow using scientific and engineering formulas.
Snow makers are a special breed, very much like mountain climbers. Their work takes them into the rough elements and challenges of severe winters -- often rewarded by the solitude of a beautiful dawn coming after a long night.
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