On having your own ski trail

I have a friend who had her own ski trail. She lived in a tiny town in southern Minnesota called Old Frontenac. It's an interesting place. In former times people from Minneapolis/St. Paul would come by train to vacation there. It has grand old mansion "cottages" with huge porches. It has small cottages that could use some fixing up. Some ARE fixed up. There are very nice new homes and middle-aged comfortable looking houses too. The episcopal church is the oldest church in continous use in Minnesota. Some of the streets oare just dirt and dogs are allowed to run free. It is located on Lake Pepin and it's an easy walk to the beach for all the residents. Directly behind the town, on a Mississippi River bluff, is Frontenac State Park. I always envied my friend for living there and for having her own ski trail through and around the town. No packing up the car and wondering if she had enough time for the drive. No one telling her to leash her dog (have you ever tried to ski with a dog on a leash?). No one firmly telling her to turn around because she's skiing in the wrong direction. She just grabbed her skis from her back porch clamped them on and started off. Thus it was a dream come true for me when I came here and between my own woods and the wooded state land just east of us I developed my own ski trail. But life isn't perfect. I have discovered that although having your own ski trail is wonderful, there is a downside. It can be summed up in two sentences. There is no trail groomer. You are the groomer. After the first good snow, you break your trail. The second good snow eventually comes along and covers your tracks. After that there's usually a very windy day or two and much of your trail is totally obliterated. The new snow and fluctuating temperatures soften your tracks so that they collapse under you--not always, but just when you lease expect it. This is not gliding blissfully along. Yesterday afternoon Bear and I decided to ski through the woods and down to our mailbox to get the mail. There had been new snow. There had been drifting. Temps had changed from below zero to twenty plus. About half way there I noticed that Bear was stopping for frequent rests and I was a little short of breath myself. Bear is a border collie, one year old, and full of energy, but her legs are a little short. I keep telling her it would be easier for her if she followed in my tracks, but she apparently feels it's her duty to take the lead. A portion of the state land behing our mailbox has been logged. I have a forester son, so I know that if you want to live in a roomy wood house and freely use reams of paper you musn't whine when a tree gets cut down. I know the wildlife uses logging trails to get around more easily and that they nibble on the downed tree tops and nestle in the brush piles. I know all that, but clear cutting further screws up people's ski trails. When we came out of the woods and into the clear cut we got into the serious drifting. Bear was jumping high for every step and I was plow, plow, plowing and then collapsing. We had about three football fields to go to the mailbox. We decided that it was probably just more catalogs anyhow and we had better turn around. It was during the turning around maneuver that I fell down. One thing Bear really loves about me is the new games I think up. I was forced to tell her very firmly that this was not one of them and to get the hell off of me. She did. My husband was out of town for three days and I had promised him that I would not take my arthritic knees and hip into the woods until he got back. But I figured what could happen,right? This was my punishment. My rear end was at the bottom of three or four feet of snow. My feet, attached to five feet long skis were at the top of same. My hands could find pushing up purchase nowhere. I told Bear not to panic. She didn't. I did. I tried to stand up for awhile, but it wasn't going to happen. A couple of years ago I got new boots and bindings. They make my skis very easy to get on and off IF I'm standing very firmly on solid ground. Impossible when sitting in the snow with your feet above you in mid air, but I tried hard to do it for awhile. I kept thinking about how I was in a place where no one could see or hear me and no one knew I was missing so how was I going to get out of there? I hated having my own ski trail. Eventually reason prevailed. I could reach my boot laces. I took them off and with the skis stretched across my lap, I got my boots off my skis and stood up. It would have been possible, if not pleasant to get out of there stocking footed, so my panic subsided. I sat back down and forced my boots over my snow encrusted socks, stood up and very gingerly climbed up on the snow in front of me and put my skis back on. Bear and I retraced our route back home and were very happy to get there. End of story.