That’s it, I tell the little dog while sliding my skis into the car’s ski carrier. Aki looks puzzled. Perhaps I’ve chosen words with too many possible meanings. “That’s it” could mean, “that’s the skiing experience I have awaiting since first buying skis.” Since we are parked near the gun range, I could have meant, “the just concluded chorus of high powered rifle discharges precisely mimics the 1814 Battle of New Orleans.” I don’t have the heart to tell Aki that my words signal intent to put away the skis until winter’s return.
We just completed the 6-kilometer Montana Creek Trail. This time we didn’t have to dodge deep ruts made by a fool on his or her four wheel all terrain vehicle. The groomer did a great job leveling out the snow. But he wiped out the classic track in the process. I wouldn’t have minded skiing without a track. But the snow was icy-slick except where it had been softened by the strong spring sunshine.
I shouldn’t whine. We had solitude and a chance to listen to the creek chuckling and singing it’s way to sea, drowning out the sound from the gun range.