DAY ONE OF THE SEASON

DECEMBER 13, 2025 – I knew it was cold—8F—but I hadn’t taken the stiff wind into account. Two weeks had passed since I’d gotten outside for anything that might qualify as exercise. A head cold and other distractions had forced me to into “low profile” mode. On my way home from the MRI on Tuesday (the day after I’d wound up in ER because of extreme breathing problems), I’d driven along the northern border of “Little Switzerland” and seen a skier skating down the freshly groomed track. Oh, how I’d wanted to join him. “Patience,” I said to myself. “One of these days you will be out there. Have faith!”

Today was that day. An intervening motivation was Beth’s fall late Tuesday; a blow that produced effects I’d expect in a person two decades her senior—slow, cautious and pain-ridden movements and occasional brain-fog. Late this morning our good friend Liz Cutter dropped by with some good cheer and homemade bread. She’s exactly Beth’s age and had also recently taken a bad fall—despite being a life-long athlete and always in great shape: when she arrived at school to pick up her six-year-old grandson, he was so eager to see her, he dashed forth and knocked her down with his enthusiasm. Beth’s recent concussion was the impetus for a wider conversation about the effect of age on cognitive function. It gave us three plenty to laugh about, but it was also sobering. Advancing irretrievably into our 70s, we acknowledged that . . . that . . . hmmm, can’t quite remember now.

What I do remember clearly, however, is my inner response to the discussion: my determination to keep my marbles and physical health as long as possible. That being so, it’s time to shift into higher gear, especially if next week’s biopsy lands toward the more challenging end of the spectrum—pun fully intended. Plus, I’ve got the multiple myeloma thing lurking in the background somewhere—far in the background, I hope and trust, securely stowed in the figurative . . . attic.

In any event, in the name of staying in some kind of shape, today’s ski outing would be my first of the 2025-26 season. The first step was to dig my gear out of hiding. I realized that this was also an intermediate-term memory test, but to my mild surprise, I passed with relative ease. The second step was to confirm that Beth wouldn’t need any assistance during my absence.

Five minutes later, I slapped my skis down on the high eighth tee at “Little Switzerland” (Como Park Golf Course), made myself one with skis and poles and skated over to the seventh green. From there, in observation of the Hippocratic Oath, I managed a slow decent to the groomed track that follows the seventh fairway—a section we skiers call “the Glacier.” When I turned into the wind, I knew why no other soul was in sight.

Because of the low temp and my lack of glider wax, the track was like sandpaper (snow crystals grow sharp in extreme cold, increasing friction against the glide surfaces of the skis). In defiance of all recent tribulations, at least I was back on skis and . . . moving, however sloth-like, but alone and free of vanity. I pressed on like Amundsen in Antarctica.

I wasn’t wheezing; I wasn’t gasping for breath. For me this was no small victory. Within another five minutes, however, Boreas wouldn’t allow further pleasure. I was dressed for the cold, but without fog-resistant goggles or eyewear, I had to leave my nose exposed to the full onslaught of merciless windchill. With a double buff pulled up over my mouth, I put my head down and worked my way around the one-km loop. I was never in any danger—certainly at no greater risk than I’d assumed over decades of skiing in extreme conditions.

But . . . I reminded myself: “You’re a year older, a year weaker, and coming off a virus and whatever condition that had led to your ER visit last Monday night.” I took stock too of the fact that for my phone to be of any use in an emergency, I’d have to remove one of my mittens.

I recalled the time eight or ten years ago when I was out on the same course at 10:00 one night when the mercury was hovering around 10F—about the current temperature. As I skated up a hill, I noticed a skier sprawled out across the track. As I approached, I saw that it was an older woman, tangled up with her skis and poles; her mittens lying beside her. She’d fallen and injured her shoulder, she mumbled in explanation—her jaws so cold she could barely move them. I wondered if she hadn’t hit her head, as well. In such conditions, why had she removed her mittens?

After a few questions—and troubling responses—I pulled my phone from my front pouch and (with difficulty on account of my own hands being cold) called 9-1-1. I remember her adverse reaction. “Why did you do that?” she asked with an angry tone.

“Because,” I said, “you appear to be injured, you can’t get yourself up, and it’s bitterly cold out.”

“You shouldn’t have done that!”

“Why not?”

“My kids will kill me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have health insurance.”[1]

Recollection of that incident made me shudder as I completed one circuit around the “Glacier” loop. I put the memory out of my thoughts and herring-boned through the off-track powder on the slope back up to the eighth tee.

“H _ _ _ S _ _ _!” I said aloud once I reached the car. No laurel wreath, no gold medal, was mine, not even “honorable mention” for what couldn’t be label a “workout.” But I’d survived my comeback outing under extreme conditions, and having exceeded my self-imposed minimum standard of 20 minutes, I was entitled to my first tally mark on the basement wall under the heading, “2025-2026 Ski Season.”

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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson

[1] What America is about to learn big time, of course, is that if you’re uninsured, you go straight to . . . ER, where initial (not always “emergency”) care is “free.” In the case at hand, within five minutes an ambulance arrived on a nearby street, but the responders had to trudge through the snow to reach us. I’m quite sure their quick response saved her from serious frostbite or worse.