Imprints onto the Universe; or, Cross-Country Skiing and the Human Condition
The unexpected bounty of a couple of feet of snow in March set off a frenzy of skiing. It took me three days to break trail on the usual loop: up and down the old road in the woods; left on the small field on the way to the beaver pond; right by the stone wall separating the level ground from a particularly muddy perched wetland, now frozen; left through an opening in the wall towards the junction with the back trail to the Pinnacle; right onto the grown-over big field (now an ice rink), followed by scary descent down the wide avenue mowed on the big field. Hairy but made it. Right at the bottom onto the old road; up, up, and up the old road, and finally wheee! down the last hill back home.
Happy dogs. The hound and the visitor I will call half-hound on account of her size are happy friends who like to run as fast as they can and jump at each other while they do it. Or simply roll around in a tussle. Right in front of me on the trail that is, particularly on steep sections, increasingly iced and crusty and thus fast with me losing all control hoping to stay upright. “Wheeeeee, gogogogogo!” I yell as loud as I can at the dogs in feeble hopes that they will notice me and step aside thus avoiding a nasty spill with skis and ski poles and dogs and woman all in a pile.[More below the photo gallery]
Photos: Most photos are for sale in the shop. Click on them to order.
The rest may be ordered as "Your Pick" greeting cards.
Somehow they usually manage to get aside, and it is better like this than without the half-hound. She distracts the hound, who likes to chase my skis and poles like a pack of wolves chasing a sled in Czarist Russia when I fly down the hill, which makes for me frantically waving my ski poles behind me so as to not have 90 pounds of hound land on the back of one of my skis mid-hill. Adrenaline upon adrenaline.
Despite the cold and the snow, the woods are in spring-wind-up. It’s way below freezing and it smells damp. The schussing of my skis is accompanied by a chorus of bird song, and at the least provocation prodigious melting is happening with sap dripping down the outside of trees leaving an indiscreet stain on the snow.
The snow is slowly being marked by little bits and pieces coming down from the trees making a pattern like LL Bean flannel sheets for the well-appointed hunting cabin, “alpine chalet” design, or 1940s bedroom wallpaper: tiny sticks, cones, and pine needles distributed evenly on a virgin white background. A sneak peek into nature building the forest floor with organic stuff from the plants and trees.
My trail, in particular, catches beech leaves lately attached to their trees. Having stuck it out all winter, they are ethereal, bleached and paper thin, showing their veins and blemishes against translucent yellow. I have become obsessed with these fragile reminders of a once-mighty beech forest, each tiny veined imprint onto the universe lit as if from within, and worth a lifetime on its own account.
It’s a production. Dropping my poles and crouching to photograph them before we crush them into the snow. Trying to get the settings right with all this white reflecting in the bare woods, crouching on skis, fumbling for my glasses tin hopes I might see whether the shot is in focus.
Just when I am sure I have the right exposure, the focus, and enough speed to undo the wobble of crouching, a dog nose inserts itself into the scene: “hey, what are you up to? I am waiting for you!” If I’m lucky, I can press the shutter before a large paw pushes the fragile object deeply into the snow to become part of some future tree. If I don’t get up, I will get nudged, and licked, and nudged until at last I give in and fall over, and chances are I’ll be hit by a 150-pound ball of tumbling dogs.
Finally, we have it all together and ski on, whee-ing and gliding, but mostly striding and pushing and herringboning up the hill until finally whooshing and whooping down the final hill, invariably ending the fest by spilling at the mogul about 150 from the house. But not to worry, the hounds are there to lick the face and inquire as to the woman’s well-being and impede her from getting up. And the camera is snow- and shock-proof.
Soon, it’ll be done for the season. And we hope there will be another.
PS: About the odd title. Sometimes you wonder why they pay people to write stuff like this — who is the reader? Another one of these, “nudge nudge wink wink we all hate to be outside in the cold” things. Not so pretty, if ou ask me, that activity of nudging and winking. See Pink Like Me on that.
Oh Ploon, your stories are so wonderful. I don’t remember reading Pink Like Me before, but it was brilliant. See you soon.
Thanks Penn! Looking forward to seeing you.
Pleun,
I wish I could have been a silent observer of your escapades. You must enjoy the challenge of getting some nice photos while “entertaining” the dog team.
Jacques