Two Saturdays

By Rosemary Ruffenach, February 2008 • Rosemary Writes • The lure of a fresh snowfall and reasonable temperatures was irresistible—finally. I hauled out my cross-country skis and began waxing. The last two winters had brought so little snow that my skis had been relegated to a dark corner of the basement to gather cobwebs. With Christmas festivities, work obligations and temps in the polar wax range (white), they remained sulking in the corner this season until that last Saturday in January.

Since moving to St. Paul, my choice for a first-time-out run has been Crosby Farm Regional Park, situated on the upper side of the Mississippi across from its juncture with the Minnesota. But in earlier years when living in Minneapolis, Wirth Park had been accorded the honor. Its back nine was where I had learned to ski, and for years afterwards, the place I chose for short outings. When I needed longer excursions, like when I really needed to pound out the week’s frustrations on the hills, slapping my skis against their sides and digging in my poles, I would do the long loops at the regional parks. But that was in the past when I was in better shape and more motivated to hit the trails.

Now, Crosby Park’s advantage lies in its proximity and lack of treacherous hills—or any hills at all. My cowardice stems from a broken femur acquired on a steep, icy run at Hyland Lake Park and six weeks in a toe-to-hip cast. So, skis waxed and outdoor gear donned, I set out, only to find access via River Boulevard closed to vehicular traffic. I tried Davern Avenue. Also closed. The traffic cop informed me the Winter Carnival’s Securian Frozen 5K and Half Marathon run would terminate in an hour, and then I could cross Shepherd Road and access the park. Not good enough; I was in the zone. Who knew if the mood would last another hour?

The other nearby skiing locale is Fort Snelling, but I was hesitant. Entrance cost $5, and when you pay to ski, you should really do more than an hour run, which was about all I thought I could handle without developing screaming quads. There was also another reason: I had set a murderous chase scene in my almost-completed mystery novel there, and the line between fiction and life had grown murky. What if a malign deer hunter were indeed lurking in the woods?

Telling myself I was as bad as Jane Austen’s Catherine Morland scaring herself with imaginary terrors, I drove in and paid my toll. The skiing was perfect. A recent snow coated older tracks, and for once I had chosen exactly the right wax (green). First, I followed the Minnesota River side of the island, coming upon two deer sauntering back to the interior after a midmorning drink. On the return, I skied the Mississippi River side, stopping to stare out to the open water and wonder how the creatures that had cut a path to the river managed to drink without breaking through the icy verge. On my hour-long run, I met a total of eight other skiers.

Back at my car, I noticed upright sticks set in a circle about 12 feet across near the memorial to the more than 1,600 Eastern Dakota who had been interned on the island after the 1862 Conflict, many of whom had died. Closer inspection revealed a strip of red cloth and a piece of inscribed white leather tied to each, along with a small pouch. Apparently it was the site of a recent ritual. In the visitors’ center I discovered that the Eastern Dakota considered Pike Island the center of the earth and the birthplace of their people. No explanation was offered as to why the island carries the name of the white explorer who purchased the surrounding 100,000 acres from the Dakota in 1805 for $200,000 (of which, $2,000 was paid), rather than its Indian name, Wita Tanka, or Big Island, nor was one needed. Small wonder the island has a haunted feel. Driving out of the park, I spied four deer, one antlered, strolling toward the swimming beach. They kindly posed for this year’s winter-in-the-park photo. Although I kept an alert eye out for tricky coyote, none appeared this year, unlike the last time I had visited the river bottomlands.

The next Saturday, I wanted another quick run just to get the blood stirring before I settled in to serious writing. Earlier in the week, Como Park had looked inviting when I traveled down Lexington, so I gave it a try. Last weekend’s melt, no fresh snow and heavy use by those ski-skaters, who glide across white landscapes in colorful, stretchy get-ups, had turned much of the area south of the golf clubhouse to ice. Cautiously I sidestepped down the gentlest of hills to reach an area beyond two small ponds. There found a skiable trail far slicker than those on Pike Island, offering a ride akin to skating. I zoomed back and forth on the three block-long trail four times in classic kick and glide style, meeting just one other skier—not that the park was deserted. Little people and plastic sleds crowded the sliding hill north of the park building, some managing to finagle a parent into towing them uphill.

Next stop: Black Bear Crossing coffee shop across Lexington in the lakeside pavilion, featuring demonstrations of chain-saw carving outside, Native American jewelry-making inside, and gatherings of knitters and unicyclists upstairs. I sank into a chair, inhaled the heady coffee aroma my Nordic genes craved and considered the wonderful happenstance that brought such disparate entertainments together. Surely it was the stuff of story-making.