Here & Now
Lessons learned & familial bonds forged on frozen ground.
From the top of the terraces, the buildings of Fort Yellowstone and Lower Mammoth looked like a diorama. The winding streets and smattering of Mission 66 houses formed a colorful, quaint gingerbread village, complete with white frosting on the rooftops and yards. I yanked my gloves off my hands and cupped them around my mouth, blowing into them as if I were stoking a fire.
“Turn around,” my father called, his old Nikon in hand.
As I posed for the commemoration of our annual cross-country ski tour, my mind wandered off to the inaugural trip, a decade before.
November 2016. We had just moved again. Smack in the middle of the school year, to the middle of nowhere—Gardiner, Montana. By the time I was 12 years old, I had already attended four schools, living in six states and 11 houses. Starting over was familiar, but my parents promised that this would be the last time.
It’s not unusual for Park Service employees to hop around the country; chasing new opportunities in beautiful places. And as far as natural beauty goes, Yellowstone Park is hard to beat. So, once our boxes were mostly unpacked—or at least placed in the right rooms of the house—we were off to explore.
Every time I got into the rhythm of pushing and gliding, my pole would sink a little too far into the snow, my ski would slip off the track, or a slight uphill would break my momentum.
With a healthy layer of snow already on the ground, hiking was out of the question. So, we drove into town in search of appropriate winter transportation: cross-country skis. After purchasing an old rental setup from Parks Fly shop (it was cheaper to buy old skis & boots than to rent new ones), my mother, father, twin, and I bundled up in our warmest winter apparel and headed to the top of the Mammoth Terraces.
My attitude had already begun to sour by the time I clipped my boots into the skis. I was freezing cold, my hands were numb, my boots were too small, and I quickly realized that it took significantly more effort to move forward on my skis than I had anticipated.
“Got everything?” my mom called, car keys in hand. “I’m locking up, so grab what you need.”
What I needed was a thermos of hot chocolate, to forget about having to start over again in a new place, and for this ski to be over.
My desires bedamned, after a brief tutorial from my dad, we were off. I imagine we looked like a disorganized waddling of ducks: mom in back, dad in front, two kids in the middle, all slipping and sliding away.
Every time I got into the rhythm of pushing and gliding, my pole would sink a little too far into the snow, my ski would slip off the track, or a slight uphill would break my momentum. As the tour went on, my frustration mounted and a tight ball of vexation began rising in my throat.
Then came the true uphill. Cold air pierced my lungs as the glaring white world around us enveloped me. Legs burning, lungs stinging, and eyes welling with tears, I called out, “I need a break!” before pig-headedly plopping down into a snowbank on the side of the track. My upper lip grew cold where the snot began to freeze. This sucks.
“Watch me,” my dad said, gliding over with an ease that only stoked my aggravation. He reached down to gather my poles—a casualty of my outburst—and extended a hand.
I looked up at him, hoping he would mistake the redness in my face as a symptom of the cold, and took his hand, attempting to rise to my feet—a feat further complicated by the four-foot planks tethered to my boots. When I finally made it to standing, I spat in the snow, partly to clear the snot from my throat, but mostly to further express my glaring discontent.
Of course I’m frustrated. I’m sweating under all these layers, my lungs are on fire, and I’m never going to get off this God-awful trail.
“If it’s too steep, just dig in the sides of your skis like this,” my dad instructed, stepping forward and forcing the inside of his ski into the track. “It’s slower, but you won’t slip back.”
I kicked my ski into the snow, hard. As I pushed my weight into my back leg, I threw my front ski forward in a futile effort to combat the backsliding. For every step I took, it felt as if I was still skidding further back downhill. Getting dangerously close to a front split, I looked at my dad in exasperation. “It’s not working.”
“Because you’re rushing it. Just slow down, dig in, and breathe. You’re getting frustrated.”
Of course I’m frustrated. I’m sweating under all these layers, my lungs are on fire, and I’m never going to get off this God-awful trail.
I turned my gaze to the path, lifted one foot, and dug it into the snow, at a diagonal, just as my dad had done. I made a point to move in slow motion as I continued my mini-tantrum, demonstrating to my father that I was taking his advice, but hoping that it looked ridiculous in the process. Despite my dramatic display of displeasure, the technique worked. Suddenly I was moving up the hill and only backsliding inches where I had been losing feet.
As the years passed, and my technique slowly evolved, I realized that my dad’s advice rang true beyond the track.
In the intervening years, our ski trips became a two-man mission. As my twin and I outgrew our initial set ups, I began to borrow my mom’s infrequently used gear and embark on treks with my father. While the location of our skis fluctuated between Mammoth Terraces and Tower Falls, the outings turned into an annual tradition.
When I went to college in Massachusetts, and my time at home shrunk from 12 months to one, our annual outings became sacred. It was a time to catch up—to forget about finals, credits, post-graduation plans. They were a time to be present, to enjoy each other’s company, and the beautiful place I was fortunate enough to call home.
As the years passed, and my technique slowly evolved, I realized that my dad’s advice rang true beyond the track. The outings that started as mandatory family fun morphed into something I looked forward to each year. Even when my dad moved out of the Park, and my time at home waned to just a week over the holidays, the tradition persevered—a testament to the value it held for both me and my father. It was a steady presence in a life that seemed to be forever metamorphosing.
In addition to realizing the advantages of dressing in layers and stashing a thermos of hot chocolate in the car for post-ski thawing, our time on skis taught me that slow and steady sometimes does win the race, that momentum is the key to efficiency, and that the company you keep makes or breaks an experience.
Digging in and going slow didn’t only get me up the steepest stretches of trail—it also got me through my first set of finals and bouts of homesickness. While focusing on gliding and harnessing my momentum helped me conserve energy on the track, it also got me through college in three years, even when burn-out felt imminent. And just like how my dad’s company transformed the strenuous outings into pleasant, memorable experiences, the company I kept through college, my childhood moves, and all other corners of my life were what made new places positive and enticing.
Last year, I wasn’t sure if my dad and I would be able to uphold our tradition. Over the summer, he had shoulder surgery, and it wasn’t clear if he’d be in skiing shape come winter. But, thanks to a strict adherence to his PT schedule and a little bit of luck, we were back on the trail by December.
Here I was, back at home, moving easily through the same trail that brought me to tears almost a decade before.
With only one more semester left in undergrad, and an uncertain future in front of me, I found my mind wandering as we clipped in our skis at the top of the Terraces Loop. Thoughts racing, body on autopilot, I glided down the track, matching my breath to my strides, pointing my eyes down at my ski tips.
“Hey Leah girl, wait a minute.”
I paused, annoyed that my momentum had been broken.
“It’s Elephant Back Terrace.” I ripped my gaze from my skis and looked up at the same geothermal structure he pointed out almost every year. As I threw my dad a quick thumbs up in acknowledgement, my eyes shifted to the sky. It was grey. One big, continuous cloud. A giant down comforter, smothering the world, holding in heat and the comforting stillness of winter. I watched a cluster of snowflakes as the wind caught them, blowing them left and right, up and down, until they came to rest on Elephant Back, instantly melting. Despite the destruction of the flakes, the roughly six-second moment was captivatingly serene.
I glanced back at my dad. Here I was, back at home, moving easily through the same trail that brought me to tears almost a decade before. In that time I had graduated high school, moved across the country and the world, swapped out almost the entire cast of characters in my life—and yet, here, on this 1.5-mile loop, everything seemed to be the same. Elephant Back wasn’t asking me what I was going to do with an English degree, where I wanted to live post-graduation, or if I wished I had taken school more slowly. And neither was my dad. All they were asking of me was to be present in the moment with them.
My frozen face turned up into a smile, “It really does look like an elephant’s back, doesn’t it?”
“What?” My dad yelled, planting his pole and gliding towards me.
“This is really nice,” I called back.
When he caught up, we stood side by side, eyes turned up as the snow continued to swirl around us. With my father’s arm draped across my shoulder, we watched in silence letting the world move around as we stood still.
