Sublime is one of those overused literary words that writers should avoid unless they are talking about fine art, orgasms, or wine, but: Saturday was a simply sublime day for XC skiing. Sure, the snow got a bit mushy from the 35-degree air paired with hundreds of skinny skies propelled by (mostly) skinny skiers, creating warm friction on the groomed surfaces of Windblown XC, but any day that one can escape to glide through the woods of New Hampshire while contemplating fine art, orgasms, and wine is a day that can reaffirm one’s faith in humanity.

A number of high school XC teams were practicing at Windblown for most of the day. We encountered a small group of girls with their coach as we all labored up the Zig Zag trail, a steep, winding trail that weaves across the Alpine-style Open Slope. It’s an arduous journey if you’re on skating skies, even for the young, and we jockeyed position with them in between fits of rest. “This is why America can never be competitive in XC skiing,” I murmured to Mr. P after we skated past the girls, gulping breath and annoyedly wiping away sweat. “In Russia, the coach would be screaming them all the way up the hill.”

Uphill Battle

After reaching the top of the Open Slope, which affords a fine view of Mount Monadnock, we prepared to descend the Open Slope. I remember when I began XC skiing, how I dreaded going downhill and much preferred the exhausting yet risk-free uphill push. Now I see the downhills as an exhilarating reward for all my efforts. As we frolicked down the Open Slope, we encountered a team of teenage boys, skiing classic-style uphill. I ached just looking at them. Maybe there’s hope for the USA yet!

I ate a hot dog for lunch, and regretted it afterward as it wreaked havoc on my digestion. Since we killed ourselves on the hills in the morning, we stuck to flatter terrain so I could work on my skating technique. I don’t glide as far as I should, because I don’t lift my back foot into the air as long as I should, because my sense of balance is still a work in progress. So I really tried to extend each glide by bending my knees, flattening my front ski against the snow, and picking up my back ski high into the air. It was then that the tip of my front ski fell into a hole left by the tracks of a snowshoe (really, what is up with these snowshoers walking on groomed trails?) and my tenuous balance gave out, hurtling me face first into the snow with my legs splayed comically out behind me. Mr. P was too far in front of me to see, but there were 8 or so high schoolers 50 feet behind me to bear witness to my humiliation. I fought to regain uprightedness– no small task when your skies are on either side of you — before they would be forced to stop when they reached my prone, aging body. Evoking some dormant reflex, I hopped to my feet and skated away as if my life depended on it. I flew along the trail, stealing glances in the woods with its thick blanket of snow, a sight I have always found comforting, like watching a cat sleep. My heart was beating at a rapid tempo, my lungs were singing with breath: Alive! Alive! Alive!

Yesterday I went to a telemark skiing clinic for women at Mount Sunapee Resort in southern New Hampshire. A yoga teacher had mentioned the clinic to me some weeks ago when we made small-talk about skiing and she mentioned she did telemark skiing, evoking instant jealousy as well as guilt about my telemark skis and boots that have sat unused in our storage room for two years. And then she mentioned that she learned to tele at this all-woman’s clinic last year, and it was a super beneficial experience that was well-worth the pricey fee, and that each participant received a goody bag full of swag. I’m a sucker for swag.

So, since Mr. P was spending the weekend doing database stuff, I drove to Sunapee early yesterday morning, watching the temperature reading on the Jetta sink from 11 degrees to 0. Christ it was cold. As I rushed to the lodge from the parking lot with all my gear, I neglected to put on my mittens and my hands promptly became achingly numb. I arrived at the clinic at precisely 9am and was greeted effusively by Heather, a two-time telemark champion and one of the most likable persons I’ve ever met. She pressed the goody bag into my thawing hands and after introductions we were off: 13 women, Heather, and another accomplished telemark skier named Tory. We took the lift up and then were given individual skills tests. Having no idea how to telemark, I simply skied down alpine style. My lack of tele turning didn’t phase them; they seemed pleased that I and everyone else simply stayed upright.

Two other women at the clinic had never been on telemark skis before. One was a seasoned Alpine skier, the other an avowed snowboarder. Us along with two other women who wanted to work on the basics went with Tory, who began drilling us on stance. It took about two hours for me to finally get my body in a position that Tory was happy with: “Yes, that’s IT! Meredith that is AWESOME!” But until then, it was a long, frustrating two hours.

My Fellow Telemark Newbies

As the Alpine skiers roared passed us and I struggled to keep my front leg lunged and my back heel raised and stable, I wondered what the hell I was doing there. Telemark is for people who’ve been alpine skiing their whole lives and are so bored with it that they need a new challenge. And the telemark stance, with its staggered legs, bent knees, and pure physicality, is a fucking challenge and a half.  I thought yoga and general fitness would make me immune to the infamous rigors of tele turns, but after each drill, I converged with the newbies to complain that my thighs were burning.

It was a little discouraging. I’d occasionally be able to eek out a solid telemark turn, but most of the time I’d be struggling to keep my front leg in front of me, stable and bent at a painful 90 degrees. Me and the other beginners felt like we were making some progress just before lunch. We had great hopes for the afternoon, when we’d swap instructors and go out with Heather. But we went on steeper terrain, making it impossible for me to maintain the tele stance without regressing to Alpine turns to avoid wiping out. And my thighs, if I haven’t mentioned, were simply screaming.

By the time the trails closed at 4pm, I hadn’t managed to do any sort of skiing resembling telemark. But, as I told a sympathetic Heather, “I know how to do it, even if I can’t do it. Yet.”  She urged me to use my telemark skies when I go downhill skiing, to stick mostly to Alpine and then bust out the tele turns when I feel ready. Overall, I think I got a lot out of the day. And it’s not everyday that I have a champion telemark skier following me down a mountain, yelling “Push the bush!” as a bawdy reminder to keep my hips jutted forward.