FEBRUARY 25, 2025 – In these times especially, a person needs daily diversions that aren’t injurious to the body or soul—or more positively stated, activities that promote mental and physical health. Since the turn of the year, I’ve been hauling self and ski gear over to “Little Switzerland” every day but the four that I spent up at the Red Cabin/Björnholm. Inside the scale model of Switzerland I’ve skied up and down “St. Moritz,” the downhill ski hill where the park crew made artificial snow this winter to a cumulative depth of three feet, kept nicely groomed by state-of-the-art equipment.
Since all my skiing (starting at 30 minutes per outing in early January and increasing to 80 minutes per day at this point in the season) was done between the hours of 11:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m.—before the place opened on weekdays—I had the hill to myself. (On weekends I had to skate up way off to the side of the main hill.)
Most of the 58 days I’ve been “on the mountain,” have been in bitterly cold conditions—ambient temps as low as MINUS 5F; wind chills in the MINUS 10F to MINUS 20F range. As I tell people, skiing in such extremes (plus hiking to and from “Little Switzerland”) builds character—or makes a person . . . a character. I’ve had neighbors mention to me diplomatically that they’ve “seen me walk by.” That’s “Minnesota nice” for, “I’ve seen you walk by and you look ridiculous, stiff-gaited, shoulders into the wind, icicles dangling from your beard, skis and poles tucked under your arms so that you could keep your hands warm by making fists inside your chopper mittens.”
Oh well. I know my neighbors mean well—and have my number, as it were. But suddenly, yesterday brought near-record temperatures, and turned what is typically a taxing workout (churning and burning calories just to keep warm) into a snap.
It was high noon today by the time I broke away from various duties and demands. The temperature was well into the 40sF, and the sun beamed brightly. Around the neighborhood the snow cover—devastated by yesterday’s high of 52F—was all but gone. Dressed accordingly, I hiked with a spring to my step over to the (soupy) base of the backside of “St. Moritz.” I could hear the groomer and a Bobcat wreaking havoc “on the other side of the mountain,” as they aggressively cleared cart paths over there for the approaching golf season. The ski season at “St. Moritz” is officially over—for everyone else but not for me.
For the next 80 minutes I was in nirvana, skating up the ski hill and executing 15 to 20 turns on the way down—for a total of a dozen rotations. No lift lines, no crowds on the slopes, no whipper-snappers schussing the mountain because that’s all they know how to do on skis or snowboards. With each rotation, the surrounding terrain and the houses parked around the outer boundary of “Little Switzerland” were gradually transfigured into breath-taking snow-capped Alpine peaks.
I was an off-piste skier far above the tree line, closer to heaven than to earth, though still very much down to earth. Moreover, I hadn’t needed to mount an expedition to the real Switzerland, my old ski-stomping grounds in Vermont or my all-time favorite ski area, “Big Mountain”—now “Whitefish Mountain” in Montana. I hadn’t fought traffic, interminable lift lines, staggeringly high lift tickets, or $30-hot dogs and $15-oranges for lunch at the “summit house” restaurant. No, at zero out-of-pocket cost, I’d simply walked a mile from our back door, switched to my ski gear and . . . Voila! I was at the base of the glorious “St. Moritz.” Having whipped myself into shape over the past two months, an ascent up the 65-foot vertical rise is now a piece of cake—nearly as easy as riding a high-speed quad up a real mountain.
Once at the top, before making my descent I skated a loop for a view out across the peaks of “Little Switzerland”—in reality, the tees, greens and fairways . . . at lower elevations . . . of Como Golf Course; off in the distance—the clubhouse (Geneva) overlooking the pond (Lake Geneva) and across Lexington Avenue, Lake Como (Lake Como, Italy). What’s not to embrace about this daily outing?
Perhaps my contentment with this simply routine is a sign I’m slowing down and getting old, amidst shrinking horizons. But who’s to say I can’t be satisfied with what I make of what I have? Am I less fulfilled than if I were to find my way to the Schilthorn in the Bernese Oberland?
Don’t tell my former self, but the reality of my pretend world is that it works! For a solid block of time each day I’m happily distracted from the imperative of our time: impeachment of President Musk and a federal suit against him for having stolen the election.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
