Welcoming a new year

Shortly before sunrise

It seems Mother Nature had compassion with us when we returned from our travels, easing us gently back into real life, but she certainly didn’t wait long before showing us what winter can also mean. Shortly before Christmas the temperature plummeted, and for ten days we were locked into a cold spell. Nights between -25 and -30 Celsius, sometimes a bit colder, were followed by days in the minus twenties, once in awhile straying into the high teens. The snow pack, too, grew slowly but steadily, and at night the moonlight glittered on frost-covered poplar branches and snow-laden evergreens alike.

 It takes either a good reason – a call for a few loads of wheat from the elevator, for instance – or, for those like me with the luxury of having a choice, the conviction that even on cold days it’s a good thing to spend at least a short time outside, to bundle up and brave those temperatures, especially when it’s a bit windy. Even a slight breeze can make life even more miserable, and it is difficult to protect exposed skin from its bite. We are well equipped to deal with cold here: felt-lined boots, a lined snowsuit, big mittens, a woolen toque pulled low over the forehead are standard gear, and when it’s that cold a scarf wrapped around nose and chin is a necessity. Only a small slit over the eyes is left for the wind to nibble on. Breath rising warm and moist from inside the scarf will gather on eyelashes that, frozen, stick together, stray hair peeking out from under a toque will turn into bizarre ice sculptures that take a few minutes to thaw when it’s finally time to come back in. A little squeak is added to the crunch of snow with every step, the sound a tell-tale sign of true cold.

Just before New Year’s, however, the cold spell broke. Looking at the weather forecast the week before we were doubtful: after days and days of this cold weather it was supposed to suddenly warm up to a high of -7 – highly unlikely, we thought. Yet, after waking up to -30 one morning last week we watched the thermometer climb up to -16 by late morning, all the way up to -5 by the end of the afternoon. It feels like spring when this happens, and it is always welcome!

With these conditions continuing we decided to start the new year with a cross-country ski at Tawatinaw yesterday, a ski hill about forty minutes from home. When the kids were younger they loved coming here to ski and snowboard on weekends, and that’s when we took up cross country skiing. Tawatinaw has about twenty-five kilometres of well-maintained trails that lead up and down hills, mostly through the forest, and while the ski lifts are crowded we rarely encounter anyone on the trails. 

To our surprise the slopes are empty when we drive down the hill approaching the parking lot. The gate, too, is locked: New Year’s Day obviously has been declared a holiday by the management. For us, this is of no consequence, however: another parking lot up the hill gives access to the trails as well, and there will be even more solitude than usual; even the distant creaking of the ski lifts, the sound of excited voices from the slopes audible at certain points of the trail will be absent today. 

The early afternoon sun sparkles on the twin tracks when we glide down the first gentle hill: conditions are excellent, and we won’t have to work hard on the flat areas, gaining speed easily on the declines. From ‘Highway 101’ we branch off to the right to take the ‘Flying Dutchman’, a nice up-and-down warm-up only a bit more than a kilometer long. Here and there a dry poplar leaf fallen on the trail slows us down for a split second, but in general nothing impedes our progress. By the end of the relatively steep descent down the ‘Home Run’, normally the end of our ski when we start from the parking lot at the chalet, tears are streaming down my face from the head wind, and as usual I feel like shouting out loud, giving voice to the exhilaration of a downhill run, the feel of snow spray on my face. Today I could even follow that whim without causing heads to be turned in wonder. 

I have forgotten about the icy patch likely created by a spring on the side of the hill, but by the time I remember I have crossed it already without losing my balance. This spot has caught me off-guard before, and a few times already I had to pick myself up and dust off the snow after a tumble, nothing bruised but my pride, and that only a little, too.  I am no expert skier, nor do I aspire to win any races, but for my purposes I’m doing okay.

The ‘Yodeler’ – who came up with those trail names?! – sees us climbing the hill after passing by the quiet chalet and the deserted lift stations. This is where we usually start our ski, heart pumping, catching our breath half-way up. We notice the after-effects of several get-togethers with good food and drink over Christmas and for New Year’s Eve: it feels good to move and air out bodies turned a bit lazy from too much good living. 

We didn’t quite decide if we would do all of the trails when we started out but there is no question that ‘Little Secret’ will be part of our round. After a gentle up-and-down section a steep descent forces to concentrate, levelling out slowly through one of my favourite parts of the trail, a short archway of spruce where the ground is always covered with needles, before rising for the next long, sustained climb. I still haven’t quite figured out if Little Secret’s alternate name, ‘Eviscerator’, pertains to the steep descent or the corresponding ascent – or maybe both. Right in between the two, in a small, narrow valley, tucked among the trees, are an old cabin and a few outbuildings, none of them in use anymore, it seems, visited only by deer, moose and coyotes, judging by the tracks criss-crossing between them.  

At the top of the long hill we pause only briefly before pushing off again. The next stretch, appropriately called ‘Nice ‘n Easy’, is particularly dear to me because of the many birch trees. A recent wind has scattered their seeds on the snow, creating petit-point patterns of various designs. A brief movement caught from the corner of my eye makes me stop and look up: a squirrel, bushy tail draped along its back, is sitting on a branch right above me, quickly twisting a cone in its front feet, chewing steadily. We look at each other for a moment, and when it is finished with its tidbit I move on to give it opportunity to fetch more. I have never seen a squirrel while I was skiing, but we’ve often heard their scolding voices when it is warm enough for them to be out and about. 

The sun has almost disappeared behind the steep embankment, but the bent heads of the grasses, the spiky tops of the fireweed plants and the filigree network of birch branches glow golden in the low light when we enter the home stretch. We decide to leave the ‘Vowel Howl’ for next time: fifteen kilometers is enough for the first ski of the season. We wipe the dusting of snow off the skis, stow them in the trunk and make our way home where Leo is awaiting our return. 

A new year has begun, and I couldn’t imagine a nicer way to celebrate its arrival!

The return of the light