FEBRUARY 6, 2023 – This afternoon I switched from skis to snowshoes and headed into the woods. I wanted to harvest some poplar shoots for use in my next gnome home, and I knew a place where I’d find an ample supply. The challenge was reaching it through the heavy snow.
My route took me past big timbers behind the Red Cabin, then up the steep slope to Ragnar Way, a ridge trail that runs along the western edge of the Björnholm tree garden. Along this ridge I sank into snow so deep, the bottom fell out from under me—despite my snowshoes. As I struggled in hip-deep snow, the left snowshoe separated from my boot.
I experienced a flashback to the winter of 1995 when Beth and our sons were staying at the Red Cabin for a week, while I was back in the cities. One morning before the boys were up, Beth went outside to take pictures of the overnight snowfall. That winter had already produced the heaviest snow we’d ever seen here, and the latest addition warranted more photos. Near one corner of the cabin, however, she waded into snow so deep she couldn’t move. For a few anxious moments she wondered if she was lost to the world.
Today, for a few anxious moments I wondered if I was lost to the world. After a five-minute workout churning and shoveling snow I was again one with the snowshoe and on my way.
An hour later, the nearly-lost-in-snow episode made me more cautious when contemplating a toboggan run. To avoid getting stuck after tonight’s forecast of snow and icy drizzle, I’d driven the car through our neighbor’s compound and parked on the high point of Yopps Road, just beyond the end of our drive. After returning to the cabin from the snowshoe expedition, I loaded the poplar shoots onto the toboggan and towed it out to the car—including up the sharp, icy hill where the drive intersects Yopps.
On the way back, I stopped at the top of the hill—toboggan rope in hand, eager toboggan in tow . . . .
Just then, I recalled Edith Wharton’s Ethan Frome. Also ringing in my ears were recent admonitions of family and friends—“Be careful up there”—and the likely disapproval of my transplant doctor—“Don’t. Just . . . don’t.” (He thinks downhill skiing is too dangerous for me. I have my six-month, post-transplant follow-up appointment with him in two weeks. I’m working on an A+.)
Why tempt fate? I asked myself. Are you some kind of fool? Or . . . a contrary voice kicked in . . . are you growing so cautious that you can’t hop on this toboggan and whip down the hill as in the good ol’ days?
I thought it over. Why not have it both ways? Why not send the toboggan down the hill—but without me riding it? If it shoots off the plowbank along the side and smashes into one of a thousand trees . . . I can celebrate not having emulated Ethan Frome. If, on the other hand, the toboggan stays in the right channel and follows the curvature of the drive, I can find joy vicariously, as I’ve learned to do over the past year, as I hear about people’s travels and in-restaurant dining.
And the result? I’ll let you guess, but either way, I made it back to the cabin just fine . . . as I knew I would.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
