My love of swimming is well documented. But while I don’t turn my nose up at a cold dip, the salty miles I log in the Millstream and Pulpit Harbor every summer aren’t possible from October to May on North Haven.
As an alternative, when we get any amount of snow sufficient to cover the ground, I run out my door, jump into my skis, and head to the woods.
Much to my mother’s chagrin, I never became a confident downhill skier, despite years of her gamely riding the chair lift with my sisters and me and skiing down with one of us between her knees and another one or two towed down by ski patrol while we sobbed and protested.
Nordic skiing, however, fulfills the need my nervous system has for slow, steady, cross-body movement. After all, cross-country skiing is essentially vertical swimming—a little damp, a little cold, right arm and left leg, left arm and right leg, surrounded by trees and bald eagles and the glint of the sea.
The perfect confluence of temperature and atmosphere occurred on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day this year, and far from the mixed precipitation we’ve become accustomed to, we were gifted over a foot of powder. And it stayed cold!
I was home alone for the holidays and had signed up for quite a lot of EMS shifts, but begged for an hour of Christmas Day coverage so I could get out and enjoy the trails. Snow, and therefore cross-country skiing, is ephemeral.
With coverage in place and my gratitude expressed, I threw on my new winter sport pants and my hiking boots. I use Altai Hok skis, which are hybrid trekking skis. They can glide down a hill and even execute turns, but the strip of carpet on the underside also allows for easy walking up hills. They have universal bindings, which can click tightly around any type of boot and which have held up even through my most spectacular wipeouts.
My house is next door to the entrance to the town park, and on this best of all possible ski days, the park road hadn’t been plowed, but a few trucks and tractors had driven through, essentially creating groomed trails.
I was able to easily glide along the shoulder of the road for the hundred or so feet between the end of my driveway and the park, and then begin my adventure.
I traveled near-silently down the road, amazed at the piles of snow coating most of the trees. The wind had kicked up at several points during the storm, but it was no match for the sheer quantity of snow. I built up some momentum down longer hills, but never felt out of control, and soon reached the field at the heart of the park. From there, like a Robert Frost poem gone wild, many roads diverged. Did I want to go to Big Beach? Boy Scout? Campsite? Stay on the road through the park and then turn around?
I chose Boy Scout, largely because a truck had made the same choice earlier and the packed snow was enticing. The road to Boy Scout, a popular beach with a low-tide land bridge to its namesake island, is narrower than the main road, and the flora on each side varied from tiny, Dr Seuss-like shrubs to surprisingly tall bushes covered in vivid red berries.
Soon, I emerged from the woods and found myself on the beach, gazing out to sea. The unique privilege that island life affords, where I can ski from my doorstep into the town park directly to the ocean, wasn’t lost on me.
My calm mind, the cold air, the warmth my body had generated, the tracks of birds and rabbits and deer, the snow-covered island, the slate gray water sandwiched between the cloud-covered sky and snow-covered beach: few things are more rare, or more perfect.
Courtney Naliboff teaches, writes, and plays music on North Haven. She may be reached at courtney.naliboff@gmail.com.
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