“The Last Ski” by Natalie Feisthauer

I love cross-country skiing. I love the feeling of gliding through the snow, sliding along through the trees in ways not possible with human legs. I feel like a low-flying woodland creature, swiftly moving between dark evergreen forests and bright open meadows where the sparkle of thousands of rainbows dance across the snow-covered landscape.

Today, I lace up for what might be the last ski of the winter. Rain is forecast for this afternoon and that will melt away the good snow. And anyway, it’s late February; there are no guarantees that the base of snow will survive as the temperature oscillates towards spring.

It is a beautiful ski; the snow is soft but not yet sticky and I glide happily on tracks laid by my husband and I on our almost daily outings together to breathe in fresh winter air and enjoy each other’s company.

My favourite part of the trail is an exciting glide down through a maple grove towards a small stream that meanders through the woods. The excitement is due to a combination of lack of skill and the need to maneuver through sloping terrain densely populated with maple saplings. On this section there is even the opportunity for ski jumping over a fallen ash tree, which I don’t attempt this morning. My lack of skill has already been proven on my first and only try which left me sprawling in the snow, my husband hastily ditching behind me to prevent adding injury to insult.

On the other side of the frozen stream, I pause in the gloom of an evergreen thicket. The temperature is noticeably warmer and I unzip my jacket and remove my toque. Silence descends in the absence of the scuffing of my skis skimming over the packed snow. Movement catches my eye and it is the flurry of wings in the underbrush; a robin. A robin?  

Yep a robin, and he is not alone. I silently witness the forest becoming alive now that the human intruder (me) is quiet, and a flock of robins is flitting from tree to tree, and hopping through the underbrush and digging for insects at the base of trees where old snow has melted. 

Chickadees and woodpeckers also show up; the chickadees start checking me out in their friendly curious way, alighting on branches right over my head. Once satisfied they have identified what sort of creature I am and that I don’t appear to be a threat, they bounce away to other trees in search of food.

I move on, emerging from the forest. Increasingly overcast, the pearly sky mutes the morning sun to a glowing ball that just barely lights up the soft white sparkles on the warming snow; no rainbows today. I ski on, enjoying the journey as I slide effortlessly through shrubby abandoned fields and balsam fir forest.

Coming out of the final loop I slow down at the fork in the trail to navigate the turn back home. The tracks gleam whitely and again I think this is likely the last time I will ski out here this year. It also flashes through my mind that we’ve been lucky this year with so many good ski days, and with the vagaries of climate change, this might be the last great season.

Instead of melancholy, to my surprise I feel acceptance, even contentment. I realize I have no regrets. Unlike every year past, this year I chose to take every possible opportunity to ski from the first significant snowfall of the winter. I did not sit inside my house, pining for the outdoors, throwing obstacles in the way of doing what I was yearning to do. As a result, I’m able to accept this change of seasons, as well as circumstances I can’t control, with a grace that is new to me.

What I have been quietly, desperately, struggling with for years, I now know is really quite simple. Not easy, but oh so simple.

Live my life with no regrets. Remove obstacles I have placed in my way of being true to myself. And, when I reach my final crossroad in life, I will be content to move on with serene acceptance.

*** 

Natalie Feisthauer loves playing in the outdoors during all times of the year, even during ice storms and the blackfly season. She enjoys writing both scientifically and creatively, and her creativity has always been inspired by nature. Natalie is an avid backyard birder and flower and vegetable gardener where she applies her biological expertise in her spare time. Natalie lives in Flamborough, Ontario.

Note: The skiing photos are both Natalie's

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