Breaking Trail

On Tuesday I went out by myself.  It turned into a wallow.  At one point, I measured 28 inches of unconsolidated snow.  I broke trail going up; and I broke trail going down; and it was the same trail.  Yesterday I went out with VSO.  As we started up the canyon here came a man from the old country.  With his wife, or girlfriend.  "Good timing," I said.  "You broke trail for us."  "Ja."  He smiled.  I kept expecting him to say, "We escaped the Nazis by skiing over the Alps."  But he only said, "Have a good evening."  With a strong accent.  I don't know?  Italian?  Austrian?  In any case, there is nothing better than climbing in a track made by someone who knows how to ski.  I was in heaven.  I continued to imagine the conversation:  "We carried schnitzel and reisling; sleeping in unguarded huts; fleeing to Switzerland; and then to America; where I started the ski school at Telluride."  Maybe I was imagining a talk with Alf Engen or someone.  About a mile up, though, it stopped.  Oh well.  So much for my daydream.  I was back to breaking my own trail.  Our own trail.  With VSO packing it behind me, it was going to be good for going home.  We went to the gate at Five Mile, turned around there.  VSO leading the way down.  I was the fourth set of skis on that track.  Kick glide kick glide.