I awoke early and reread the chapter from Braiding Sweetgrass titled “The Consolation of Water Lilies”. I must have subconsciously been searching for this perfect language:

“The earth, that first among good mothers, gives us the gift that we cannot provide ourselves. I hadn’t realised that I had come to the lake and said “feed me,” but my empty heart was fed. I have a good mother. She gives me what I need without being asked.  I wonder if she gets tired, old Mother Earth, Or if she too is fed by giving. “Thanks,” I whispered, “for all of this.”

I should say that the public trails just north of Bracebridge are beautiful. Perfectly groomed, winding through the pines and eventually along the Muskoka River for a good 3km stretch. I was the first to arrive and so the early morning was particularly quiet. The open centre of the river lay still, the odd creaking of trees, a gentle chirp here and there. The trail flows mostly downwards over the first 2 kms, almost imperceptibly at times. It is a cruel trick, providing the free and easy sense of form and fitness. Along the water, the trail flattens and the work begins just a little. The final 2.5kms climb back up towards the highway. There are four particularly brutal uphills that are entirely humbling. Symbolically, as I draw closer, the roar of the highway grows louder, climbing with the hills to wreak havoc on my mental game; the urgency of the world in a combined force with the demand of the trail. Breathing, and the idea of reciprocity in the symbiotic relationship- nature and self, body and mind – become much harder to grasp. It is a fight. Such is the circle of life, however, that the end finally emerges as a new beginning. The slight victory is a propulsion forward with renewed conviction and belief. 

Here are a few other reflections from my day…

Retracing Steps:

On this day, I was both the first and second person on those trails. And so, when I began my second lap, it was a gratifying feeling to glide over my own tracks. My first lap had packed the light dusting of snowfall overnight, allowing for a comparatively free and easy second lap. I had blazed my own trail, and each kick of a ski connected me more deeply with the journey I was already on. New steps were also old ones. It is amazing how differently a landscape can reveal itself with each lap. On the first lap, as I came around a slight bend, I happened to look across the river at a cute little cottage with a bright red door, and a deck stretched out in front. It was the same cottage our family rented with another family for a weekend escape almost exactly a year ago. As I paused, I remembered sitting on that deck looking across the water at the steep bank where I now stood. I wonder what my thoughts were like that day? Was I grateful, in a similarly peaceful way, for the moment. Or was I looking a year ahead, wondering… It was an awesome moment to connect me to the much larger circle of life. The pathways we create for ourselves. The steps we continually retrace. Not walking backwards, but forwards, as is the power of a circle, as is learning – growing older and wiser – in new ways. The quiet forces of our seasons, and the deepening circles of our lives.

Oddly, after that first lap, I never managed to catch a glimpse of that cottage again.

Chipmunks:

Mental note: I need to learn more about chipmunks! Several times I came across a chipmunk on the trail. The first time, I spotted it from some distance back, and watched in curiosity as I came upon it, trying to guess which way it might dart. Left? Right? Up that nearby pine? Perhaps I  would chase it a distance down the trail. As I came ever closer, I began to worry that it may not move at all. Indeed, it waited until seemingly the last possible second to make its move. But not in any direction I had guessed. Instead, it went straight down, disappearing below. And sure enough, I glided over a tiny hole in the snow, a portal to an underground haven and world. Amazing! And then I began to think about the ice storm that hit a week ago, transforming the upper layer of snow into hard, solid mass. How did that chipmunk manage its way back into this upper-world.? Was it a desperate clawing for, or just another aspect of, survival?

I came across chipmunks several times again throughout the day, in the exact same way. And each time a chipmunk playfully disappeared into the under-world, I laughed a little harder. Simple joys to fuel curiosity and wonder are all around us… should we choose to notice.

Pride and Humility:

On my fourth lap, I finally came across another skier. Or, rather, he came across me. He startled me completely on a particularly thin portion of trail as he gently asked, “when it’s convenient for you, would you mind allowing me past?” I moved to my left, and he glided away. I watched his perfect form, rapidly disappearing into the distance. My competitive fire burned, and my immediate thought was, “what fucking lap is he on? If only he knew!” But then, as I considered the ease with which he sailed – seemingly above the snow! – I conceded. I have never skied with that level of technique or speed. A humbling moment quickly transformed into motivation.

Later, on the same lap, as the outcropping of the outer loop merged with the main trail, I came upon two older women, skiing side by side, lost in joyous conversation. When they noticed me, they moved to the side, assuming speed and fitness, perhaps misled by my tight-fitting pants. As I came alongside them, they apologised for their pace with a joke: “we’re training for 2026.” I laughed and skied past, but I began to notice that my speed was really not much faster than theirs. I suddenly felt bound by expectations. And so, having just come over the final of the four gruelling uphills, I kicked into a new gear, creating an illusion of fitness. The effort nearly killed me. All so that I would not diminish the impression of two elderly women I don’t even know, or are likely to see again. Madness. 

Cross Country Skiing as in Life

This really is a beautiful sport.  It demands more of the body than a run, but it also seems to punish less. Within my first lap, my hips, hamstrings and shoulders began to burn. My knees and ankles, however, were thankful for the glide. There were moments when my focus on technique transformed to rhythm and then meditation. Several times, I found myself lost in it. So peaceful. Magic. Just as often, however, I’d fall out of it with a stumble or a struggle. My lack of technique, form and fitness are reminders of the endless learning and growth available in this sport. Such is the rhythm of learning and life. On this day, there was just enough exhilaration to motivate me beyond the novice slog. As in learning, this sport requires a frontloading of skills and understandings. It is language acquisition that clearly requires, quite simply, hard work. But, in every learning process, we require little tastes of what lies beyond. Little moments of pure application, free from the struggle of the mind where the learning moves to a more powerful place, occurring subconsciously through experience. Without pulling out my dictionary, I am asking for directions in Spanish. Just as I am beginning to feel that Mother Earth loves me, growing deeply compelled through her gifts to love her back, reciprocity is powerful in learning: experience motivates work, and work deepens experience.

“Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond” (125). 

Indeed, I have some work to do. I planned for 45kms, and only made it 38.5 before life beckoned (setting up for my daughter’s “recovered from COVID, out of isolation party”). By next February, I need to be able to make 60kms within 8 hours, two days in a row! I wonder if the defining characteristics of a good challenge are that it is both exciting and daunting. Scary and enticing. 

As my day ended, I found myself a little sad. Sad to leave the trail, the trees, the river, the challenge, the solitude of a day – even as my body screamed for relief. I was also sad to have found this place and experience so late in the season – it may even have been the last good day of the year. Perhaps, however, every good experience ends with a sense of longing. This is a powerful mix: exhaustion, accomplishment, and a thirst for more.