Telemarking

Ever watch a telemark skier carve crazy loops in the snow while heading down a slope? Much of the appeal in the Scandinavian obsession is perfecting a difficult yet graceful turn that's beautiful to watch -- when executed well -- and can be adapted from ski resorts to the backcountry. While advances in equipment have made alpine skiing easier than ever, telemark skiing remains what it has been for more than a century, a rarefied endeavor with a high learning curve.

Ever watch a telemark skier carve crazy loops in the snow while heading down a slope? Much of the appeal in the Scandinavian obsession is perfecting a difficult yet graceful turn that's beautiful to watch -- when executed well -- and can be adapted from ski resorts to the backcountry. While advances in equipment have made alpine skiing easier than ever, telemark skiing remains what it has been for more than a century, a rarefied endeavor with a high learning curve.

Anyone who watched the ski-jumping competition in the Winter Olympics heard the term telemark a lot, in reference to the landings: one ski gliding in front of the other, adding stability. Telemarking, named after a region in southern Norway, is a technique long-used among cross-country skiers, particularly in deep snow and other challenging backcountry conditions.

Sun splashes out of a deep blue sky and down upon the white, nearly treeless slope called Mottolino, where Naheed Henderson pulls on her goggles and releases her edges, swerving her skis down the fall line. Henderson, a deeply tanned 28-year-old outdoor-skills instructor from Victor, Idaho, lets her boards run straight for a few seconds, picking up speed. Just as velocity threatens her control, she launches into a turn that most skiers never make and many never even see.

Knut Anders Haukelid, 82, one of the "Heroes of Telemark" who helped cripple Nazi Germany's atomic weapons program in Norway. During the height of World War II, Haukelid and eight other Norwegian commandos parachuted into the mountains, on what seemed a suicide mission, to destroy a heavy water plant near Rjukan in Telemark County. The group stole into the heavily guarded plant on Feb. 27, 1943, and blew it up just after midnight.

The dramatic Telemark region of Norway, birthplace of modern skiing, has long been considered a summer getaway by Europeans, what with its fiords, beaches, lakes, rivers and streams. They come here for sailing, windsurfing, fishing, horseback riding, hiking, tennis, mountain scenery and historic villages and towns linked by the 19th-Century Telemark Canal System. All under the glow of the Midnight Sun, which brings 17 hours a day of summer sunlight.

Sun splashes out of a deep blue sky and down upon the white, nearly treeless slope called Mottolino, where Naheed Henderson pulls on her goggles and releases her edges, swerving her skis down the fall line. Henderson, a deeply tanned 28-year-old outdoor-skills instructor from Victor, Idaho, lets her boards run straight for a few seconds, picking up speed. Just as velocity threatens her control, she launches into a turn that most skiers never make and many never even see.

In "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," Lewis Carroll's story of twisted time, space and logic, the adventures begin with the hapless White Rabbit peering at a watch pulled from his waistcoat pocket and mumbling to himself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" His musings could be the rallying cry for the urban world of the late 20th century, where everyone, it seems, could use more time.

You've heard of restaurant customers walking off with the silverware. But what about stealing the "A" placard issued by the county health department? It happened one night at Poquito Mas in Westwood. The would-be thieves, a respectable-looking couple, were spotted by an employee. They said it was all a joke, handed back the card and left. But a few days later, the sign was successfully stolen from the Westwood Boulevard eatery.

Every summer morning before sunrise, a slow trickle of cars begins to wind along this park's Glacier Point Road. As the day warms up the trickle becomes a steady stream, and by late afternoon the parking lot at road's end is usually full. What's the attraction? Most visitors make the 32-mile pilgrimage from the Yosemite Valley floor to Glacier Point for the view. From the edge of an airy overlook, people can look 3,200 feet down into Yosemite Village.

Knut Anders Haukelid, 82, one of the "Heroes of Telemark" who helped cripple Nazi Germany's atomic weapons program in Norway. During the height of World War II, Haukelid and eight other Norwegian commandos parachuted into the mountains, on what seemed a suicide mission, to destroy a heavy water plant near Rjukan in Telemark County. The group stole into the heavily guarded plant on Feb. 27, 1943, and blew it up just after midnight.

Anyone who watched the ski-jumping competition in the Winter Olympics heard the term telemark a lot, in reference to the landings: one ski gliding in front of the other, adding stability. Telemarking, named after a region in southern Norway, is a technique long-used among cross-country skiers, particularly in deep snow and other challenging backcountry conditions.

The dramatic Telemark region of Norway, birthplace of modern skiing, has long been considered a summer getaway by Europeans, what with its fiords, beaches, lakes, rivers and streams. They come here for sailing, windsurfing, fishing, horseback riding, hiking, tennis, mountain scenery and historic villages and towns linked by the 19th-Century Telemark Canal System. All under the glow of the Midnight Sun, which brings 17 hours a day of summer sunlight.

"You're going skiing at Crusty Boot? Where's that?" asked a skiing buddy of mine. "Not crusty boot, Crested Butte," I corrected. "It's in Colorado. Near Gunnison." "Gunnison?" he mimicked with a blank stare. "How close is that to Denver, or Aspen?" Not very. Crested Butte sits by itself in west-central Colorado, far from the rest of the state's more celebrated ski areas. Skiers come to Crested Butte and stay a few days. Mileage prohibits anything less.

Dawn light wakes me as always up here, a hot flash of color radiating into the loft window off the upper snowfields of Pointless Peak. The cold seeping off the glass sends me burrowing back under the down quilt, but just for a moment. Today I'm headed for the downhill slopes at Mammoth, but there will be plenty of skiing just to get there from this cabin, snowed in five miles from Rock Creek Road. Halfway down the loft ladder, my breath goes visible.