Ski daydreams

We did not go to the cottage this weekend. My brother in law has gone off to Mexico for a break, and we had a lot of things to attend to in town. But my heart is never far from the woods, and we are blessed to live near Ottawa's greenbelt, a ring of forest that was designed to prevent urban sprawl by locking the Ottawa area into a fixed space. The NCC spends a lot of effort ensuring that the Greenbelt also offers recreational possibilities to residents and visitors, so many ski and hiking trails run through these woods.

I decided, Saturday afternoon, the only time I had a break from the busy-ness, to go cross country skiing. It was a sunny and bright day, with a sky blue enough to make you want to cry. I haven't had the chance all year, so rather than impersonate Dagwood Bumstead with my free time, I got out there. It was a beautiful sunny day. I skied through Conroy pit, where all the dog walkers go, and tried to avoid skiing over the unscooped dog droppings along the way. My real quarry was a ski trail on the other side of the pit, one that goes for miles and miles, and finally I got there. In summer, this trail is a dank, hot, and swampy forest, with more mosquitoes per square inch than anywhere else I've been.

In winter, I can take the time to appreciate it, since I am not swatting bugs away. I can admire the tall pines, and all the swamps and bogs, frozen over with the stumps protruding through the snow. About two miles into the trail, I stopped, and skiied out onto a frozen bog. I ski fast and vigorously. I always have. So I was hot, sweaty, and in need of a break, since it was actually a total of about 6 km to where I was.

In October, when the temperature dips to 2-3 celsius, it feels like the coldest day of the year. But in late February, when the temperature goes up to that range, it feels like the sunniest, hottest day you'll ever know. I took my jacket off, and stood basking in the sun for about a half hour, although I can't really be sure - I lost track of time.

I suppose I can't feel at home without the woods. When I was a boy, my brother and I explored the miles and miles of greenbelt behind our house every day. In the summer, we would head out with walkie talkies my grandfather had given us and try to first get lost, and then use the walkie talkies to find our way home. Sometimes we brought a picnic bag with us, which my mother would pack for us. In the winter, my whole family would ski through the forest, using creek beds in ravines as ski trails.

So even today, when we don't go to the cottage, I get out into the woods on the weekends. Cities can be attractive in that they reflect the hopes, desires, and culture of the people who built them. And Ottawa is such a city, the product of an entire country's efforts to reflect itself.

But every forest is a reflection of its residents as well. Saplings cover the forest floor, and hopeful pine cones drop near their parents, whose unarticulated, unthinking hope is the same as our own. Chipmunks and squirrels scurry about, as birds sing lazy summer songs, or pierce the cold with a lonely cry. Waters run through the raveens and valleys, cutting deeper and deeper into the ground, as they flow without thought, following ripple upon ripple for a thousand years. Grasses and cattails line the banks, like condo owners, desperate for the sunlit opening overhead, as well as the cool waters rushing through.

Both the city and the forest echo God, the ultimate master architect who oversees the residents of both places. But it is easier for me to see the beauty of what God does in a forest, because he makes it so plainly visible there.