Free Write Friday: Cross Country Ski

The stillness is deafening. I startle to someone coming up behind me until I realize the swishing is from my own skis, legs scissoring across the powder, cutting into the silence-laden air. My quadriceps, my calves burn under layers of cotton, of smart wool. My nose ignites with the chill of exposed skin, nares dripping with shock. I pull my hood tighter, cocooning my half moon ears.

We come to a pond, sheets of ice overlay sections, tempting the foolhardy. A carved wooden sign marks it a “swimming hole.” I try to imagine a sticky summer day when a jump in those waters would be desirable, a welcome cooling. But all I can think about are my fingertips, numb and double-gloved, constantly flexing interphalangeals, willing the circulation to return.

I hear the river’s rush before we see it, the waters churn over smooth rocks, under the precarious bridge. The sound floats on the air, over the snow, down the trail, amplified as if running parallel, overhead, all around, rushing through us as we ski closer to the river’s edge.

The trail forks, we turn right, enter a grove of birch trees, slender white bark complementing the elegance of the silent snow. There’s a muffling to the drifts, an insulation and paradoxical amplification of sound. I like the set grooves in the trail, a designated place to put my slim skis, a comfortable path to follow. They keep me focused, respectable, out of harm’s way.

Today though, it’s too cold – single digit temperatures jolt this moderate-weather gal. We’re unable to enjoy the journey, frozen extremities too distracting. We hurry back to the warming hut, thermosed hot chocolate and a rush of heat greet us.

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Free Write Friday: Bridge


She likes to sit under the bridge after her appointments, down by the canal. The benches at the corner are a little too breezy, she brings a cardigan when she remembers. It’s right by the trail, the one that weaves through half the city, along the waterfront, through the industrial and suburban outskirts. 

She sits facing the water. She likes how the curve of the worn wooden bench feels beneath her. Cyclists whiz behind, along the paved path; she likes the sound of the spokes on the wheels lightly clicking as they pedal by. Sometimes there’s a rollerblader, a scooter. She hears the footfalls of joggers’ shoes, light conversation of two coworkers strolling on a lunch break. 

Across the way are small houseboats, some modern, some quaint, some barges. Kayakers and yachts pass under the steel bridge. When the big boats glide by she can hear their engines whirring, working hard to pull them along. A small fishing dingy passes and she thinks about how it’s dwarfed by the steely grandeur of the bridge, rusted sheets of metal bolted in, criss-crossed throughout. 

The locks are further down, she hasn’t been for years. She took the kids once, should take them again. It’s a marvel, really: all that water rising up, draining down. Carrying the fish, the seaweed, the boaters along with it. Each year the salmon run brings a viewing crowd to the locks; it’s a destination.

She hears the traffic on the bridge overhead and the next bridge down. Today the birdsong is bright and clear, outshines the highway traffic. It’s not rush hour, but still, it’s perplexing, that nature would reign in this way. 

She likes to see the American flags hung on the sail boats; a bolt of red, white and navy set against the creamy hull, the bluebird sky. She likes to see the freeway across the lake, all the cars gleaming in the sunlight and wonder: where are they going, where have they been? She likes to consider the seagulls gliding overhead, hovering on the wind; sometimes they’ll suddenly dive or take off, as if they just remembered someplace they need to be. 

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