Right back where you started from

“I really want to try cross-country skiing!” pleaded my daughter moments after she’d picked up her bag. We were heading toward the airport terminal ladies’ room to change clothes so we could hike to the “M” and reward ourselves with sweet potato fries at Hob Nob on the “hip strip’ in downtown Missoula.

I was game, having downhill skied throughout my lifetime, albeit not adeptly. I’d recently announced that I would never ski that way again. I’d been feeling my age and had sworn off virtually everything but walking, fishing, or pumping an elliptical trainer. Balance and coordination have never been my forte, but outdoor desire burns bright, I’d struggled with acting it out all my life, and now I imagined cross-country to be less harrowing a winter endeavor for one in her, ahem, late fifties. If I experimented with the technique—or lack thereof—with Katharine, I’d be safe from the embarrassment of falling and flailing in front of my peers who had heretofore invited me to come try it. This way, I could grow comfortably seasoned before next ski season!

Two days later we set out to rent the necessary equipment and head for the hills—Lolo Pass to be exact, since all sign of snow had evaporated, literally, from the valley, even though it was only the second week in March. Geared up and giddy, Katharine pulled out our sack lunches as I turned onto Highway 12.

“After lunch, “ I dictated, “We’ll start your list of pros and cons.” She had brought along a yellow-papered legal pad so that we might create a list of reasons for her to either leave her current job and accept another—or not. Everyone knows this is the best way to go about making a difficult decision where both sides of the scale appear to be balanced. And for Katharine, a sufferer of a rather advanced case of OCD, tipping one side or the other can go on for days on end. Her stepfather had opted to stay home and clean out the shed rather than have to listen to yet another spin on the same advantages and disadvantages he’d been privy to in conversation for the past forty-eight hours.

“I can hear her debating in my sleep!” he teased—he being the father of two adult sons whose only behavior disorder had been one to many bottles of beer or a party gone haywire while dad was away.

Sandwich gripped in left hand, Katharine deftly multi-tasked with pencil in right, tablet on lap, set to embark on mental machinations. Back and forth, forth and back, we approached the decision from all angles, the drive flashed by, and we pulled into the parking lot not only equipped to ski, but with her firm decision to stay right where she was, a three-year veteran in the job with a plethora of advantages over any other.

“After all that,” she sighed. “All that angst and anxiety just to figure out the best thing is to stay! Why did I go through all that?”

“Sometimes…” I surprised myself with such sagacity…”you leave home in search of greener grasses for the sole reason that it will lead you right back to the field where you started.” Dang, I’m good.

We stepped into our skis and I began to instruct her with what little I’d gleaned from a combination of ogling the Winter Olympics and a few U-tube videos on how to cross-country ski. She took a few of the usual tumbles, but once underway, we glided, lunged and poled like the best of them. The scenery was astonishing, the temperature a mild 55-60 degrees; we skied sans jackets, gloves, or even hats. And the best part? Ours had been the only car in the parking lot and so it follows, were the only people on the trail. Glorious.

I’d discovered my retirement outdoor sport: Skiing for the second half! I’d leave walking with Yak Traks in the dust and announce my newfound passion. After weighing the concerns about attempting it, the skill had come easily to me after all.
That’s when I stopped to study the trail map and while standing perfectly still, instantly found myself sitting, having whip lashed my neck and overextended both ankles beyond human capability. The brief, sharp pain subsided, and blessedly, when I managed to crawl around until I could hoist myself erect, I was able to ski quite normally the two miles back to the parking lot. Even after a nasty fall, cross-country skiing was kind to my aging physique—not to mention the ankle I’d broken just over a year ago, a feat likewise accomplished while standing utterly still.

It wasn’t long before my perfect-sport bubble was burst. The ankle began to swell that evening, the sprain-pain became unbearable, and Brad had to carry me to bed, tears running down my cheeks over the loss of the delusion that I might actually be somewhat athletic in my old age.

“I’m never doing anything again!” I boo-hooed, as I slapped a bag of frozen peas on the swelling. Sometimes those greener grasses (or whiter ski trails) only lead you right back to where you started.

By morning, however, I was considering snowshoeing. I’d read an advertisement: “If you can walk, you can snowshoe.”
I think I can walk. I just can’t stand still.