I woke up extra early this morning for no good reason (to my knowledge) and sleepily let the dog out. It was then that I spotted the dusting of fresh powder on the deck. Flutter of excitement. After a cup of coffee and a bowl of granola, I was getting my ski boots on as it was just getting light. I jogged to the end of the block and climbed over the dike. Soft snow blanketed the ski trails and soft gray clouds receded to the east, their underbellies lit up with soft pink light from the rising sun.
Today's softness was a welcome contrast to yesterday's icy trails. I had already chosen my classic skis for today, since skating was so uncomfortable, and now I wondered if I should go back for my skate skis since the trails were coated with a new layer of snow. However, the new layer was very light and I could still feel the hardness under my skis, so I thought I'd stick with classic. There's nothing like having the first tracks on new snow . . .
As I headed south, I passed two young people on the dike, enjoying the sunrise. Then I was in my own world, enjoying the lamblike March morning. Kick and glide, kick and glide, inhale, exhale--a rhythm that carried me back into my dreams before I woke up.
On rounding the oxbow, I came to a section where the wind had blown the new snow over the trail and filled in the tracks. I watched the ridge between the tracks to help me guide my feet, but soon found one of my skis was up on the berm between tracks, so I softened my vision, quit looking so hard for visual cues, and let the feel of the skis guide me. After all, the skis want to stay in the old tracks, I just have to not override their desire.
As I neared Lindenwood Park, I saw a round wet spot in the river. Why there? I wondered. I stopped to take a photo of the soft clouds and soft light, admiring the loveliness of this morning. I was comforted to see that the Gooseberry-Lindenwood bridge was still down. When the bridge is up, it signals the end of the ski season and the preparations for spring flooding.
Now I was working hard, my body was warming, the softness of my stance was hardening. I could see the Fargo Parks truck working to plow the bike path in the park. When I came to the end of the ski trail at the I-94 bridge over the river, I could see a steady stream of cars rushing by, carrying people to work. I needed to get back and get to work myself. I turned around, the sun was now up, it hit me full on in the face, and I scurried back home.
Today's softness was a welcome contrast to yesterday's icy trails. I had already chosen my classic skis for today, since skating was so uncomfortable, and now I wondered if I should go back for my skate skis since the trails were coated with a new layer of snow. However, the new layer was very light and I could still feel the hardness under my skis, so I thought I'd stick with classic. There's nothing like having the first tracks on new snow . . .
As I headed south, I passed two young people on the dike, enjoying the sunrise. Then I was in my own world, enjoying the lamblike March morning. Kick and glide, kick and glide, inhale, exhale--a rhythm that carried me back into my dreams before I woke up.
On rounding the oxbow, I came to a section where the wind had blown the new snow over the trail and filled in the tracks. I watched the ridge between the tracks to help me guide my feet, but soon found one of my skis was up on the berm between tracks, so I softened my vision, quit looking so hard for visual cues, and let the feel of the skis guide me. After all, the skis want to stay in the old tracks, I just have to not override their desire.
As I neared Lindenwood Park, I saw a round wet spot in the river. Why there? I wondered. I stopped to take a photo of the soft clouds and soft light, admiring the loveliness of this morning. I was comforted to see that the Gooseberry-Lindenwood bridge was still down. When the bridge is up, it signals the end of the ski season and the preparations for spring flooding.
