When You Can’t Go Cross-Country, Go Cross-Town

For the past year, my cross-country skies had done nothing but take up space in the closet, and it would be an understatement to say that I was excited to finally have the chance to use them. 

It was all I could think about as Saturday night drew closer and the forecast of heavy and sustained snow failed to dissipate into cold rain and overnight ice, as had happened more times than I care to count. For a cross-country skier living in the South, snow forecasts are like lottery tickets. Most of the time you lose, but when you win, man is it thrilling. 

This particular snow looked to be a winner as the flakes fell large and heavy along with the evening, covering the roof, the grass, even the row of boxwood hedges lining the front of the property. This was early December, and the first snow since I’d purchased the house in July. I grabbed my camera and ran outside to take in the darkened scene. It was beautiful, and the snow was still falling. 

I’m not sure what time it was when the first transformer blew, but the firework-like explosions became a common sound that night, the accompanying flash of green a common sight. The power went out in short order, not to return until late the next morning. 

Still, the snow continued to fall, and despite the cold darkness of my house, of the entire town, I still felt like I was on my way to a winning lottery ticket. The next morning, I shoveled my driveway and loaded up the car with skis, a small backpack, and a dog badly in need of some exercise. I backed the car into the road and threw it in drive, on my way to wintry bliss on the Blue Ridge Parkway. 

There was just one problem. Every street in town, it seemed, had been plowed free of snow—except for the 200 feet or so separating my house from the main road. My old Camry, affectionately called Henrietta, usually does surprisingly well in the snow. But this stuff was wet, the result of precipitation falling at pretty darn close to 32.0 degrees, and the slight uphill before me wasn’t helping. The tires spun, and it was clear I wasn’t going to the Blue Ridge Parkway today. 

But, I wasn’t about to give up on skiing. After all, how often does Western North Carolina see enough snow to even think about skiing without the help of snow blowers? Not very, is the answer. My boyfriend helped me dig out the car—again—and back it into a parking spot on the street. Then I got my skis out of the car, put the dog in the house, and set out to be that weird person cross-country skiing down Main Street in Waynesville, North Carolina.

Don’t get me wrong—it was quite a different experience than gliding up and down the remote contours of the Parkway. In a downtown district it’s pretty much impossible to experience that same sort of unique silence that lives in the depths of mountains muffled by a fresh blanket of snow. 

But still, to an extent, fresh snow is fresh snow. Regardless of where it falls, it’s beautiful and soft and white, typically covered by clear air infused with that particular type of crispness that keeps cheeks red and eyes wide open. The roads had already been plowed, unfortunately, but luckily for me the normally grassy fields of the elementary school across the way provided an expanse of unbroken winter for me to play in. From there, I made the uphill slog to Main Street, a couple friends who happened to be driving by slowing down to say hi and also ask some version of “What the hell are you doing?” 

I thought the answer was obvious, myself, but I guess their real question was “Why the hell are you doing it?” I suppose that to most people, struggling uphill on a pair of six-foot-long skis while carefully sidestepping any plowed driveways or piles of ice might not look like a particularly enjoyable activity. But to me, snow is the essence of winter. When it falls, I want to be out in it, and there’s no better way to be out in it than with a pair of cross-country skis strapped to my feet. I’d prefer the Parkway, but downtown can work in a pinch. 

In terms of retail, Main Street was closed down, but the district was far from desolate. I stuck to sidewalks pockmarked by bootprints, which occasionally were still filled with the boots of children, adults or sometimes dogs out for an afternoon walk in the snow. Someone had made a snowman in the lawn of the historic courthouse that marks the end of the downtown district. It smiled at me as I did a loop through the lawn, then turned my skis back toward home. 

This particular ski trip may not have been the wilderness experience I was after when I woke up that morning, but it had been an adventure. It had also been a workout. By the time I got home, I was more than ready to take the skis off my feet and start putting pizza in my mouth.