Stepping into a new set of bindings, ones attached to the skinniest skis that have graced my feet in decades, a pervasive sense of trepidation gripped me. Out with a new crew, I was afraid of embarrassing myself, a reaction that I should have long outgrown. That the beginning of this journey was downhill, on little sticks with no edges, did little to quell my anxiety. Yet, this season, I am engaged in a perspective shift, one that focuses more on joy than on data, more on embracing the new rather than remaining stagnant in old pathways. So, gripped with a tension that was unlikely to help, I descended with a hopeful grin.
Nordic skiing is an ancestral lifeblood. Papa, my paternal grandfather, was a tremendously impressive dude with a litany of cross country ski racing achievements. Pops, his son and my father, was a Nordic Combined college athlete at West Point and UNH and a competitive ski jumper until I was an adolescent. Genetically, I was graced with a significant tendency toward cardiovascular fitness and blessed/cursed with the stubborn streak that allows one the endurance to push through the type of physical pain that I was seemingly preprogrammed to enjoy.
This was not my first time on cross country skis, but other than screwing around a bit on the tracks in Hanover during college, it had been more than thirty years since I had seriously attempted a Nordic outing. I made it down the first slope by some miracle, despite bearing a much closer resemblance to a newborn giraffe than to the Scandinavian ideal of a cross country skier. Fortunately, I soon surmised that my new friends were very supportive and that my fears of ridicule were completely unfounded.
Once on the trail proper, on a course that had been freshly groomed, I planted my poles and pushed off my skis and began moving forward in a surprisingly competent manner. It is possible that my successful motion was the result of muscle memory. However, as I made my way deeper into the woods, solitude as my only apparent companion, I was struck by a presence. Papa was with me, of that there was absolutely no doubt. I could feel him gliding along in front of me, showing me the way. I could hear his encouragement. It was not the overt cheerleading of modern parents, but the confident, blunt guidance of generations past.
Skate skiing is all about rhythm, finding the perfect cadence to efficiently glide across the snow. Anyone bearing witness to my dancing would have to look very hard to find evidence of this flow. Yet each time that I have been back on my Nordic skis – I bought a setup after my initial foray – I have been able to establish the necessary patterns, tap into the innate tempo that I was gifted by my forebears. Sure, there are hilarious hiccups, near-misses, and missteps, but I have been able to crank out the kilometers at a pace that has me gasping for breath. All the while, and especially when I am alone and in dense woods, I am buoyed by the spectre of Papa, my patron saint of Nordic skiing.
Pops and Papa have been incredible role models in all facets of my life, from athletic pursuits to family responsibilities to adventure seeking to community involvement. Hypnotized by the Nordic movements and thereby partially inoculated against the hurt, I am free to let my mind return to these lessons, to spend time in deep contemplation, to work toward being worthy of my family name, to figure out how to impart this wisdom to my own offspring. My return to my cross country skiing roots is therefore not just a flippant activity; it is a holistic encapsulation of my heritage.
Papa died suddenly when I was Violet’s age. His departure from the mortal coil left me reeling. In the intervening years, I have worked very hard to make him proud. Smiling down on me, I can sense his approval. Still, I deeply lament not being able to tell him directly how much I appreciated him and his moxie and his example. I often feel sad that he is not around to witness how his legacy has filtered into the subsequent generations, although I like to think that he understands, is content in whatever infinite Nordic track he has found himself. I wish I could hug Papa tight and tell him I love him. Instead, I click into my Fischers and skate off into the trees once more.