First ski

Setting ski tracks

Will went off in the morning to set ski tracks so I finally will get my skis going this season. Once I get started I'm fine but it takes a while to get my ski legs back so I'm always having to talk myself onward when I start out. It was 1:00 pm in the afternoon by the time I got the cabin all ordered for a comfortable stay and I could take off which meant two hours of decent  light for skiing at most. That was fine with me because I didn't think I was up to more than that for a first ski. Then not finding my ski boots delayed me some more. I had planned to look for them in the shed before we left town but never got to it and they weren't here. I dug my daughters boots out from under the stairs where they have been waiting for her winter return visit. While they were a comfortable fit I decided not to wear them because they were too short. I would have to wear gaiters to keep snow out and I hate fussing with gaitors. That left Will's second pair which were definitely overly roomy but I could put in extra insoles and wear extra fleece socks and make them work. My boots snapped into my bindings on the first try, a good omen, and I grabbed my poles and went.
Not five minutes into my ski I'm stymied. I keep struggling to get up a small rise but I  keep sliding backwards. The trail is in a spot too narrow so I can't side step or herringbone. I keep stomping on my skis for traction but it isn't working. After all the effort to get going I'm not about to quit. Fortunately Will has set the tracks in a loop. I'm on the outgoing leg of the trail but I could easily turn around and go back and pick up the incoming leg of the trail. Ten minutes later I'm gliding along feeling a bit smug about my solution, the bothersome bump forgotten.
I glide on past the old summer garden grown over with young saplings and the stand of willows housing some resident moose. From the look of the moose beds and all the tracks meandering in and out of the trees and up and down the hillside there is probably a cow and some calves keeping cozy and well fed in this spot where they are waiting out the winter.
When I come to an open meadow buried in snow and I can see that the ski tracks go down across a buried stream. The water, though still flowing,  has disappeared under the snow but you know it is there by the depression it leaves across the field. The depression has filled in with tiny brown birch seeds which leave a line tracing the stream. I can see where Will's tracks went steadfastly forward, down into the dip and across the stream. I am more reluctant. The snow bridge that supported his skis may very well have air under it and could very well collapse under mine. I scout out the meadow and head for a spot further on where I can see the stream depression is rather narrow with a pretty flat approach in and out. Without  preset tracks my skis sink deep and I'm thinking had I worn the other boots they would now be full of snow. Over with ease and on my way again I come out of a thicket of birch and spruce to find myself facing a hill which slopes from a high spot on my left to a  pretty deep basin on my right. Will has solved the problem of staying out of the bowl by side cutting the slope straight across with his tracks. I venture out on the narrow ski-wide ledge, my not-quite-returned ski legs tensing up, and take it one short glide at a time smiling when I come to the other side of the slope. That's done. Now I'm getting more into it and find myself going along a bench that seems to be climbing. As I come to the top of the small rise I look out over a field of alders right in my path. I know better than to ski through alders where the trail tends to collapse into thick bushes beneath the snow. Not fun.
I'm telling myself its time to turn around when I see where Will has  put the trail along the base of a hill carefully skirting the alder quagmire. Good. I had planned to follow the trail as far as it went until it crossed the big creek and I didn't want to quit.
Onward I go beginning to wonder why he hasn't crossed the creek yet. I think I see a place up ahead where a huge downed cottonwood  spans the creek at a point where a gully washes into the creek on the other side. It's a good place to cross because one can get up the gully to top the south ridge on the other side of the creek and ski easily back from there. But the tracks go right on by.  I've come out of another wooded stand of birch and spruce to see the trail go down into another stream depression, this one wider and deeper than the first with no easy alternative that I can see. Will's tracks go straight on through and up the other side. A nagging voice starts telling me to turn around. Don't go down in that hole. Don't get stuck. I'll soon be running out of daylight. Probably have just enough to get home. It's going to start getting much colder. It's harder to ski when you are tired and cold. That's when you make mistakes. All the time I'm trying to talk myself into going back I'm peering ahead trying to see what might lie further on. And even as I'm still saying go back I go forward right down into the hole. Just like that I'm flat on my back, one ski buried in the snow, the other  twisted to the side. And just like that I hear a voice say, "Are you all right". How sweet is that. More perfect timing there couldn't be. Before I could utter a single damn, before struggling to get my skis off, before floundering and flopping around like a fish out of water trying to get some solid ground under me to stand on, before any of the frustration of trying to get my skis back under me, Will shows up at the perfect moment and the whole situation becomes something to laugh at.
We ski back together, me enjoying watching Will's effortless glide and grace, enjoying his company on the trail. I can feel the smoothness come back in my stride.