More than just a breeze

I open my door, but the wind slams it shut again. I give it another shove, and put one foot on the ground. I discover I unintentionally parked atop a sheet of ice. Nordic ski boots offer no traction. The bottoms are just hard plastic making them especially treacherous on ice.

I ease out and sidle along my car, using the frame to keep my balance. Once to the back where the car partially blocks the wind, I open the tailgate and grab skis and poles. As I attempt to return and round the protection of my car, wind catches the skis and nearly blows them out of my arms. I grasp them tightly, making it doubly-difficult to keep my balance. I try a different approach, setting the skis on the ground, hoping they won’t blow away. I shuffle to the car door to let Dobby out and finish my preparations.

The Tie City parking lot is notoriously windy. It is open and exposed, with little to block the wind. Breezes are the norm, with a calm day being cause for celebration. I’m used to the wind, but this Sunday morning is exceptional. It is howling and gusting somewhere between 40-60 mph.

I let Dobby out. Rather than put him on-leash I let him go since no other skiers are around. I fear if he pulls me even a little while on-leash, I’ll be sprawled on the ground in a flash.

I baby step across the ice to the safety of the snow. Meanwhile, Dobby is in doggie heaven. He dashes about, checking all the exciting p-mail. He climbs to the top of a snow pile, flops down, and wriggles on his back to the drift bottom. Next, he runs about, showing off his athletic prowess with repeated barrel rolls. Run-roll-run. He can do the routine full speed and not miss a beat.

Once in the trees, the wind dissipates, but it is deafening. I look up and the trees overhead sway madly. It sounds like a train, only this one never passes.

The ski conditions constantly change as I make my way around the various loops that make up my regular route. I skitter over humps of hardpacked drifts formed overnight. Where snow blew into the classic tracks, conditions are quite good with the skiff covering the icy sheen beneath. Other sections lack this cover, making the classic tracks particularly slick. On the downhills they are bobsled runs lacking any speed control. Thanks to the wind, pine needles, twigs and sticks litter the ground. Alas, the pine needles stick to the wax on my skis, making the glide erratic.

Dobby is having a great time with the sticks. He attacks them, subdues them, and tosses them in the air. His attention span is short, though, and he quickly moves on to the next stick or smell.

We round a curve and discover a rather large fallen tree blocking the path. Dobby bounds over it with ease while I take my skis off, pick my way over it, and then put my skis on again.

Another skier catches up to us and he does the same routine. I comment that I tried cleaning the bottom of my skis once, but the pine needles are winning the battle.

“This is just survival skiing today,” he smiles and tells me, nearly shouting to be heard above the constant noise. “We just make it to the end the best we can.” I laugh and tell him I am up for a little “adventure skiing.”

At another point on my route, another skier comes by. She stops and adds a different perspective.

“I look up and watch the trees,” she tells me. “The energy is just amazing. I am so glad I came this morning to experience such energy.”

She skis on and I look up, realizing she is right. Energy. The sound, the movement overhead, the occasional blast of wind coming through clearings: it is energizing.

Eventually Dobby and I return to the dreaded parking lot. If anything, the wind is even stronger. I rue that my car is atop a sheet of ice. I try different approaches, but find no safe way to get to the car without risking a hard fall on the unforgiving ice.

I get close, but the final 10 feet glisten, resembling an ice rink. I look around and realize I’m alone in the lot. I get practical. I drop onto my hands and knees and crawl the final 10 feet to my car. Dobby thinks it’s a game and prances about, licking my face.

I eventually sit in the refuge of my rocking car, feeling wind-whipped. I pet Dobby on the head and even he seems glad to be away from all that noise.