| On the crust with a hippo grin
By Bob Kovar Six–thirty a.m. Red sky in morning, Rossis take warning. I thought I heard the dog whining that high–pitched, excited sound she makes as she stomps her two front feet on the tile
floor at the door. I realized she was lying curled up sound asleep by the fireplace – it was me making that whining sound.
My tail was wagging, my butt swaying to and fro. The sun was about to peek over the horizon like a perfect chunk of Solda Yellow. It was 20 this morning, and after a few days of soft sugar, I woke with a start thinking that the condenser in nature's freezer was working again. We had great crust skiing for five days last week, before the damn thing went on the fritz
and our whole winter's worth of snow started to defrost. Yesterday morning, Daisy and I sprinted down to the swamp on the edge of the lake – our cloverleaf to the great four–lane Supermarsh – and sank ankle deep in smelly, black goo. It's a little disheartening to have to scrub mud off of normally bright–yellow skating boots. I will, however, wear my now–forever–stained Salomons as a badge of honor in next year's Birkie, where even the fastest of skiers will have never known what skiing in
the trenches really means.
This morning, access to the cloverleaf was almost 10 yards away from( was it frozen?) yesterday morning's deep footprints in the mud. We danced over the gap like a mystic and his dog walking over hot coals – and lo and behold! – it was crust! "Hark the Crusty Angels sing!" I cried out, and off we went, once again, into the great white yonder on Ma Nature's perfect parchment.
Accessing the main marsh was definitely trickier now that the April
sun was baking the water by the beaver dam into an apple pie. There were brown sugar spots and bubbling hot apple liquid surrounded by fingers of crust. We were still connected to the main marsh, but the hazards along the way were growing. At one point, skiing as fast as possible, we crossed the heart of the sagging pie as it was the only way to go. A normal man and his dog might have turned back. A smart man and his dog might have turned back. A caring man who might have thought about the
safety of his blindly faithful dog, might have turned back. But no. The only thoughts racing through my crust–encrusted brain were how to survive in the event of an emergency water landing:
... first reach down to release the skis, no, first release the poles from my wrists, throw the poles to safety (carbon fiber, you know), then reach down and release my skis. Throw the skis to safety (my favorite short Rossi's). Grab my sunglasses, throw them to high ground. Next, look for the
dog – oh, she already swam to the hard ice. Finally, try and save myself – if I had to die could there possibly be a better way? To die trying to reach the best crust skiing of the year? He died with a smile on his face, they would say.
In the next instant, we are across the pie hazard. Heart pounding, I look over at Daisy and she is grinning like only a Golden Retriever who has just cheated death with her master can. And we are free – the marsh unfolds ahead of us.
Today we
choose the four lake route, explored years ago by a younger me with a different dog. Our first destination is Little Trout Lake, only minutes in an open–field skate to the west. The sun is rising above the horizon now, and we push harder because we have a lot of ground to cover before the crust softens and leaves us stranded. Little Trout is beautiful, long shadows from shore–side spruce frame our shadows rhythmically swaying across the lake. I love skiing with my shadow. Somehow, leaving it
behind on the snow, a mental picture of forever, gives me great joy. I can see our cranberry farm – all 60 acres that soon I will spend every waking moment tending to – that for now is safely entombed in ice and snow. That piece of ground has called to me for 20 years now – I've shared my deepest secrets with that marsh. And it with me.
We turn south and head off the lake through short, white pines on our way to Big Crooked Lake. We are skiing directly into the morning sun, which
reveals the Magic Crust Dust. These are the millions of sparkling snow crystals, like a thousand galaxies, that lie on top of the crust waiting their whole lives for two great things to happen: the sun to energize them, and a crust skier to sail over them at 15 miles an hour and become hypnotized by them. I look over at Daisy and she is as mesmerized as I am. Our ears are both flopping wildly and our tongues are dripping. We're still grinning.
We have to take our skis off to cross a
little road to get on Big Crooked. We cross the road and crawl up on the snowbank to put my skis back on. I take one step and break through the crust and I'm standing in snow up to my reproductive parts. Upon close examination, this morning's crust is barely an inch thick! How that can hold all of this joy is beyond me.
I step gently, my next step and I'm on top again – I just wasn't walking with enough love the first time. Back on my skis and we are gliding through the brush, ducking
under outstretched branches of big pines. With a few hard strokes, we are on the lake. Big Crooked welcomes us with a loud ice boom! Daisy's ears lay flat for an instant, as do mine, but we know crust etiquette and let out a loud whoop of our own in response.
After a short spin on Big Crooked, we cross back onto the marsh and continue our journey to Ike Walton Lake. Circles of leatherleaf have poked through the crust, and it requires quick feet to negotiate around these patches. It seems
like they have emerged just to provide us with another fun challenge – go this way, now this way – and I am amazed how many more of these small communities have sprouted up in the last few days. Urban sprawl; soon the marsh will be one great marshopolis lacking any public transportation. The only easy access will be by air, underground metro and occassionally by hitchhiking.
We hit Ike Walton just as the sun is shaded by a large black cloud. Temporary confinement. A loner in a
sea of blue. The Magic Crust Dust instantly disappears. The good news is that with the Solda sun behind bars, we will probably have some more time before the carriage turns into a pumpkin. We are V–2ing at maximum speed across Ike. There is a swale of perfect, absolutely vanilla–yogurt perfect, snow along the edge of the lake, and we are moving really fast. Past the old, wooden duck blind towards Ike's Armpit. The western side of Ike is an impassable cedar thicket, hence the name, and we need
to make sure we head off the lake before we reach it. I have spent much time trying to penetrate that hairy mass, and no matter how determined my efforts have been, I have never gone through the Armpit successfully.
We veer off the yogurt path back up into the spruce and pine, Ike's Flattop, and make haste for the woodline on the western edge of Wild Rice Lake. Had the snow on Ike not melted, we would have headed for Ike's Hump to see if we could wake up some friends who live in its
shadow.
We stop for some water as we reach the open spine between the Wild Rice woods and the fading body parts of Ike Walton. Daisy gnaws through the crust for hers, and I reach for the water bottle for mine. We start to head towards County H, but a few minutes in that direction, the Solda Sun comes roaring back from behind the friendly cloud. I feel my feet heat up and my toes are sitting in a steam room with nothing on but a sagging towel. We need to head back, it's almost midnight
and the pumpkin just won't carry us like the carriage can. So we head north, along the Great Spine. Just the four of us; Daisy and I and our shadows.
I bend my head, watch the little pompon thingamajig on top of my hat swing back and forth. Nice, easy glides way over each ski, extending my arms behind me like a broadway singer with each stroke. Utter freedom. Right alongside, otter freedom tracks from a day or so ago of an otter doing the exact same thing we are. Gliding across the
marsh, with the sun on our backs, on the crust, with a hippo grin.
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