Years of cross-country skiing have filled me with warm memories

For me, the snow means escape from the madding crowds -- be they ever so jolly.

N.S. NOKKENTVED

Originally published November 13, 2001

The fresh coat of white on the flanks of Mount Rainier, visible on the recent clear days, reminds me that it's time for a new set of bindings on the old Fischer skis.

Somewhere out there snow lies soft on the land, turning it black and white.

It beckons.

I close my eyes, and I'm out among the trees -- only the swish of skis and the squeak of bindings, my own breathing and the beating of my heart. When I stop for a moment, I can feel the cold on my face, and I can hear the twitter of small birds -- perhaps a group of kinglets or a wren, or the raucous cry of a jay, or a mountain bluebird all fluffed up against the cold.

Time to peel off a layer, take a swig of water and head deeper into the solitude.

For some, winter snow means the rush of downhill speed over groomed slopes. Camaraderie waits at the bottom after the last run of the day, in the darkening gloom of a winter afternoon, as sun- and wind-burned faces retell the day's most exciting moments and the best runs.

And that all sounds like fun. But for me, the snow means escape from the madding crowds -- be they ever so jolly. I get enough of crowds during the workweek. Myself, I prefer to strap on a pair of long, skinny skis and head into the woods -- to solitude and quiet and crisp, clean air, whether it's a set of groomed tracks or untrammeled powder.

These shortening days and ever-lower freezing level mean it will soon be weather for cross-country skiing in the hills -- it probably already is in the higher areas.

I recall winters past, working steadily up through the trees, then breaking into the open on a ridge to a Christmas card snow-covered vista. Along the way, gently falling snow makes it even quieter. When the sun breaks out, the light twinkling on snow crystals nearly blinds me.

A cold wind, driving snow across the ridge, keeps the stop brief. I turn back into the trees, savoring the ride down hard-earned hills.

And then there's the inevitable spills. Falling in deep snow is no laughing matter -- OK, I admit, I have looked pretty silly trying to get back up.

Once, trying to right myself, I put out my hand and it promptly disappeared up to my shoulder. I tried to stand but sank to my hips in the dry powder. It's a wonder I'm not still there.

Another time, I shoved my pole into the snow to push myself back up. When I pulled up my pole after righting myself, the basket at the end was missing -- caught on a branch in a 6-foot drift. Back down to dig it out.

I definitely prefer not falling -- but that won't keep me home.

Nor does the cold.

One nice thing about cross-country skiing is that, even on those cracking cold days of deep winter, it keeps you warm without ever working hard. And at the end of the day, cheeks red with cold and wind, a well-earned rest and maybe a cup of hot chocolate by a warm fire awaits.

N.S. Nokkentved covers the outdoors for The Olympian. He'd trade his rolodex for a new pair of ski poles and can be reached at 360-754-5445 -- unless there's a load of fresh snow in the woods.

The Olympian Copyright 2001

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