A Little Ski for Light Means a Lot

It was a rare, beautiful late-winter Sunday morning. The day before had seen rain, then sleet and finally snow in New York City, leaving a slushy mess. But upstate an hour or so, we'd heard that there was a decent cover -- an amazing thing, because although we'd planned this for a few, previous weekends, the timing and weather had just not cooperated. This was different.

Dan Shefelman, a longtime friend whose last Ski for Light was in 1999 in Anchorage, picked me up just after 9:00 am at my apartment building on 108th and Broadway in upper Manhattan. We put our skis in the back of his station wagon and Inga, my yellow lab dog guide, went in the back seat. We were off -- after a stop at the Harlem Biscuit Company, on Frederick Douglass Boulevard and 113th Street in a small storefront that transforms into a supercharged speakeasy called 67 Orange Street at night. We grabbed fluffy biscuits stuffed with egg, cheese and pork sausage and were on our way, heading over the George Washington Bridge and up the New Jersey Palisades on the west flank of the Hudson River.

As we drove, Dan occasionally reported on the snow -- and it didn't sound great. "Not much," he would say. "Maybe an inch." We kept going hoping things would change. They didn't. We decided to cross back over to the east side of the river, and things -- meaning snow -- began to look up. We passed a shimmering white golf course in Garrison, N.Y., which houses a major Buddhist institution. But we wanted to ski, not meditate. Or maybe skiing was how we planned to meditate. Dan thought that the golf course looked promising, but we chose to pursue something more intrepid. When we hit Beacon, a picturesque town in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains about 90 miles upstate, we found a promising trail head and parked. As we were getting ready to pull out our skis, a local passerby told us that the trail was quite rocky and that he didn't recommend it for skiing. He suggested we try Fahnestock State Park, a 15-minute drive away. We got there, pulled through an open gate and readied our skis. Inga bounded about happily. The moment we clicked into our skis, though, a voice called from a distant building, "You can't ski here," it intoned. "We're closed." "Yeah? But the gate's open," responded Dan, incredulous that on this lovely day in mid-March, with plenty of snow to ski on, a haven for cross-country skiing would choose to close. "Can't we just ski?" I shouted. "There's no one here." "We're leaving here in 20 minutes," the voice said, "and we'll be locking the gate. You won't be able to get your car out." There was nothing for it but to step back out of our skis and move on. We drove around a bit, looking for a third way, and finally decided that the golf course in Garrison was our best bet.

Along the way, Dan suddenly pulled over. "There are some kids with a bake sale on the side of the road to benefit Ukraine," he explained. And yes, a small gaggle of children somewhere between eight and 12 years old, stood behind tables heaped with delicious treats, including cookies iced with the blue and yellow of the Ukrainian flag. Did I say hot chocolate? We grabbed two cups of that and some appropriately crumbly lemony cornbread and were back on our way. We were more than three hours into our quest, but still game. At the golf course, our only companions were a flock of noisy geese, who did their best to scare Inga. She didn't seem impressed and loped around us as we hit the trail -- or skied between holes. The snow was soft and powdery, the sun was shining and the wind was calm. "Track right," said Dan. "Tips left ten degrees." The Ski for Light guiding techniques he'd learned at the tail end of the previous century were firmly lodged in his brain. We glided over gentle hills and fairways. Inga rolled over for a belly rub now and then. The geese were quiet. The whole place was quiet. Even the traffic on the highway nearby softened as we skied. The magic was back. At last it was time to put away our skis and drive back to the Big Apple, knowing it is unlikely that there will be another such trip this season.

Dan claims he's on for Granby next year. This was a special Sunday -- it's been 25 years since my very first SFL in 1997, at Cragun's Lodge in Brainerd, Minnesota. I was 42 then .You do the math. I felt the community and the love of Ski for Light from my first evening there, and it's been with me ever since. I never thought that cross-country skiing would be a key to my future, but I am so glad I was wrong. I wasn't able to go to Wyoming in 2020, and had expected to go to Granby this year. Just grabbing a couple of hours for the first time in three years doesn't sound like much, but it proved to be magical. Ski for Light is always there for me, and, I believe, for anyone who has discovered this entrancing and enchanted world. And oh yeah -- did I mention that I managed to somehow leave a ski boot back in the snow at the Garrison Country Club & Golf Course? Don't ask me how -- I'm just talented like that! Anyway, I know it's there, holding a promise of adventures to come.