An ode to skiing alone

I, most often, ski alone. I do so not out of a sense of stubborn incivility or antisocial churlishness; it just has evolved that way. I've been doing so for damn near 40 seasons. And I have no expectation things will change. I am an old dog; most new tricks lack appeal.

Pressed as to why I eschew company, I blithely take the easy route and note pace and the need for organization. Pace is a killer to compatibility, a burden for running or cycling or, yes, skiing. Too fast, too slow: doesn't matter. Incompatible pace will turn a pleasant outing into an ordeal, fray nerves and decay friendships. It is rare to find skiers who ply the same pace, kilometer after kilometer, no matter how fast or how slow.

Then there is the ogre of organization, of coordinating times, distance to ski and effort expended. Schedules need be hashed and rehashed to come up with a time suitable for all, goals require examination, plans must be laid. It complicates things. And the best plans can turn sour. There is nothing quite as off-putting as shivering at the trailhead waiting for a late arriving companion. Friendships can withstand a fair measure of strain but why risk it? A tardy friend can stress the rosiest relationship.

So there, pace and organization. Reason enough to ski alone.

I also covet the solitary side of the sport. I need this in a world where that is more and more difficult to achieve. I enjoy the silence, I enjoy my own pace, I revel in the winter world on a January day when, for an hour or two, I have time for myself. It all fits my image of Nordic skiing: A lone skier passing snow-bent trees, a smudge of color and movement on a world white and silent.

I compromise and ski some days with my dogs, Riika and Thor, a lively duo prone to mischief. In their sheer joy of running and endless enthusiasm, I draw inspiration. But even with the dogs I feel a sense of discontent. They require my attention lest they falter or run off. With them I ski alone, but not truly. It is not the same.

I want to leave the house packed to ski, purposeful but not driven by timelines. I want to drive blacktop roads hard with snow pack or ice, the heater blowing full. I want the freedom to change my mind, alter course based on a whim, go to one trail as opposed to another. Choice is the luxury of the solo skier.

I need not tarry at the trailhead. If I have dressed correctly, I'll be chilled at the start and warm only after some time and exertion. I do not stand for long.

Then I ski. I ski as fast or as slow as I wish. I ski familiar trails that wind like streams in woodlots stark and beautiful. Blue sky, violet shadow on snow, birch and pine, pure winter air - I see it all, feel it all. On occasion I meet others, alone as well, and we nod, say hello and pass eachother. I stop if I wish, go when I desire, ski at my leisure. It is, skiing, an activity of some leisure. At least it should be.

Skiing as such can be seen as a selfish act. One acts for oneself only. It is all about the skier, all about me and all about you should you do the same. It is centered on one's self. We do not move outward toward others, toward society and friends and fraternity. We narrow our world to ourselves.

But it is wonderfully fulfilling, this time alone. There is a richness for us. Isolated from the hubbub of the norm, from the endless stimuli of electronic media and online chitchat and demands of workplace, from noise, from the endless assaults on our time, in an age as this, time spent alone is a treasure. In that time our mind can relax.

Who can argue that a simple task, skiing perhaps, performed continuously in absence of external distraction is not meditative? One hesitates to elevate the metronomic click of skis on snow as a meditation, but who is to say that it is not? We find peace where we can, each of us.

We rarely find this comfort in our daily lives. We flit from one thing to another and flatter ourselves by calling it "multi-tasking." (When I was growing up, we more likely labeled it "scatter brained" when we observed someone do the same). In skiing, the act at hand is a simple one. In skiing solo, this basic task is rendered pure in its isolation, free from distractions of conversational interludes, no matter how fruitful, free from interaction with others no matter how benign.

In our alone time we can approach our true selves, find a state that is, if not meditative, at least deeply relaxing. In a solitary ski session in a world pared to the bone by cold and snow, we can climb inside our own skin and see who resides therein. Life as we lead it too often impedes the act of inward looking. There runs a certain risk, the fear of finding, as Bruce Springsteen sings, "a man who's living in his own skin and can't stand the company." In life one must sometimes confront that. Where better than on the white trails of a Nordic winter?

We ski alone and in so doing join the long distance runners and riders, the through hikers who walk alone, the archer on the stand when the wind blows and night comes down, the poets and the prophets and those fellow travelers for whom time alone is a blessing not a burden. We turn inward, explore who we are or what we want or where we are going. We lay our burdens to rest. We do this in time alone. Alone but not lonely.

Skiing is what we make of it. We can ski fast or slow, in tracks or out, skate or stride, daytime or under the light of the moon. We can ski in groups or we can ski by ourselves. There is no right way, no wrong. The wrongness comes only in thinking what we do is the only true way, the Right Way over all others. Go down that path at your own risk for it leads to no place fruitful.

I do not look with disdain on the chattering groups out for a tour, on the robust pace lines of skiers fast and strong, on families or friends skiing side-by-side conversing as they go. I do not feel disdain, only a vague sense of disinterest as I pass them or they pass me. I have defined skiing for myself as they have for themselves. I ski on my own and I know with certainty that others do as well.

I will most often ski alone this season. I look forward to that. I wish for myself an easy fall into a rhythm comfortable, of my own making. I will let my mind go where it will and I await the answers it will bring to me. This is skiing as I have crafted it, skiing which in turn shapes me.