Last week, it snowed heavily and deeply for the first time this winter. It took three hours to shovel and snow blow my driveway clear, After that, I did what northern people love to do. I threw my skis in the car, met up with a friend, and drove to a favorite trail head to enjoy two feet of pristine perfection which had fallen the night before.
As the sun came out, getting the kick wax right was a little tricky. When my friend found herself scraping and re-waxing a second time, she urged me on. "Go! I'll catch up with you," she said."
I departed, knowing she would do just that. She is a strong skier.
After a few minutes, a classic ski track veered off to my right. No one had skied it yet that day. Decision time: stay on the groomed track or break the trail? It was simply too tempting to pass up! I took it, but not before using my pole basket to stamp out my galpal's name and two arrows pointing her toward the way I took.
The white pine forest of the Brule River unfolded into a northern oak stand towering over silence and blinding brilliance. Conditions were perfect as I followed the winding trail. I stopped, looking behind and listening for my friend's presence in the woods. Not one sound: not human nor animal. Just immense silence.
I skied for an hour. The oxygen and adrenaline in my body combined to create a sense of awe with the patches of sun light illuminating bare, white oak boughs. I was moved into a reverent sense of deep, inner gratitude to the Creator of All.
The classic path ended, merging into a well groomed trail. Still no sign of my friend ahead or behind. What should be done? She had the water, but we both left our cell phones in the car knowing it was going to be a short ski day. I felt a little thirsty but I was confident it wouldn't be more than another 30 minutes or so before I'd be back at the parking lot and some bottled water. I also knew my friend would go ahead and meet me back at the Ranger's cabin if we didn't meet out here.
An hour passed, and I found myself on unfamiliar track. Somehow, I had taken a wrong turn. My map was no help due to blocked trails which prevented access.
Conditions were good, but I was tiring. Then, I became aware of small, posted signs: first 4K, then 7K, then 9K. My wrong turn had placed me on a race course held that morning! I passed an abandoned aid station. No one was around. I skied on.
My shoulders ached. Clouds now covered the sun and shadows were deepening in the diminished afternoon light. A sense of panic began to rise in my dry throat. What if I fall? What if my dehydrated muscles, which were beginning to feel a lot like gelatin, cramped up?
Then, I began remembering words from David Wagoner's poem entitled, Lost. "Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you are not lost...The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you." I stood still.
Breathing slowly, inhaling and exhaling, my thoughts calmed. I recalled an opening line from The Rule of St. Benedict: Listen. Listen with the ear of your heart. I listened.
"Look!" It said. "There is pure, new fallen snow all around you!"
I scooped some into my mouth, opening my lips and breathing my own warm air to melt the crystals into drops of water on my tongue.
"Listen!" It urged. "What do you hear?"
I heard a faint sound of distant traffic. Somewhere to my right was the highway and that was where I needed to head.
"Trust yourself!" It demanded.
My arms were fatigued but not my legs. I must have been poling up the rolling grade, rather than using my calves and my thighs. I refocused my stride using those long muscles to push me forward.
One yellow sign with a right turn arrow appeared: Trailhead. Then, two men emerged from the intersecting trail. They, too, had become confused by the closed trails. We decided to head out together, energized by the presence of others facing the same challenge and in the same struggle for clarity.
15 K, 17K, 19K. As I skied on, I visualized my friend at the trail head cabin, warming herself. She was okay, I was certain, and would be waiting for me. It spurred me on.
I sighted the last marker: 21K! From the Ranger's cabin emerged my smiling friend with a "where the hell you been" look on her face. It had been three and one-half hours; I was hungry and thirsty, weary and a bit wobbly, but I was safe.
Isn't life just like that? We head out on our life paths thinking we know where we are going and how to get there. Somehow along the way we forget, or get lost, or we become too tired or beaten down by life's vicissitudes to listen to the voice of the Spirit...that inner voice of wisdom that is within all of us.
As David Wagoner's poem, Lost, says so well: Stand still. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.
Even in our distress and challenges the Voice of God Within is available. Trust it, my dear friends, trust it. And you, too, will be well.
Peace be in all, Jane
