Winter Adventure

I did not tell you about the winter death-march from a few weeks ago. I will not say anything except that if invited to go for "a 3-hour hike" by a bunch of marathon runners I will consider carefully... and dress for wind.

So when a bunch of marathon runners asked if I wanted to ski out to a cabin over the weekend, of course I said "yes" because if there's anything worse than feeling the surface of your eyeballs freezing, it's looking like a wimp in front of your boyfriend's friends, right?

So the next day I find myself cursing life, trying to navigate an icy lopsided trail that had been destroyed by four-wheelers and snowmachines with a top-heavy pack that kept yanking me into the bushes every time my balance wavered. Everyone else flitted effortlessly into the trees, or so I assume, because I pretty much didn't see them for the rest of the day. I caught up with the slower people at the end, and when we arrived at the cabin, they all shouted, "Where are your skiis?" for I had thrown them into the woods and walked the last mile or so.

The next morning, I said I would get a head start and go get my skiis. I figured they would catch up to me before I found them so I really hoofed it out. I fastened then antique wishbone bindings and waited for a bit, expecting to hear them right behind me. Nothing. I figured I needed all the head-start I could get so I took off.

Heading back, the trail was great. The second half of the trail didn't have snowmachine ruination so the tracks were my own. I cruised happily along.... and nobody had caught up. I stopped and waited a few times until I got cold. Finally, nearing the halfway point, I decided to just wait until someone showed up. After what felt like ages, the dogs came stampeding past followed by the first skier. "You're making good time," she said, "I wasn't worried because I could see your fresh ski tracks... Maybe I should've told the guys."

To cut short a short story turned long, after the first few miles, the guys became convinced I was wandering lost in the woods on my ancient skis, soon to become a small, fatty snack for the wolves who had left all the grisly bloodstains and moose parts and poo on the trail. So they had gone all the way back to the cabin, looked around, skied in circles, checked to see if I had fallen in the river, etc. Someone had to go back and get them. "Ha, ha," they said, "we should've had more faith in your skiing ability!", but then we got back onto the crappy, icy, rutted trail so I was still the last one back to the car.