Lassen Volcanic National Park - A Winter Farewell

I've read that the best time to explore Lassen Volcanic National Park is in the Winter, while the park is empty and skiers get free reign (on summer weekends, orgies of hikers park near the summit and hump their way to the top).  Well, I had to find out for myself:

April 1st was, for me, the first day of spring.  The drive to Lassen was stupidly beautiful - flowers blooming, rays of sunshine breaking through puffy white clouds, rivers of snow-melt cascading down the highway - even the radio played sunny songs.

Between the park's entrance and the summit of Mt. Lassen stands over seven miles and 3,000 feet of elevation gain.  Waves of heat rose from the pavement while I packed barefoot in the parking lot.  There was hardly anyone around - a few families sledding on far away slopes.  I clicked into my skis by 11am - pants rolled up high, shirt off - like skiing in the summer.

The hours flew by while I worked my way up the mountain.  I knew I'd make the summit by sunset but I'd be getting down in the dark.  The ridge to the summit was steep and icy.  I made my way across it as the sun set and the wind picked up.  Once on top, I had just enough time to celebrate with photos of the view and a little trail mix before heading back.  The sunset was impressive.

Getting down from the ridge was difficult.  The steep slope and ice played on my nerves.  My cross country skis weren't designed for turning.  I skied down in sharp, nearly horizontal lines, back and forth, falling hard and often - my elbows or knees crashing through thick ice.  At one point, I fell so hard that the front of one ski somehow whacked me hard across the face.  Eventually, I gave up, clicked out of my skis and simply carried them while hopping my way down the steep­­­­­ slopes like an astronaut.       

I made it off the ridge by dark.  My headlamp died quickly but, luckily, I had a backup.  The last five miles were all downhill.  I skied them in the dark, a flashlight in my left hand and a ski pole in the right.  It was an eerie experience.  The scrapping of skis against ice sounded like someone pleading for help over an intercom.  Everything was pitch black, besides the stars and the small spotlight that I tentatively followed. 

A mile from the parking lot, hot clouds of rotten-egg-sulfur rose from the earth and blew across the trail, leaving a large swath of bare of snow.  I removed my pack and skis and laid down to watch the stars as the steam billowed over me.  After a particularly impressive shooting star streaked across the sky, I smiled, thought of the many warm days to come and closed the book on a particularly long winter.