MARCH 21, 2021 – On the first day of spring, I skied my 88th day of the 2020-2021 season (northern hemisphere). In 28 years of record-keeping, that’s nine days above average; three days above median. In the process, I set three records: 1. Skiing every day of January; 2. Every day of February; and 3. Most consecutive days overall (74). But who’s counting?
It was a grand day for the season finale.
In the cities, all snow is gone. Around the Red Cabin, only non-skiable patches remain. On Friday, I drove to trailhead of the American Birkebeiner Trail near the Red Cabin. No dice. I headed 15 miles farther north on Highway 63 to “00” (the county road x-c skiers in the area call, “double-0”) and east on “00” to where it intersects with . . . The Trail
Before the pandemic, this was the site of the finish of the 26-km Kortelopet* and the halfway point of the 52 km (skating)/54 km (classic) Birkebeiner on the third Saturday in February. For decades before the pandemic these events drew thousands of contestants from all over the world. Throughout the season, many regional skiers use this intersection of “00” and the Trail as a jumping off point for skiing the wide, groomed, undulating trail through wooded terrain north to Cable and south to Hayward.
The drive north took me to promising snow cover. I pulled into the abandoned parking lot of “00,” slapped on my skis and jumped on the Trail. Thanks to late-season grooming, the course was still in superb, spring-skiing condition. I skied south for nearly seven kilometers, having to portage around bare earth only a few times.
During the 90-minute outing, I didn’t encounter a single soul other than my own, which was at one with the world around me—the mighty pine that stood their ground along the Trail and the still-slumbering hardwoods that seemed to stir in the ever warming, brightening sunshine. With every breath, every stride I celebrated my good fortune in being—being there, being then. All the woes of life and the world I left elsewhere, far from my thoughts, far from the beauty that surrounded me. Striding and gliding on skis, I traveled into the heart of nature, which reached back and touched me soul.
Yesterday, I returned for one last outing of the season—barring an early spring, freak storm, whose fury would be ephemeral at best.
In just 24 hours, the portages had become longer, more numerous. “Gray ice” was now more prevalent. Nevertheless, I reveled in my continuing good fortune—long stretches of perfect spring ski conditions.
A boisterous Aeolus had replaced Friday’s calm. He gave voice to the towering pine, and often I’d stop to listen to their soothing harmony. Like performers on a stage, the choristers waved their green-clad arms high above my humble tracks.
On the final outrun of my return, I had the wind at my back. Effortlessly I skated to the finish line—and the cheers of 10,000 trees, waving in the wind.
*This official appellation grates on anyone schooled in Swedish; “korte” means short—a reference to the 26 km race alongside the 52 km (skating)/54 km (classic) Birkebeiner Race; “lopet” is a misspelling of “loppet” (“lopp,” meaning “race” with the definite article, “et” tacked on the end the word; thus, to say “the Kortelopet” is to say “the the short race”—misspelling it in the process).
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
