Vibe-Winter-2425 - Flipbook - Page 16
SKIING TO SCHOOL
A Morning’s Misadventure
I
t has incredible appeal, and it is a
childhood dream—for me, at least. I
imagined the freedom of schussing
along on skinny skis in the elements, no
rumbly bus, and no dreaded line-up for
drop-off at school.
When our family moved into our new
house in Jackson, this dream became
possible. Cross-country skiing brought
By Erica Corbett Klein
the library, go to church, or to simply get
lunch. The lifestyle of these “Jacksonites”
inspires me to be as active as they are
now, and in decades to come.
A couple of weeks after we moved in,
I was ready to try it with my unwitting
seven-year-old twins. I pressed mute in
my head to their protests, “Mama, I’m too
tired!” “Noooo. No. Noooo.” “Too cold out,
packing backpacks with lunches, and
then bundling up to ski to school is no
small task. I gathered boots, skis, and
poles—counting 18 pieces of gear! We
were almost ready to leave on schedule
but had slipped by at least five minutes. I
weighed my options.
To access the groomed trail directly,
we must walk uphill on the road for about
Maamaaa!” With the firm belief that they
would enjoy it once we were out there—
and thank me profusely later—I rallied
my troop of two. This often takes more
energy than actual skiing itself.
A father from a neighborhood farther
along the trail network skied somewhat
regularly with his two eldest children,
and I made a plan to meet up with this
parent. I had the enthusiasm, and he had
the experience; it seemed like a good
match. Nothing like meeting another party and having a strict timeline to create a
low-pressure situation!
Every morning in our house is a race
against the clock. Minutes slide past us
and disappear at an increasingly rapid
rate the closer we get to departure time.
Guiding, coercing (or forcing) my two
through getting dressed, untangling
hair, desisting from sibling snarls, eating
breakfast, taking care of bathroom needs,
five minutes before putting on our skis.
Then we are treated to an exhilarating
downhill through the woods that brings
us to a series of open fields. Or we could
cut through the woods behind our house.
It was a more direct route; the distance
was shorter by more than half. We had
taken this walk down to the clearing once
or twice in autumn. I calculated we could
save time by going through our backyard
and into the trees.
Soon, all three of us were slipping
down steep embankments where the
deep snow had crusted over and frozen.
Our skis and poles slipped akilter out
from under us like newborn fawns, wrapping around saplings. We were getting
nowhere, and I realized we weren’t even
exactly sure of the most direct route.
Everything looked different, covered in
white, and our usual markers—moss-covered logs and intriguing mushrooms—
Our situation was better than we could have imagined, with access to
Jackson XC’s immaculately groomed trails directly from our neighborhood.
us to the area—New England’s Nordic
mecca—in the first place, after too many
dismal snowless winters in our coastal
hometown. We had spent weekends here,
and we had enjoyed its various delights
for visitors, but we were learning that
being a local—and we were now locals—
unlocked the real magic.
Our situation was better than we
could have imagined, with access to
Jackson XC’s immaculately groomed
trails directly from our neighborhood. A
few swooping downhill kilometers bring
skiers to the village center and Jackson
Grammar School, circa 1860. This “picture perfect” village so often described in
travel articles is real.
The design of the trail network
provides not only recreation, but connections for residents and visitors alike. A
few of my older neighbors ski to the post
office to get their mail, pick up a book at
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