Skiing the Mill-Run.

I got up early this morning and ran to the bakery to get my wife some bread for her sandwich. On the way there I realized that it was a perfect day for a cross-country ski. I came home, wished my wife well, and settled into a book I'm reviewing. My plan was to wait for the temperature to rise, take a ski before lunch.
At 10:30 I suited up, dewaxed then rewaxed my skis, and set out down the path that runs beside the Conestoga river. Halfway down the path I veer off to the right, down into a farmers field. I skied this field twice before, but today my tracks are blown over. I know that if I can find my old tracks, there will be a base of crystallized snow that will keep me from sinking below the crust. The wind is bitter, but the day is clear. I head through the field and I'm surprised by the wind: it travels across the ice like it would open water. The loose snow animates the wind coming my way. Suddenly the squall hits me and the woosh of wind dominates my senses. I'm almost stopped in my tracks. I round the corner and come to the dirt road. I can see the river to my right. I take off my skis and cross the road. There is a damn up along the river. The water below it is open, but I'm interested in the pool at the top. I ski up the incline. The river is frozen, but I'm not sure how stable it is. I side step down to the ice and hammer around with my poles. Solid. I ski across the short inlet thinking about what I might do if the ice cracks. Climbing back on to land, it strikes me that I'm trespassing, but as long as no one confronts me I'm free. I can pass, all my senses tell me this. Only the discontinued fence behind me warns me of the rule of law, private property. I head up along the river, but the wind is fierce. I tighten my hood until my neck is sore from the restriction. I head into the wind. Eventually I've had enough. I turn around and can feel the wind talking the back of my jacket like a sail, pushing me back along my tracks. It is no time before I'm back to the damn. I side step up the bank. Hay is stuck to the wax of my left ski. I slide them back and forth, then head down the hill waiting for a fall. The ride is quick, and it carries me to the road. I'm back in the field, cruising with the wind, sun is beating down on my face. I open my jacket to the nape of my neck for ventilation. Crossing on my tracks to the meeting point with the mill-run trail, I notice some foot prints going off to my left. Turning on to this trail, my stomach lifts to my mouth, my eyes hit the sky, my feet come out from under me, and I feel the moment of weightlessness before I hit the ground. I lay there for a second, surprised at the swiftness of my fall. I'm not hurt. I push myself up with my right pole and it curves so far I fear it will snap. I head down the trail. Light snow is heaped up on the trees. It follows the field. I think it will meet up with the Conestoga. I duck under a tree, I roll down a series of woopdeedoos. My skis are fast. The sun is warm, the wind is gone. I take off my toque, unzip my jacket. I realize that interspersed with the human tracks are a dog's paw prints, and to my surprise, a cloven hoof. A big deer print. Must be a buck. This close to town? The sun is warm in the way that winter can be so much like a warm summer day. This is beyond what I expected. I abandon the path. I can see the river and I must stand beside it. Some of the water is open. Two ducks are riding the rapids. I'm tempted on to the ice, but I know better. I stand, patient. I turn around and head back to the trail, needing my poles to make up the elevation. Back on the path, I've lost my deer. I'm ducking under trees, avoiding rogue thickets that catch up my tips and my poles. I kick through them. The sun disappears. I feel lost. I head across a frozen pool. The trail extends to my right. I recognize a rest spot from my summer runs. I see a ramp of earth that meets the path. I release my skis. Climb over the log, grab my skis and head up to the path. I'm less then a kilometer from home. The worn hard pack is fast, but my form is off. I've waxed for new snow, it is old. Somehow I hit a groove and burst to the rail bridge. The poodle spies me, a beast that moves too smooth, with sounds swish swish. Should I say something to the owner, should I assume a gender of the animal, or refer to its genus. She speaks before me. Lots of laughter, loud, covering up for her violation of social norms. What did she violate. I can't say, but her laughter betrays her, we both know. I sprint to the end of the trail. Take off my skis and walk the 100 metres home thinking about the minestrone soup I'll warm for dinner.