Snow has fallen. It's cold, and dark as only November can be. Tonight's the night. It's time for the first ski trip of the season.
Skis specially saved for rougher conditions have been collected from the basement, still sticky with klister from last year. Summer tights are switched with woolen sweaters and thick gloves. Bring the winter on.
Some minutes drive from downtown neon lights and traffic jam the wilderness appears. Skiing out here on an ordinary weekday is like an escape from everyday city life.
Out of practice
As I fasten the skis I realize the technique is a bit rusty. In contrast to elite skiers I haven’t spent the summer on a sunny, alpine glacier. In order to keep the balance the poles are used as supporters more than speed makers. The small stones in the track don’t make it easier, and I feel like a clumsy beginner. But never mind, the excitement is bigger than the concerns of the style.
Reality check
I glide along while my headlamp lightens up the big spruces in an almost spooky way. It may seem like a paradox, desperately trying to overcome the darkest of months. But somewhere there in the quiet I realize November can be a pleasant acquaintance. Thinking of everything or nothing at all, worries are either solved or appear smaller.
The pole suddenly hits the ski. Stupid mistake. Fumbling, almost catching the balance, but the fall is inevitable. Luckily the ground is softer than on roller skis.
Tomorrow’s consequences
When I hit the parking I realize I haven’t been the only one testing the local tracks tonight. Some twenty persons are standing on the nearby platform, making the air misty while they're waiting for the local train to take them back to the city. I wonder if we will share the joy of tired and sore muscles tomorrow.