I've finally come to terms with the fact that winter never really came. For January and most of February, I foolishly hoped that a good snow would come. The Monday following the Birkie I still, optimistically, joined my friend Eliz for a ski, despite the high temps and lack of snow. We arrived to ice and an ever narrowing trail. The ski was so miserable that I was almost tempted to sit in the chalet for the rest of the evening. But perseverance got the better of me and I told myself that I would have to ski 6 laps before quitting, so I did. After the 6th lap, I was feeling pretty good, so I decided to take one more (overachieving that I am). And that's when I fell (FELL!). Thankfully, I didn't fly off the trail (that's usually how I roll) Instead, on the last (LAST!) hill, one ski got stuck in a rut of ice and the other ski decided to get stuck in a different rut. I watched in horror as my legs diverged and then fell face first. The first thing I did that night was put my skis, poles, sorrels and Uggs into storage. Winter was over, for me anyway.
And now I can't and won't complain. Winter had one last pitiful effort in redemption and failed.... again. Once all the snow melted, and the extraordinarily warm weather set in, I joined the crowd of believers that winter was gone.
Now that the ice has melted, the greenway is so much more enjoyable. I have been taking the long way home and reveling in the warmth.