SkiFreak Alone

(if you know what book title I am making a veiled reference to, then you are a) a PhD in English Lit, b) a down and out screenwriter looking for something with which to make a name for yourself, or c) just as odd as I am)

Today I oversleep and wake to one of those perfect winter mornings where sun glittered snowflakes sigh lazily to earth, the chick-a-dee-dee-dees flock about in the cedars t’ch ing busily to each other, and the ski trail beckons. After breakfast, I load the car with my short pair of Nordic skis and drive out to the Arboretum with my rucksack and a handful of black sunflower seeds.
I take the blue trail, which meanders its way along the periphery of the Arbo, changing directions at impossible angles. The snow in the cut is fresh, schussing under my skis as I pick my way around the bends, gingerly. Stark blues and greys bar the glowing white shadowed birch woods, vibrating in the light wind. I creak the snow, pole planting steadily to the top of the rise overlooking the road from a copse of silver maple, the backs of my hands prickly with sunlight.
I am steaming; the shadow of my vapour trail dances in the trees beside me, sauntering to my boots and away again, lightly taunting. There is no one here. I pause and turn my salty face to the winter’s late morning warmth, serene. I follow the trail back into the trees. I take the fork on the right, away from the Kamikaze gully with its deep narrow bottom of treacherous planks. The middle finger of my thinly gloved right hand is warm now; I need no longer fret. The woods close over me, a basket wickered to fit these ribs of hills, tricksy to the tips of my skis. The hill carries me on its back through stands of beech and poplar and around the bend to the bloom corner. I cross the field ski-slapping up the rise and schussing down to the main path, through the gap and into the cedars. In the cedarwood it is dimly fragrant. Little dribs of snow dripple down, disturbed by the blackcaps flitting amongst the branches.
Tcheh tch! I call them down to my up-cupped hand: black lustre for the taking. Shy, they alight one by one and away up again with their prize. Soon my hand is well trafficked. The nuthatch has not come. I marvel, always.
We are no longer alone, my birds and I. The dogs circle their panting hellos, tails blowsing wind. Tch tch comes from far away.
I return my hand to the chilly glove and let the trail lead me the rest of the way through the cedars, my head bent to the patting needles. Hand aufgelegt: a blessing. It is past midday, the trail switchbacks in on itself near the wolf enclosure. They do not come close to the galvanized wire fence. I fetch them there, yellow moons in grey-tipped faces. Ski-slap run up the last rise and I am back in the parking lot, next to the big fir tree at the top of the sliding hill.
Every breath counts.