On Winter, Snow, and Cold



When I was younger, I used to love snow. I would go skiing regularly, barely feeling the cold. I would push myself over hills competing in an imaginary race. If my dad was with me, I would try to beat him even though he could ski much faster. I spent hours training on the kiddie hills trying to master the wishbone technique for climbing difficult hills. I soon realized that the faster I could go, the easier it would be to climb the next hill.  The snowy pine trees and flitting chickadees were a welcoming sight five miles down the ski trail after a difficult run. Although I get envious when I see an older skate skier zoom by and leave me in the lurch. My younger body cannot compete with these octogenarians who ski daily, their arms and legs purely muscled. I still feel like a skinny kid, although I am much bigger, older, and out of shape.

I would ski more if there was more snow. Each year we get less and less, the trails are practically bare here. Muddy ruts -- they resemble dirt bike or four wheeler trails I miss the hills of home that offered more challenges. But this region still provides great exercises and landscapes when you are among the hardwoods.

Now the cold seeps into my bones and makes me rush inside. Steamy rooms and blankets are a priority over getting outside and exercising. Yet I miss the snow that once blanketed the streets of my hometown. The days of exploring the yard after a heavy snowfall, watching the snow cover the eaves, marveling at the icicles that drip like stalactites are gone. Forty degree days are the norm. I ride my bike through the empty streets avoiding ice slicks, while I should be trudging through a foot of snow. I hope we get some soon.

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