Although it was only 10:30 am and I would have liked to get in a few more edits, I had to get out.  I needed to beat the snow. 

The length of time getting dressed adds to the cabin fever.  Pulled on nylon wind pants over fleece pants and tied up those Michelin boots.  Put on the gaiters that Velcro up the leg.  The size EEEE boots are so wide on my AA foot that the Velcro cannot close the gap by the shoe laces to keep out the snow.  At one point sweating, I said, I’ll be here till tomorrow getting ready for this.

Got into my car, loaded my skis and sashayed down the road in the brown slush and heavy gray to get the h--- out of here.  Decided on Portland Head Light.

One completely forgets about breaking trail.  The recent 14 inches of snow drifted up to a couple feet in places.  I’d be going along and suddenly my poles sank to my knees.

Cross-country skiing is deceiving.  Sometimes you’re just standing there looking out on your skis with your poles planted, and with absolutely no warning, you’re on the ground with your face in the snow and ice up your mittens! 

Or, any attempt to ski through a forest is well, asking for it.  Those incredibly short, unmercifully steep humps you never notice when hiking are now deadly moguls with a 90 degree turn at the bottom, graced by a huge, ancient tree waiting at the turn.

The Field
I decided to ski the field instead of the cliff walk, for obvious reasons.  Lovely, you say: an untouched mound of white.  The field was a large white hill, with the road to the lighthouse at the bottom.  The going was slow breaking through the drifts.  At one point, I noticed a wooden fence peeping up down by the road.  I figured once I skied down, I could step over the fence.  The snow was that high.

Then I spied an opening in the fence.  Perfect, and headed for that.  “Heading for that” was the typical picking up speed without warning.  You’re going fine when all of a sudden-- zip, your skis are taking off on a Chaplin banana peel.

Next I was at the bottom of the fence in a face plant, having hit my arm on one of the fence posts.  After shaking off and checking all systems, I continued to the lighthouse.  For reasons unknown to mankind, not a soul was there to witness my spectacular wipeout. 

The Lighthouse
I arrived at the lighthouse to an absolutely beautiful wild and roaring tide.  In all my days here, in all seasons, I had never seen a tide like this.  The waves shot up the rock where the graffiti marks the shipwreck of 100 years ago.  The water boiled and the rocks were frosted white.

I managed to keep my binoculars from pitching into the snow, and stood explorer-like, scanning the waves for sea ducks.  A raft of scoters rode a wave which rose in incredible height, so high a couple of little ones didn’t make it before the crashing.  A Coast Guard boat was travelling dark and fast.  And that was it: the noble ducks, the force and the sound of the water.

It was too cold to stay in one place, so I skied along the fence watching the shore.  When I got home I took off the one thousand layers and realized my knee was a bit swollen.  Enough to need ice which is ironic because I am back on the ice curling on Wednesday night.  That being the knee I use most to deliver the stone.

Maybe it’s the sudden and sure wipe-outs that really bug me about cross-country skiing.