The Indescribable Lightness of Skiing

Fairbanks can really start to feel like a worn-out hick town.

My car pushes through the ice fog as I drive home from work, past the box stores that seem to have sprung up overnight.  They want to put a road through a migratory waterfowl refuge and popular recreation area to relieve the congestion going in the opposite direction.

When I finally make it home I remember that I turned the heat all the way down when I left that morning, which seemed like a good idea at the time.  I dick around for a bit before I finally push my way out the door, stomping clumsily over to the start of the trail.  Its after 9pm, and has been dark for over 5 hours.

The snow is so cold and dry that it squeaks.  The only skin showing is a slit around my eyes, and my clothes get coated in ice, most notably around my face, which becomes such a glacier that the clothing will be difficult to remove when I get in.  The snowmachine track I'm skiing on seems like it is half grass, and is so lumpy and abrasive, due to a snow-drought that is notable even for Fairbanks, that it removes all my kick wax after only a couple of miles.

But I can't help it.  As I push through the dark, past the lonely scrub black spruce, my headlamp catching occasional bright reflections off the ice crystals, I think

fuck yeah.

I'm lucky.