JANUARY 26, 2023 – Today in these parts, the temperature was mild—20s Fahrenheit—with sunshine. By this weekend, the daytime highs will be in the “lower single digits,” euphemistic lingo used by local TV meteorologists to describe “cold.” Overnight lows will fall below zero. There’s no euphemism for “bitterly cold.”
Ahead of the “cold” and “bitterly cold” a fast-moving “Alberta Clipper” will dust the region with another inch or two of fresh snow. Even if we experience a serious thaw in February, our snow reserves ensure a potentially record-breaking ski season for me, as measured by the number of ski days, each recorded by a tally mark on our basement wall.
Conditions were nearly perfect today. The groomer was out yesterday, and light, new snow created the look and illusion of skiing on cloud tops. The snow sparkled in the sun and trees were in a competition for “most creative shadow.” I imagined I was skiing inside an interactive painting by a famous artist, and several times I stopped to snap a photo within the painting. When I swung into the wind, however, I was reminded of the brutally cold weather that lies ahead. Will the windchill curtail my skiing? Will my workouts fall short of my goals?
As I glided along a short level section of my otherwise hilly circuit, I noticed a large oak leaf ahead on the side of the track. The leaf quivered as if from the cold. A brown remnant of last summer’s verdancy, the shivering leaf reminded me of . . . summer, despite the power of winter’s white silence. This served me well as I summoned imagery to fuel my climb up the hill that lay ahead.
I was no longer skiing on the snow of “Little Switzerland” but rowing on the water along the shores of Björnholm: PULL-and-glide, PULL-and-glide, PULL-and-glide (up the hill) as the guardian pines cheered me on, waving in the ripples from my shoreside oar blade. I pictured my favorite trees, birds flitting about, leaves shimmering in the hot, warm sunlight.
Upon reaching the hill crest, I lifted my sight as I recovered my breath. In the distance I saw four or five other skiers, each widely spaced from the others on the sprawling, winding track. But they were not so much skiers as they were sailboats tacking randomly across windswept waters. Some seemed to be training in earnest for the big regatta—next month’s Birkebeiner Race—their sails full, sheets optimally set, keels heeling at the angle of perfection. Others were less concerned about speed and efficiency and more content with letting the wind take them where it would, free for a time, anyway, from life’s woes and demands.
On my descent I wondered whether on a hot day next July when I’m striding up a hill in the tree garden of Björnholm, with ski poles as walking sticks, I’ll imagine that I’m . . . skiing. As I skied onto the outrun and resumed my gliding strides, however, I reminded myself that the happiest time and place to be, spring, summer, fall and winter, is where you are, not where you aren’t.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
