First Ski of Winter 2013-2014

I had to leave work after lunch to pick up the Subaru--a new windshield had been installed. I noticed how bright it was after the snowstorm, and thought about how tired I was from making editing changes to my book manuscript all morning. Why not go for my first ski? The work will still be there in the evening.

When I got home, Noko looked at me imploringly. "OK," I thought, "Let's make it a skijor so he can enjoy the outing too." It took all of 15 minutes to change & gear up--everything was easily accessible thanks to my darling husband's wonderful basement organizing skills. When I brought out the harness, Noko supplicated himself in front of me, bowing his head right down to the ground for me to slip the harness over his head and then patiently stood on three feet while I slipped a front forefoot into one side of the harness, and then the other. We started off down the street, climbed over the dike, and slid down the other side. Sundogs glistened on either side of the bright sun. This morning I had noticed the first subzero temperature of the winter, but now it was a balmy 3 degrees above zero.

We started out, making first tracks, a lovely feeling. Well, in the spirit it is a lovely feeling. In the legs, it soon felt like burning--THOSE muscles haven't been used quite like THIS in awhile. And Noko, as happy as he was to be out, was more interested in zig zagging in front of me, trying to catch a whiff of the many smells under the new snow, rather than moving forward in a straight line and pulling. Fine. Like him, I was just happy to be outside.

It was a bit windy, not too bad, but it must have been very windy earlier because the snow had been sculpted into a variety of repeating patterns. Sometimes the wind had shaped the snow to look like sand carved by waves at the beach. Other times, the wind had created patterns resembling a topographical map, with curving lines demarcating areas of higher elevation. One part looked like mesas in the desert (if the desert were white) and I felt myself a giant on the land, striding across desert valleys to the next mesa.

Such reveries were rudely interrupted by a tugging on the line. Noko had stopped to squat. I felt in my pocket, no poop bag! Grrrr. OK, it's our first time out--can't think of everything. This would just give me an opportunity to double my ski by going home to get a plastic bag and heading out again, this time alone.

On the way back, Noko had a trail to follow (as did I) so he pulled a bit. After such a stint, he wanted major petting and encouragement, so I indulged him. This is our thing together. He knows that. We are both smiling now. Once we got back home, he patiently waited while I took off his harness and gave him a treat. Then I added a neck gaiter to my ensemble and headed out again.

As much as I like to ski with people and other animals, I love to ski alone. The solitude while skiing, to me, is the most perfect kind. I listen to the squeak, squeak of the largest trees rubbing against each other, the chirping of a bird, the whistling of the wind, the swish of my own skis. And then my mind is off and away, musing on this or that, free from the usual constraints.

With a bit of the trail skied in, I can put a little kick into my glide, but not TOO much, after all, this is kind of an experimental day. My research question is, Will my knee tolerate skiing well enough to put off surgery until spring, or should I get it done ASAP with the hope it will heal soon enough to enjoy enough of the winter? More data collection and analysis is needed, I decide.

Once I reach the end of the trail I broke, it remains for me to get Noko's poop in a group, get the plastic bag tied with a minimal amount of time exposing my skin, and the find the nearest trash barrel before heading back. Here are a few photos from my first ski of the winter, a 67-minute outing that made my day much more enjoyable.

Noko surveys the trail back home

One sundog

Wind-sculpted snow

Family, Fun, and Fitness: Cross-Country Skiing in Fargo

The swish-swish of my skis sliding over the snow, the freshness of the crisp winter air as I breathe deeply in rhythm with my strides, and the brightness of the low winter sun in the distance—these are some of the secret pleasures of getting out on my cross-country skis each winter.

“But isn’t it cold?” people ask, shivering at the very thought. Of course it is, but there are some tricks to dealing with the cold that I’ve learned in 35 years of skiing. In fact, I usually finish a ski as warm and sweaty as if I’d just played a game of basketball in the gym. Plus, I’ve gotten my daily dose of sunshine, which is important for Vitamin D production, especially in winter. Touring around the trails also invariably lifts my spirits and helps me acclimate to the season. Cross-country skiing gets the heart thumping and is an important part of enjoying winter and establishing lifelong habits of good health. 

Cross-country skiing is a great family activity. My parents—natives of North Dakota and Minnesota—taught me how to cross-country ski when I was eight years old. I have fond memories of looking for Easter eggs on skis during an overnight ski trip in Utah and watching the Northern Lights from the ski trails in Alaska. My two sons were born in Fairbanks, and I made sure to get them out on skis as soon as they could stand up.

When I was thinking about relocating to my birthplace of Fargo after 40 years of living out west and north in Alaska, I made sure to bring my skis with me for the job interview, so I could check out the cross-country skiing. The trail system next to the Red River of the North made a great impression, as did the collegial professors in the English department at North Dakota State University, who accompanied me on the ski trails.

During my first winter back in Fargo, I discovered that the Fargo Parks department has a dedicated trail maintenance crew that does a top job of maintaining three separate trails along the river to serve different users: the plowed bike path for walkers and winter cyclists, the smoothly packed trail for skate skiers, and finally, on the trail closest to the river, the set tracks for classical cross-country skiers.

In addition to the trails by the river, there is also a trail system at Edgewood golf course, where the Prairie’s Edge Nordic Ski Club and the Fargo Park District (www.fargoparks.com) hold ski lessons and fun races. While my children took lessons with more experienced skiers, I volunteered to help the newer skiers learn to ski. One of the great joys in my life is to introduce people to the wonderful sport of cross-country skiing.

Another highlight of last winter was taking my sons on their first moonlight ski by the river.  They were surprised that they could see well enough to navigate the trails and were amazed to see their shadows on the snow. One of the most exciting outings was a trip to Maplelag, a cross-country ski resort in Minnesota, where my younger son made it to the bottom of “Suicide Hill” without falling—a big boost to his confidence.

It was a sad day during the spring flood, when I saw an ice floe with two parallel ski tracks float by my house, because then I knew the ski season was really over! To make it through to the next ski season, I began writing a proposal for an after-school ski program at Clara Barton elementary school. I’m looking forward to another fun winter of cross-country skiing with family and friends. (615 words)

Name: Kelly Sassi

Age: 43

Hometown: Fargo, North Dakota

Ski Club:  Prairie’s Edge Nordic Ski Club (PENS) http://myweb.cableone.net/jcprmp/PENShome.htm

Occupation: Assistant Professor of English and Education, North Dakota State University

Career Highlights:

1984 Fairbanks Regional champion, high school cross-country skiing

1989-91 Middle school ski coach

1992 3^rd place Iditasport, a 200-mile race on the Iditarod trail in Alaska each February

1997 High school ski coach

Ski versification in the off season

When people wear their sweaters,

When snowflakes fill these letters,

I’ll kick and glide upon my skis,

Slip and slide until I freeze.

 

Me in 1982, about to go ski my first skiathon (a 20K race on the university of Alaska trail system)

Wondering about winter—

When will snow fill this hollow?

Wandering on my skis—

My Finnish ancestors I follow.

April 17th and still skiing, though the snow has lost its integrity, like certain academics I know, grump, grump

It was one of those 12-hour days in the office, and it seemed to snow all day long. Here is the view from my office. 

When I got home, Enrico had a nice pasta dinner ready, and Alex was playing violin. Ah. 

After dinner I harnessed up Noko, and we went out for a ski. Two observations:

1) Despite the fact that it has been snowing all day, the new snow could not keep up with the melting and there were exposed areas of the trail like the one in the photo below.

2) The snow has lost its integrity. How do I know? Well, when Noko and I were skiing around, every so often we would here a sound like Pshhhh! A whole plate of snow would then collapse. It was quite startling to Noko. It is a cool sound, like all the snow crystals are tiny bells that softly ring together. 

So, it is about over. Soon this little stretch of trail will be under several feet of water, as the river is expected to flood, possibly as much as in 2009. 

When I got back home, Enrico was looking at flood maps. I need to get a kayak and float far, far away from here. 

I can't believe I'm still skiing on April 16th!

Took my classic skis down to the river first thing this morning so that I could ski before it got too hot. The trail was in pretty good condition. Some parts were icy after melting and then freezing, which scraped my wax off. I did a lot of poling, which is just as well--balances out the lack of upper body work from my running. I caught up to a couple of older guys in Lindenwood, just out chatting and skiing. I love that. Then I  met a guy from Jamestown. He had heard on WDAY that our trails were groomed, so he drove all the way here to ski. He said his daughter had driven from Grand Forks to use the skate trail. COOL! Fargo is becoming the ski mecca I always knew it would be. On the way back, I skated for awhile since my wax was no good, and that was nice, except for the short poles. I saw a huge hawk in Pointe Park. Near the water treatment plant I saw some blood, fur, and bits of bark in the trail, so probably the hawk was having some hunting success. I skied for about an hour and a half. It was getting quite sunny by the time I finished, so this won't last long.

Tax day, post-blizzard ski

Yesterday I was supposed to drive to Bismarck for work, but as the day progressed, the lines on the ND DOT Travel Information map went from green to blue to purple to red as a winter storm swept across North Dakota. While we were waiting for the storm to hit Fargo, I went for a 10-mile run as part of my preparation for the Fargo half-marathon. After all, the ski trails were OK yesterday, but there was a lot of melting in the afternoon, so I doubted they would be that great on Sunday. From what I could see of the trails on my run, it was a good decision.

About an hour into my run, the snow started up. At first, it was just gently falling small flakes that melted as soon as they hit the bike path, but then the temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and soon my black dog, Noko, had a blanket of white on his back. When we got back home, we cleaned up, ate a lot, and then hunkered down to watch the storm. It did not disappoint. Flakes got fatter, and the array of flakes became more dense. Soon there was quite a bit of accumulation. We were falling asleep when the call came that school would have a late start in the morning to allow for a ski, I mean to allow for snow removal.

Today, Monday, April 15th, we woke up to the sound of our neighbor, Darren, snowblowing. He did the whole block--what a guy! Enrico sent the boys out to do hand-shoveling in other areas. I gulped down some protein mix, put Noko's harness on, and headed out the door with my skis. What big piles of snow! Both Noko and I were bubbling with excitement. The tiredness from the 10-mile run was forgotten as we climbed the dike and glided down to the trails.

First surprise--the bike path was already plowed--those Fargo Parks employees, they sure are on top of things!  I stepped gingerly over the pavement on my rock skis, and we headed downhill toward the river. That's when I got the big surprise . . .

Fargo Parks had already groomed both the classic trail AND the skate trail--unbelievable! Not only that, the skate trail was already set up, so we could ski it without gouging it. Heavenly day!

Noko on top of the dike

Why I LOVE Fargo Parks

End of the ski--heading back up the dike onto our street

Happy with my tax day "refund"

April Fool's Day ski

I feel lucky to have been able to ski on April 1st this year, although conditions were not very good in spots. Nevertheless, I enjoyed some parts quite a lot, getting into a good skate rhythm in the firmer sections. I had to take my skis off a few times to walk over the section that had been plowed to the water treatment plant and the part of the bike path that no longer has a snow bridge over it. I just skied to Lindenwood and back--the parts that were mushy were kind of hard on my knees and ankles. Lots of sunshine, shrinking snowbanks. 

Spring Skiing

It was warm this morning, but the trail was firm and a bit icy in spots. The early light makes it easy to get an hourlong ski in before work. The skate trail was a bit rutted in spots that got a lot of sun yesterday, and the city has dug a trench from the water treatment plant to the river, so one has to step gingerly over that, but mostly the trail is hard and fast. It was just lovely! I saw one other skier (classic), two runners, and no bikers. Two Canadian geese flew by. A cloudy sky, dirty snow, the bridge raised in anticipation of the coming flood--all signs that the end of the ski season is coming. But just maybe the clouds will protect the base today and we can sleep to ski another day. 

A ski for Ginny

When I started my ski today, I said to the trees, "This ski is for Ginny." Ginny Wood died yesterday at age 95. The last time I saw her was in 2010, when we visited Alaska and spent a few days at Camp Denali (which she founded) before traveling to Fairbanks, where we visited her at her home. She kvetched about an award she was given. Typical Ginny.

As I started my ski, the new snow sprayed up on my shins. It was fine grained snow with high moisture content. It wasn't too deep for skate skiing, but the spray felt funny--I imagined I was waterskiing. After the novelty of these unusual conditions wore off, I settled into a slow, steady rhythm and it was then that memories of Ginny came back to me. I had heard about Ginny and Celia from friends, from reading the Northern Alaska Environmental Center newsletter, etc., but it wasn't until I lived in "Dogpatch," their neighborhood on Musk Ox Trail, that I got to know them better.

I had just moved back to Fairbanks, after living "Outside" for a couple of years. I had left to join my boyfriend in Idaho and I came back married to another man--an Italian named Enrico. My friend, Buck Wilson, had a cabin on his land that he rented out, and it was free around the time we planned to move back, and he kindly rented it to us. That was a lucky break for us. We were in master's student poverty at the time. I had just finished my M.A., and Enrico was working on his M.F.A. Furthermore, I decided to pursue my teaching certification that year.

I knew the neighborhood was special from being a guest at Buck's house, attending some of his weekly saunas or movie nights, but now I begin to really see how so. As soon as you pull on to Musk Ox Trail, you can tell this is not your typical neighborhood. The road is dirt, and it is only as developed as it needs to be, and it meanders through the Taiga. Romany's cabin is the first one you come to and then Ginny and Celia's cabin. After that, the Beneschs and then a left turn uphill to Buck's place. The homes are set back from the road and all handbuilt, unique and fitting to each family.

There is a ski trail at the bottom of Ginny and Celia's property. It loops around through Herreid land and connects with the rest of the 20K university trail system. I didn't get to do much skiing in the neighborhood that first winter--first I had major abdominal surgery and then I was student teaching in North Pole, so I had to leave by 6am to make the drive and often didn't get back until 5pm. My evenings were full with preparing for the next day. The next winter I didn't ski much in the neighborhood either. I had my first teaching job at West Valley High School and I was also coaching the ski team. I had a knee surgery partway through the season--an ACL replacement--and then in spring I found out I was pregnant.

Ginny and Celia kindly rented Romany's house to us the next winter so that we would have more room and running water for when the baby was born. That winter, I skied with Celia, especially during winter break, the month before Alex was born. I felt like my joints would seize up if I did not get out and move each day, but I was nervous about going out alone. What if I fell and could not get up? I was HUGE by this point in my pregnancy. Celia was so kind--she met me to ski each day, and I think she even had to tie my boots the last few times.

When labor finally started, it was slow, so I walked up and down Musk Ox Trail, pausing to look at the stars every so often. Finally, Alex was born, and I was on child care leave for the remainder of the school year. I loved to see Ginny and Celia walking to the mail box each day, always in deep conversation with each other. Sometimes they would stop by on their way back to check in on me and Alex. Other times, I came by to see them. I loved to hear Ginny tell stories about their days as WAC pilots and starting Camp Denali. She told the same stories over and over and I never got tired of them.

When we had enough money, we bought our own house and moved away, but later I would regret it. Just being there with these wonderful neighbors was better than having one's own home. I wish we had stayed longer. I'll always be grateful for that time in our lives.

Good-bye, Ginny. 

Logging the Ks

I have been skiing 54 times this winter (since December 14th), from 25min to 2 hours each time. Yesterday, I got back from Las Vegas around 2pm and was out on the trail by 6pm. It was only 5 above, so I chose to do some classic skiing, and I had the perfect wax and perfect glide. It was sunny and lovely out, and my heart and lungs felt great, so I just went full steam for about an hour, enjoying my engine, feeling the fluidity of the kick-and-glide rhythm. It was "like butter"!

Today I went skijoring with Noko. He is obviously in better shape than at the beginning of the winter too. He doesn't have to stop and rest so often, and he can really pull hard sometimes. I had to tuck a few times because I just couldn't ski fast enough to keep up with him.

We are supposed to get 4-8 more inches of snow tonight! I'm delighted that the ski season is continuing. I really thought I would come back from the conference, and it would be over. So . . . I skied a lot before I left, even just before getting on the plane. Now, with cool temps predicted for the rest of the week, it looks like I will get a few more ski outings in. Maybe I can break 60?

Post Birkie letdown

It was kind of sad to return home after the journey to Hayward, unpack the car, and put away all the gear, so I left out the classic equipment and invited my husband to have a little classic ski with me before dinner. We skied side-by-side, catching up on what had happened while Max and I were away. It was sunny, but a bit cool from the wind. Spring will be here soon, so we treasured the "frictionless season," as Bill McKibben calls it. 

The first Nikkerbeiner race

Since 2013 was the 40th anniversary of the American Birkenbeiner race, the organizers decided to add a new event to commemorate this milestone: the first ever Nikkerbeiner, a 5K race in which participants had to use wood skis and 1970s era gear and clothing.

I decided that I just had to enter this event because 1973 also happened to be the year that I first skied, so this year is also my 40th anniversary of skiing. I still have my mom's leather boots and my parents' bamboo poles. As I mentioned in a previous post, I made a coat rack out of their wood skis, so I couldn't use their skis. Heidi Goldberg, one of the members of the Prairie's Edge Nordic Ski Club came to my rescue and loaned me her Norwegian wood skis.

I tried to find some knickers on Craigslist and ebay, but no luck. I would have to be authentic, and just wear my regular pants, which is what we did in the 70s. Of course, we also had these nylon gaiters that my mom sewed for the whole family. Instead, I borrowed my older son's compression socks and pulled them over my pants, giving what I hoped would be the impression of knickers. I decided to wear one of my husband's wool sweaters from the 1970s. For my gloves, I used some beautiful wool gloves embroidered with a Scandinavian design that my sister had bought for me in a Nordic shop in Pennsylvania. I wore the matching headband too. Here I am in my complete retro outfit:

I wanted Max to be able to do this event with me and my friend, Barb, but it was a bit more challenging. I did have the extra set of bamboo poles, and I asked for help through the ski club facebook page and looked around the thrift shops. No luck. Then, on the day we were set to leave, I made one more stop at the ARC thrift shop as we were leaving town and found some wood skis. Not only that, but they had cable bindings on them, which eliminated the need to find matching boots, which would have been impossible. With these, he could just wear his regular boots. Not only that, they were only $6.99! And, to sweeten the deal further, they were made in Finland AND called "Sisu skis." Sisu is a very special word in my family. It is a Finnish word that is difficult to translate but means something like inner strength, fortitude, or even stubbornness.

I had packed two of Enrico's 1970s ski sweaters, so Max could wear one of those. Here he is in his gear:

OK, so we had pulled it together, or so I thought. Just in case, I decided to carry a backpack with extra kick wax, a cork, duct tape and bungies in case the cables didn't work, as well as some water and a snack in case Max needed it. The race was set to start at 5pm, and I wasn't sure how hungry he would be--he was in a growth spurt at this time, and it wasn't unusual for him to say he was hungry 30 minutes after we finished a meal.

We got to the start just in time. With both Barb and I yanking on the cable bindings, we were able to get him in them just in time for the start gun. We started up Main Street in Hayward with just over a hundred other skiers on wood skis. It was so fun to see the variety of equipment and clothing--many memories were triggered by familiar gear I hadn't seen in decades, plus there were new things to see like ornately carved tips on historic wooden skis.

All was going OK, as we headed out of town and the trail curved to the left toward the school and the golf course beyond. I made a move to pass some skiers, but when I looked back, Max was no longer behind me, so I pulled over. Everyone passed, but no Max. Where could he be? He was just behind me, not 100 yards back. There were no more skiers. Was he ahead of me? I called his name. The only part of the trail I couldn't see was obscured by a car in the school parking lot, so I skied back, and sure enough, there he was. His ski had come off.

I went to help him, and he complained that the binding was so tight that his snowboots were buckling and made an uncomfortable ridge under his foot. I decided I would have to readjust the setting on the binding, which took a bit of fiddling around. How was his wax? Terrible, he said, so I also waxed his skis with some extra blue wax. Mine were a bit slippery too, so I decided to quickly crayon on a layer on mine too. Did he need a drink of water, as long as we were stopped? No. Snack? No. So we started out again. We were far, far behind the crowd by then.

Oh, well, I thought and smiled to myself. My first wood skis had cable bindings too, and I remember what a pain they were. They came off at the most inopportune times. It was really great when I got upgraded to the slick 3-pin bindings! Stopping to wax during a race reminded me of my first race, which I did by myself when I was 15--the Fairbanks Skiathon, a 20K race on the university and community ski trails. It was a very warm day, and my wax failed about half-way through, so I stopped to wax, and so did other skiers, who gave me some advice and shared a warmer wax than what I had carried along in my fanny pack.

Because of our technical difficulties, Max and I had not started the golf course loop when some of the speedy skiers were on the return to town. That was actually really neat for us because we got to see them close up. It was fun to see the parade of 1970s gear and clothing. Since we were behind anyway, I stopped and snapped a couple of photos.

Max and I enjoyed our tour of the golf course. We talked companionably and enjoyed the slow, sweet glide of the wooden skis. I was so happy to share this moment with him while reminiscing about all the skiing I did with my parents when I was a kid. Near the end of the golf course, we saw volunteers putting out the lights for the luminary ski later that evening. We saw the moon rise, and it was almost full. Near the finish we caught up to one older gentleman and the three of us were the last skiers to finish. We glided down to the end of Main to meet up with Barb and the other skiers. While we waited to see if our numbers would be called for the prize raffle at the end, we took photos and admired the array of equipment and costumes. Here are a few snapshots:

The Opening Ceremony

Just as we were leaving, we got to see the opening ceremony, with members of the Ojibwe tribe veterans leading the way with the Eagle Staff and American Flag, followed by the ceremonial Inga and two Birchleggers who saved Prince Haakon, and then signs carried by skiers from all over the world and most of the states. The 2013 American Birkebeiner has begun!

"Ski with the Bison Day" was held in a blizzard

Bison skiers give the kids some instruction in the hut before heading out

So, the plan was to use the remainder of our youth ski grant to have a youth ski day up at Edgewood Golf Course with free rentals for kids. Members of NDSU's Nordic Ski Club would be there to ski with the kids. The only problem was that there was a blizzard today. I thought I'd go ahead and go up there anyway. My kids were able to come since their symphony tour was cancelled due to poor driving conditions in the blizzard. We picked up their friend, Javonte, and headed up to Edgewood. It didn't look good--it was bleak, blustery, and desolate. Soon, a young man opened up the ski hut, then John, one of the Bison skiers arrived, and then four more Bison and one young girl, Thessaly, whose dad works with me at NDSU. They are from the south, so I really admired their pluck.

Alex went skate skiing with John and Luke; Max, Javonte, and Thessaly went classic skiing with Laura, Mari and Mitch Nordahl's sister. That left me to ski with Thessaly's parents, Ida and David. I had given out all my spare neckgaiters, so I rummaged around in the lost and found until I found one. I don't usually cover my face while skiing, but it was a must in these brutal gusts. Ida, David, and I found some protection down by the river--it was pretty good down there, though the trail was covered by drifts of snow in places. One of the neat things to see was how the wind had carved a way all the surrounding snow, leaving three dimensional footprints sticking up where an animal had crossed some open ground. When we came around the curve and faced into the wind, I suggested we turn back. We got back around the time the kids did, so it worked out.

David and Ida at the end of our ski

Ida and David treated us to hot chocolate, which was much appreciated! After warming up for awhile, the kids went out to sled, the Bison skiers went home, and I skied the skate loop. That was pretty awful because of the alternating conditions from slippery, wind-scoured skate bed to thick drift that might be soft or hard to get through. It was quite a workout.

I might note that there was not a single kid out sledding today, though I did see one skier in goggles come out.

At the end of the day, no one got frostbitten, so I am calling it a success. 

Just an Average Sunday Ski

I was going to take a nap, but made a split decision to ski instead. I quickly changed into my ski clothes, not taking time to think about how windy it was outside, or how I got up too early and would really love to nap, nor did I give any thought to how pleasant it would be to read a book and drink a cup of tea. No, I went directly to ski, no second thoughts.

Once out there, I was so happy to be outside even though I had a heckuva headwind immediately. I just took it easy, and tried not to catch my ski tips in the little drifts of snow at the edge of the trail. Despite the blusteriness, the air temp and snow temp were warm, making for fast skating, especially when I turned around and got a tail wind. I got excited when I could feel the wind pushing at my back, so I got kind of uppity and did a lot of V2 on the way back. Also there were five classic skiers strung out along the trail, and like rabbits in a greyhound race, they drove me to faster speeds.

I ended my ski gasping for breath, heart pounding, sweat pouring down my back. 

Led to MB Johnson Park by a Bald Eagle

On Saturday, I picked up my friend, Denise, and her granddaughter, and we drove to MB Johnson Park in Moorhead to go skiing. On the way there, a bald eagle flew over to us and in the direction of our car before gliding away. Once we turned onto 11th St and were headed for the sugar beet factory, we saw it again. Denise, who is a tribal member of Turtle Mountain told the story of when she got her eagle for ceremonial use and was accompanied by flying eagles on her journey south.

When we arrived at MBJ, it was about 7 degrees and windy. We went in the hut to rent skis from the newly opened ski rental service there. The pleasant and helpful woman working there said we were just the second people to rent skis. They got new Salomon boots, Salomon skis, and Swix poles.

Luckily, the new bindings functioned well and were easy to get into because it was very cold in the open field by the hut. I suggested we take the most direct route into the trees. With the blowing snow and flat light in the now cloudy, late afternoon sky, it was difficult to make out any tracks, not great conditions for my novice skiers. Fortunately, they are both Native dancers and have good coordination, so we were soon in the forest, where we could talk, and I could give some instruction.

Everyone learns differently, and it soon became apparent that Denise learned from watching. After modeling the kick part of kick and glide for her, she immediately picked it up, and was soon passing her granddaughter. She asked me to demonstrate poling, and soon she was effectively poling too.

After that, I forgot about teaching cross-country skiing, and we were just ladies out in the woods, chatting, and enjoying the fresh air. We made a complete circuit of the ski trail, emerging from the woods to the open field, where the blasting wind drove away some of the heat we had built up from our exertions. We returned the equipment just before they were due to close.

I shouldn't be amazed by this, since they are both nimble dancers, but neither one fell the entire way!

Afterward, I was treated to a delicious cup of medicinal tea and more great conversation at Denise's home. I went home feeling happy and relaxed. 

Skiing Blithely in a Blizzard

In my self-proclaimed role as the Lenore Skenazy of the Midwest, I got my kids bundled up to go play in the blizzard. After a couple of ground rules--yes, you must have a neck gaiter & no, you cannot wear gloves with no wind-resistant material--we headed out running and laughing down the street. No cars are out in these drifts, so yes, we can run in the middle of the street! I had my skis, the kids had the kicksled with dog attached, and I ran ahead so the dog would run and follow me. Over the dike, and down the bike path we went, laughing all the way. I tried to trick the dog into pulling the sled away from them when they weren't paying attention, so they would have to run after it, and they took every opportunity to fall in the snow and roll around like crazy people. We had a blast! I showed them how to check each other for frostbite & when Max got too much snow down his back, I sent them home.

It was really blustery on the bend of the river by the water treatment plant, so I thought I would just ski to the rocks and then turn back, but once I got into the more protected area on the next oxbow, it was just so pleasant and peaceful that I kept going, and going, and going.

What drew me on were the sounds. I could hear the wind gusting above me, and the trees were talking about it, some in a high screechy voice, some in low moans. Several times I heard a sharp cr-ack! Then I would check above to make sure I wasn't standing under a rotting branch--those do blow down in storms like this. Once I heard a deep knock from within a thick, scarred elm. The knots dotting the trunk looked like a face in agony, like a spirit was trying to get out of the tree. Strangely, I heard a kitten meow (though I couldn't find it), and faint murmurings that sounded like a conversation. The whole river corridor was a chorus of strange vocalizations, punctuated by these eerily intimate periods of quiet, when the horizontal snow fell vertically for a few moments. Then I could hear the birds--tiny sparrows nibbling on seeds, woodpeckers busy on the elm trees. I felt enclosed in a safe, special place at those times, and looked around in wonder, barely skiing straight. Enchanted, I skied much farther than I intended, stopping only when I came to the I-94 bridge over the Red River.

Turning back, the enchantment continued--I was amazed by the way the snow had driven itself into the vertical indentations of the bark on the elm trees until the side facing the storm was nearly all white. I was further amazed that I could be out in this weather and feel so warm myself. I'm accustomed to the heat produced by skiing, but this was unusual. I felt like I was enclosed in an electric blanket--that is how toasty I felt. It was deliciously cozy, like being wrapped in a quilt while looking through a window at the snow. But I was out in it. I stopped and bent down to stretch--snow that had blown against my legs had started to melt from the heat of my body, forming ice, snow had then collected against the bumps of ice--I was beginning to look like those elm trees.

Do the trees feel as toasty inside as I do? Many of the trees are riddled with small holes. What creatures are nestled in there? Do they feel warm? Or has their blood turned nearly to ice with the aid of some antifreeze-like chemicals? I paused and just let myself feel completely in and of the moment, like any other tree or plant or animal in this protected river corridor in the middle of a midwestern blizzard.

Cold gently tapped me, so I continued on. After nearly two hours, I was nearly back home, and as I rounded the last curve, I emerged from the protection of the trees at the same time my direction of travel became straight into the wind, and I bent my head as that wind drove particles of snow into my face, stinging me like hundreds of tiny needles, Mother Nature reminding me that she is not always as benevolent as she had shown herself to be earlier.

When I arrived home, I suddenly felt famished and exhausted.

A companionable ski with my son

After watching both boys play in the state orchestra, I went classic skiing with my younger son this afternoon. It was warm--30 above--and special purple wax was perfect. We didn't hurry and just talked the whole time. He tried explaining what "jailbreaking" your ipod is and other tech stuff. I learned a lot from him. It was pleasant gliding along side by side. All those winters of dressing him up and lifting him when he fell and cajoling and etc have paid off and we can just have a companionable ski together without me having to "teach" anything.

We saw a fat rabbit disappear into its den and a young squirrel and 8 other skiers. 

Dusk+ski=duski

Headed out on the trail in the late afternoon when my productivity at work was waning. The skate bed had settled and temperatures were warm, making for solid and fast conditions. I tried to keep the brakes on to let my body warm up properly, but every muscle was straining for release, so I gave up and indulged my need for speed. Ahhhh!!!!

I just kept going back and forth until it got so dark I could not see the trail anymore. Just like when I was a kid, playing outside until the street lights came on and it was time to come home.

It is a wonderful time of year, for tomorrow is another ski.

Exposed to the Elements

FAIRBANKS — Alaska State Troopers believe the 23-year-old woman found dead Tuesday in Fairbanks froze to death.

Blog readers: All my blog posts up until this point have been nonfiction, so you should know that this posting begins with a recent news story from the Fairbanks Daily-News Miner as a prompt for launching into a fiction story I'm experimenting with. Comments are welcome, since this is a first for me.

Fairbanks Woman Found Dead Tuesday Likely Died of Exposure

March 5, 2011 Fairbanks Daily News-miner

Kimberly Marie Rychnovsky was not dressed for the weather when her body was reported outside a home at 11:33 a.m, trooper spokeswoman Megan Peters said. Foul play is not suspected.

Troopers are doing a toxicology study, which would determine if Rychnovsky was affected by drugs or alcohol when she died, Peter said. As best as investigators can tell, Rychnovsky was outside on her own will, she said.

The temperature at the Fairbanks airport was 14 below zero at about the time Rychnovsky’s body was found, according to the National Weather Service.

Rychnovsky was a student at the University of Alaska Fairbanks at the time of her death and worked at the campus post office, university spokeswoman Marmian Grimes said.

In reading this article, I was reminded of a similar story from 20 years ago. I always wondered what led up to this woman freezing to death. I heard little bits of her story third- and fourth-hand from friends of mine that I skied with. You see, when I lived in Alaska, I had a social life that revolved around cross-country skiing in winter and bicycling in the summer. In my 20s, planning to meet a friend (or friends) to ski on a Saturday was as much about socializing as getting a workout.

Meeting up at the ski hut on West Ridge was a common plan because then no one had to wait in the cold for the others to show up. We'd wax our skis in the hut, drink some water--"filling the internal water bottle" as it was called, then when the group was together, we'd head out. We agreed to get going without talking until we were warmed up, and then we'd ski side-by-side, chatting about life. By the time we had started up the road leading to the T-field, we'd be all warmed up, our internal engine now producing enough heat to balance the heat lost to the elements.  The entrance to the T-field was a great place to stop and talk for a few minutes. From there, one could survey the whole field except for the steepest part near the top, but if you waited a few minutes, if anyone was on that section of trail, he or she would emerge at the top of the trail.

We'd lean on our ski poles there, looking around and talking until the cold reminded us to keep going. Another stop at the top of the T-field was de rigeur, both to catch our breaths, enjoy the view, finish our conversation, and also to decide who would go first on the descent; the first 90-degree turn to the right didn't lend itself to side-by-side skiing.

It was in the T-field that I first met Anna, though I didn't know her name at the time. She was skiing the inner loop of the T-field at a good clip.

"Who's that?" I asked. No one knew.

I scrutinized her technique and pace without even realizing I was doing so. I was what some people might call "competitive," but I didn't think so. My reaction was subconscious. If I had been alone, instinct would have kicked in, and I would have found myself gradually speeding up, reeling her in, without even intending to. That's just the way I was then--I couldn't help it.

I didn't understand that about myself until years later when I got my own dog. We skijored together. He loved to run & I loved to ski, so we flew across the snow. It wasn't so easy at first, though. He went crazy when he saw a rabbit or a squirrel and just had to chase them. His instinct took over, and there he went. Watching him, I realized that is just how I was back then when I saw another skier on the trail--I had to chase them.

But this time I was with my group of friends, and the call of the pack was stronger than my individual need to chase. We regrouped near the bottom of the field, not stopping to talk this time because we were chilled a bit from the descent. Instead,  we entered the narrow that led to Smith Lake. I loved this part of the trail because it was surrounded by black spruce. Sometimes I would catch a whiff of the mouldering bark and memories of my grandmother's basement would be triggered in my brain. I felt at home here, connected to relatives, perhaps even some more ancient than my grandmother.

 .     .     .

Later, in the spring, when the snow was melted off of the roads and trails, but still lurking in the woods,  I met Anna on a bike ride. She was dating a mutual friend by then, Ben, and my boyfriend, who was friends with Ben had a arranged an weekend bike outing near the mountains to the south of Fairbanks. Anna was tall, and blond, with icy blue eyes that narrowed when she looked into the distance. I wondered if she would be racing this summer--but she didn't say much. She was agreeable and friendly and smiled, but she was not talkative, and one had the sense that her thoughts were elsewhere at times--maybe back where she came from, maybe further down the trail.

.     .     .

In the fall she was gone (or so I thought), and I forgot about her. I was busy with classes--reading Milton and Chaucer were challenging. Chaucer, especially, because it was almost like taking a foreign language--so many words to look up. Frustrated, I grabbed a newspaper in the student union on my way to the upstairs cafeteria, where I heated up my bowl of rice and beans. I read the newspaper as I ate hungrily, barely chewing. I now lived 13 miles from campus, and in the colder weather I really burned up the calories on my bicycle commute to school. We had had our first snowfall on October 1st, and now that it was early November, the temperatures had been plummeting to twenty below on some days.

I paused mid-bite, when an article caught my eye. "Died of exposure . . . West Ridge . . . Anna . . ."

Could this be the Anna I met last winter? I felt sad--a young woman, strong and beautiful, just gone, like that. How could it happen? She seemed outdoorsy--how could she die in the birch trees on a hill so close to campus?"

A couple of years later, I was on a multi-day ski trip in the White Mountains with a couple of friends. On the third night we had made it to the furthest cabin, and we were exhausted after sleeping out in the twenty below weather the previous night. We made a fire in the woodstove, enjoyed a meal of hot food, and then lay on the bunks telling stories.

"Remember Anna?" asked Scott. "She told me the weirdest story once."

Scott told us the story. Anna decided to ski all the way to the Colorado Creek Cabin and back in one day. Alone. She had two bottles of water in her fanny pack--a liter bottle and a half liter bottle. On the way out, she drank all of the liter bottle. We nodded. The way out to Colorado Creek involved a steady uphill climb to a ridge just before the descent into Colorado Creek. At the top of the ridge, she decided to head back. It had taken her a few hours to get there, and the light was already fading. She didn't have a headlamp. It was her first winter in Alaska, so she wasn't used to the short days.

The descent from the ridge is trickier than the ascent--there are a couple of tight turns lined with trees. In the dimming light, Anna didn't quite make the first turn and ended up clipping a tree, which caused her to take a tumble off the trail into some deep snow. In the struggle, she didn't realize that her other water bottle had fallen out of her fanny pack. Her attention was on her knee, which must have been twisted in the crash, for when she put her weight on it, it nearly collapsed.

To make matters worse, it had started to snow. She had been sweaty when she had fallen, and the falling snow was chilling her. She stopped to take a drink of water, and then realized she did not have her other bottle. She calculated--turning back she would lose a half hour, but if she didn't have any water, she could become dangerously dehydrated. She turned back. The spot where she fell was easy to find because of the major turn in the trail, but finding the bottle in the deep snow was difficult. She dug with increasing panic--where was it? Finally, her hand found the hard surface and she lifted it up. It was so hard to open the lid, though--it had frozen shut. She shook the bottle, not sloshing. Of course, she realized--it had frozen. This bottle was smaller, and froze more quickly than a larger bottle would have. She threw the bottle down in disgust and resolved to begin the long trek back to her car.

But by then, enough had accumulated to make the skiing much harder going than it was on the way out.  She followed her tracks, until they began to fade from view in the near darkness. She blinked, holding her eyes shut for a second longer than necessary to try to melt the snowflakes accumulating on her lashes. When she opened them up again, her tracks were gone, and she saw enormous paw prints in the snow. She gasped, stopped, and examined them carefully. Wolf tracks, she thought. But they were headed toward her, and she had not seen the wolf.

The long winter twilight was nearly at its end, she skied on, mesmerized by the wolf tracks. When she got to the point where she had turned back to get her water bottle, the tracks abruptly stopped. She skied on, but begin to scrutinize the shadows. When she felt a chill travel up her spine, she quickly twisted around to look behind her.  There was nothing there, but strangely, the tracks were right behind her and were now pointed in the same direction in which she was skiing.

A shot of adrenaline sped through her body, and she sprang forward at thrice the speed she had been skiing. She could no longer see in the darkness, so she quit trying to see the trail and just let her feet feel the trail. Her mind shut out the hurt knee, the deep thirst, and she just flew. When she arrived back at the trailhead, she suddenly collapsed and found herself crawling the last few yards to her vehicle.

Fortunately, her thermos still contained a few ounces of now-cold peppermint tea and she gulped it down. She started up her truck, and when the headlights came on, she saw another vehicle--her boyfriend, Ben's blue Subaru. What?! She got out and went over to it. The hood was still warm--he couldn't be too far away. She lifted up her chin and screamed as loudly as she could, "Ben!!!"

She waited, then heard a returning shout. After a few minutes, Ben emerged from the same trail she had come in on.

"Didn't you see me ski by?" she asked.
"No," he answered, puzzled, "But I saw the most amazing gray wolf run past just a few minutes ago."

Early morning polychromatic ambience ski

Alarm sounds, and I stumble downstairs to make some coffee. I let my younger son know it is time to get up for his weekly early chamber orchestra practice. He groans and doesn't move, so I make him breakfast, then try again. I go back down and start drinking coffee. Wait a minute... Enrico must have changed the time on the coffeemaker--it says 5:17. I look at the kitchen clock. Also 5:17. Um, ohhhhh. Right. Enrico must not have changed the alarm from the day before when we had to get up at 5 to take our older son to early morning swim practice.

Ugh. But it is too late to go back to bed. I tell my son he can sleep for another 45 minutes, then I drink my coffee and get ready for my day. After dropping my son off at school, I head out for a ski.

Although it is very early, I can see just fine, thanks to what we used to call "Fair-glow" in Fairbanks--the reflection of city lights off the clouds or ice fog. I guess in Fargo we can call it "Far-glow," right? The bright orange light makes it easy to find the skate trail.

It is warm today and the trail is firm and fast. Fun! I fall into a pleasing rhythm and begin cogitating on the English education program. Then I am in Lindenwood Park, and I don't remember getting there, that is how lost in thought I was.

Now I notice there has been a change in ambient light. The orange Farglow has been replaced by a deep blue. It feels like night. I drift off in thoughts again, but a fluttering of my heartbeats brings me back to the present. Now the sky is white, and soon it will be pink, for dawn is approaching. But I don't have time to witness that last color change--I stop after just one circuit so I have time to shower before heading to Davies High to observe my student teacher.

I feel refreshed, all my muscles are warm, my blood has circulated around and been freshened by breaths of morning air. I am ready for my day. 

Sunday Ski Lessons

Today I went up to Edgewood golf course to help out with Sunday ski lessons. I love doing that. I got to work with the kids, and it is so neat to see how they improve so much, just in one session.

John Pfund and I took the kids to the field first, where several pairs of parallel classic tracks allowed us to keep and eye on the group while leading them to practice their kick and glide without poles, double-poling, and regular striding. A couple of girls were really gung-ho about going out on a loop. One said, looking off into the distance with a wistful eye, "I want to go ski on my very own trail." Hold onto that dream, my dear!

I led them off on the little loop, with the little girl in front. She was quite a dynamo! On the loop, I got the kids noticing the various tracks we saw and trying to identify them. "A bear, " "moose," "snake" were some of the answers. What fun!

After we completed our little loop, I led them up the hill and had them take turns going down the steep side to practice their downhill technique. They loved that.

Photo taken by Nick Carlson

After lessons, Jeff, Arnie, John, and I went for a classic ski around the outer loop. It was very pleasant skiing and socializing. 

Life's Little Rewards

On Saturday I decided to skate ski for two hours. It was a bit cold out, and there was new snow on the skate trail, but my thinking was, "Just dress warmly and go slowly." To lure myself out, I made a thermos of Yerba Mate tea with honey, which I stashed next to the trail. Each time I went by, I had a nice hot drink of tea. That was six times, as I skied back and forth on the the Dike East-Lindenwood Trail. I made a new, 2-hour playlist to keep me going.

Why?

Well, the Korteloppet is this month, and I wanted to see if I have anything close to the endurance for it.

I managed, though I was not speedy. Near the end, I was mainly looking at the snow right in front of me, and then something caught my eye--a large bird to the northwest. I stopped and squinted as it flew closer. Could it be . . .?

Yes! A bald eagle, confidently winging its was to the southeast. I thanked the bird because it felt like a little reward for finishing the ski.

Retreat at Maplelag Cross-country Ski Resort

Friday

Thirteen teachers convened at Maplelag Resort near Callaway, Minnesota for a skiing--I mean writing--retreat over the weekend. Fortunately, the woman carpooling with me was wiling to ditch school early on Friday so that we could get there in time for a ski before sunset. After a winter of scant snow in Fargo, I nearly drooled when we turned into the resort, and I got my first glimpse of the beautifully groomed trails.

I laid out all the skis against the side of our bunkhouse, the Great Northern, changed into my ski clothes, and hit the skate trails. It was cold, and slow (or I was slow), but beautiful and recently rolled, yet set. Although this area had been subjected to melting like we had in Fargo, the groomers had done a wonderful job of creating a firm skate bed on top of the ice and I didn't cut through to the ice below but once.

I was the second skier down Kamikaze Hill, so I had good stability for stepping and poling around the turn near the bottom rather than just snowplowing as usual. A grin spread across my face at the sheer joy of being out in the woods, tooling around the trails.

The grin morphed into a grimace as I began ascending a series of hills up a narrow ridge. "What's this?" my heart asked, accustomed to the cardiovascular load of the perfectly flat trails I usually ski. I stopped a few times to listen to my heart, but eventually convinced it that we really did have to do these hills to be ready for the 23K Korteloppet in Hayward next month. "OK," said my heart, "but the muscles are going to have to work more efficiently--look at this sloppy uphill technique!" My brain acknowledged this point and soon all systems were working together, allowing me to float into THE ZONE.

That carried me around the first circuit of Skater's Waltz plus Skater's extension, and well into the second. Sweat began dripping into my eyes from the effort. Then I made a series of Jack-London-To-Build-A-Fire mistakes: don't wear your thickest socks, get soaking wet from sweat, stop to take a photo, don't hydrate, enter a windy area. Soon I  was tugged out of the zone by the persistent cold of my hands and the slow but certain numbing of my right foot.

Road crossing to Skater's extension

I tried to ignore it, but then had to pause to do my little warm-up trick of windmilling my arms and swinging my right leg (not at the same time!) to use centrifugal force to get warm blood into my extremities. That helped for awhile, but I could tell where this was headed. I was less coordinated now, and since I had not seen a single skier on the trail, I thought it prudent not to take another detour across the road to Skater's extension.

The sun was setting too, and my sweat soaked shirts were now rapidly leeching heat from my body. I was tired, and stopped to hug a birth tree. Maybe I could replenish my supply of "sisu" from one of my relatives.

After just 12K, I called it a day and went to our room to get all the wet clothes off and head over to the Lodge for a good long soak in the hot tub before dinner. Ahhhhhh.

Saturday Ski #1

Up at 7:30. Enjoyed Norwegian pancakes for breakfast then headed upstairs with my cohort to write for the morning. I got into another kind of "zone," the writing zone, and suddenly it was time for lunch.

During lunch, I was able to convince three teachers to come with me to try cross-country skiing. First stop was the ski shop in the basement of the Lodge. The student from Brazil helped us. After my converts got their skis rented, I helped them get the equipment on, and then I taught my first lesson--how to fall and how to get up again. They did beautifully, and soon we were on our way, striding down the Sukkerbusk trail.

Brenda and Carmyn with their skis

All three of them mastered the herringbone in record time. Brenda turned out to be a natural--she got the move of shifting her weight almost immediately. Soon Carmyn was doing the same. Sara had skied as a girl, and her body remembered the basic motions.

Everyone was feeling pretty confident when we found ourselves at the top of Suicide Hill. Carmen, clad in white snowpants, white vest, and fluffy white earmuffs, was the instigator. At first she asked innocent questions--"Do you make turns on cross-country skis like you do on downhill skis?"
"How do you stop at the end?"
 "How steep is it?"
 "Is it harder to make turns on cross-country skis?"

Soon her questions were more along the lines of "Maybe we could try it." and soon  "Let's do it!"

Her enthusiasm was irresistible. After the barest instruction to my crew, I took off down the hill, joyfully carving turns. Carmen followed, slowly painstakingly traversing the hill and then making a careful turn before traversing in the other direction. As she gained confidence, she sped up and was elated to reach the bottom without falling. Brenda, who had some previous downhill skiing experience, followed confidently and made it to the bottom of the hill with style. And also no falls!

And then came Sara. Now, because Sara had cross-country skied as a kid, I didn't worry about her too much and instead had been spending more time offering instruction to Carmyn and Brenda.

That was a mistake.

I immediately realized I should have given a bit more snowplow instruction to Sara--she was rapidly picking up speed and showed no signs of slowing down. It dawned on me that she was going to bomb it! I yelled at the others to get out of the way at the bottom of the hills and made lively steps to the side myself. I think we were all screaming as she reached the steepest part of the hill. She stayed on her feet as the slope straightened out at the bottom and came to a stop. Again, no falls! We all bubbled over with excitement, telling our stories of how it felt going down. I marveled at this group of newbie skiers daring to go down Suicide Hill on their first outing. The thrill even carried us back up the hill to the trails. We happily followed the trails back to the lodge. What a ski!

Saturday Ski #2

After that, Brenda was ready to relax, Carmyn and Sara were ready to snowshoe and then ice skate as part of their quest to do an "Arctic Triathlon," and I changed from classic to skate gear to see if I could go for a longer ski than yesterday. It was warmer on Saturday, and I was warmed up, so I felt very good starting out. I remembered to stash a Nalgene bottle of water on the deck of our building so that I could hydrate between laps. I had my thicker socks on and wore more breathable clothing. It was not as windy.

I skated the Skater's Waltz plus the Skater's extension three times--19.8K. It took me an hour and 50 minutes. My lats and tensor fasciae latae were very sore. I was completely spent. Done. But my technique had gotten better and I felt a step closer to being ready for the Kortie. 

Saturday Ski #3

After an evening of hot tubbing, eating, writing, and talking, I felt sleepy, but my ski posse had other ideas.  They had been outside and seen the full moon and clear sky. "Moonlight ski!" cried Carmyn. I really wanted to go to bed, but their enthusiasm lured me out. We set out on the Mother Hen loop. The full moon was so bright--it illuminated the birch trees and threw shadows across the trail. We stopped every so often to admire the stars. When we wondered about one especially bright body in the sky, Carmyn used her nightsky app on her smartphone to let us know it was Jupiter. 

On one of our stops, we just listened. It was soooo quiet. The wind was completely gone. Held in the magical spell of this moonlight ski, none of us wanted to break the silence. 

Sunday Ski

We spent Sunday morning writing, then five of us had a quick lunch before heading down to the sauna by the lake. We worked up a sweat and then took the POLAR PLUNGE through a hole in the lake ice. What a rush!

The plungers consisted of Angie "put the ladder in, take the ladder out" C.,

Andi "Shoes, shoes, give me my shoes!" N., Kelly "Omigod, omigod" S., Sara "Don't look at it, don't look at it" M., and Carmyn "It's not so cold out here" J. 

After that we watched the hilarious video footage of this event, then participated in an author's chair. The group dispersed at 3pm, but Sara and I didn't want to leave, so we went for a classic ski on the Sukkerbusk trail then repaired to the hot tub and steam room for a final pore-opening, muscle-relaxing session before heading back for Fargo at dusk. 

43K skied in 48 hours, lots of good writing, fun, fellowship--a great weekend!