As mentioned before, I’m in the process of cutting ties with some of my stuff** which is bringing up all sorts of feelings. Some giveaways via a local Buy Nothing page are easier than others, such as saying goodbye to the boys’ old bunkbed, exercise balls, and a couple bulletin boards. Those transactions leave me feeling purely liberated. But the other day, I offered up our two sets of skate skis, boots, and poles. Zippy and I brought that ski equipment with us from Alaska 28 years ago and used it exactly one time since. Clearly, it was time to let go of those belongings. Zippy thought it was a waste of time to post such outdated gear, but multiple people expressed interest within an hour or two. And when it came time to set the skis, boots, and poles outside for pick-up, all sorts of emotions arose. With tears in my eyes, I photographed my yellow-sided skis alongside the purple-and-white boots that’d transported me into a new way of living in Anchorage.

I happened to look out the window when the person came to pick up the stuff and I couldn’t refrain from stepping outside. I don’t remember exactly what I called out to him, something to the effect of “Happy skiing!” and “I have so many memories of those skis!” I’m sure I sounded emotional because he quickly assured me they’d be put to good use. Tears in my eyes, I went back inside and closed the door.

It wasn’t until later that I remembered experiencing those same emotions years ago. Not only that, I’d written an essay about it (see FREEDOM RIDE below). And when I looked up the file today, I was reminded that a parenting magazine had expressed interest in publishing the essay. Unfortunately, they ultimately passed, but the good news is there were photos in the file. Because I’d mostly skied alone, there were no photos of me in action, and I’d given the magazine pictures of a friend with her son.

This photo isn’t a perfect representation of my experience because she’s skiing on longer, diagonal skis rather than my short skate skis. Also, the pulk is a different color. But in the absence of authentic images from my days on the groomed trails (and you can bet I regret that deeply), this gives you a good idea of the set-up.

So, here is that essay. Note: The original version included my sons’ real names, but I’ve switched them to their “blog identities.”

FREEDOM RIDE

I recently said good-bye to a piece of my son’s childhood and symbol of my early years as a mother: I sold my ski pulk.

Wildebeest was born in Alaska and his arrival highlighted the necessity of getting outside during the long, dark winters. Every Alaskan knows that a daily dose of the outdoors prevents the sluggishness and depression of sun-deficient winters, but this tactic is especially crucial when sharing a home with a little person. Cabin fever is not some scenario hallucinated by Jack London; it manifested itself in a creeping inertia that left me on the couch in a stained robe with an unwashed face at four in the afternoon. For the record, the blahs never overcame me to the point I neglected brushing my teeth. However, those blahs did foster an environment in which my energetic son began tapping at everything with a meat tenderizer. When that everything included me, I hauled myself upright and bought a ski pulk.

The pulk was a plastic sled converted into what looked like a green and purple space capsule. Completely enclosed in nylon and clear plastic, it had a rollbar, three-point harness, and backrest. Wildebeest could recline or sit and look through the windows at the scenery and occasional wildlife along the cross-country ski trail.

Now the following may sound like a pitch from an infomercial, but it’s true: buying the pulk transformed my life. My days were no longer defined by the tedium of scattered toys and messy diapers but instead included exercise, clean air and, if we were lucky, sunshine.  As long as temperatures weren’t too frigid, I strapped my well-bundled son inside, hooked the long aluminum poles to the sled, and fastened the attached belt around my waist. I was often reluctant to leave the couch’s familiar sag and warmth, but no matter the depth of my gloom, just a few lungs-full of the sharp winter air was enough to make me grateful to be outside.

I didn’t feel gratitude that first day, however. In my excitement to go on our maiden voyage, I hurriedly hooked up the pulk and took off skiing. Within minutes I was exhausted; it felt as if I were dragging a set of bleachers behind me. I turned around to assess the situation and realized I was pulling the sled backwards. My cheeks, already warm from exertion, flushed with embarrassment as I unhooked and got on the right end of the pulk.

From that moment forward, my outings were filled with the smooth side-to-side glides of skate skiing. On my ultra-short skis, I skated along the groomed trails with a fluidity that felt like poetry in motion after being cooped up in a house filled with stale air and dark corners. I became so comfortable pulling the pulk that the only difference between skiing with and without it was the added weight.

But I was always aware of my cargo. While the distance separating Wildebeest from me created a sense of solitude, he was still close enough to share the experience. Sometimes his loud exclamation at a passing image caught my attention and I’d look back to smile and wave. We shared laughs at the sight of kids tossing snowballs or a dog running loose. Mostly, though, he was my silent co-pilot, watching and processing information from his sliding cocoon. I’d point out a squawking raven on an overhanging limb, only to turn and discover him sleeping.

Fellow skiers reminded me of the unique aspect Wildebeest and the pulk brought to my skiing. Most were amused or expressed admiration for my strength, and those exchanges gave me a boost when my energy was fading. But when the super-fast skiers swished by with obvious pity for my burden, averting their gaze as if my pace was contagious, I longed to chase them down and tell them to stuff their sympathy since I was moving pretty damn fast considering the extra thirty-five pounds I was hauling, thank you very much.

Skiers weren’t the only ones using the trails, though. Each day I scanned for moose that sometimes become agitated and trample people, and often saw them bedded down beneath trees. Once I spotted a calf just off the trail to my right. My heart hammered as I looked to the left, praying its mother wasn’t there to put Wildebeest and me in the middle. I poled a rapid getaway on a rush of adrenaline, and never did see the cow.

Another time a moose foraging alongside the trail spun around and stepped in our direction. Even though it was a lone male, I chose to turn back instead of possibly startling him into defensive action. In my hurry to reverse direction, I flipped Wildebeest and the pulk onto its side. Throughout my panicked efforts to right the sled, I was hyper-aware of the moose’s movement. At last, I sped away. But when I glanced back, it was clear the moose hadn’t been charging closer and was merely browsing tree to tree. Still, I kept up my frantic pace until it felt safe to stop, at which point all my energy went into fighting the urge to vomit. My little guy babbled and gestured about our exciting wipeout, oblivious to my moose anxiety and the escape routes I routinely plotted along the trails.

Several years have passed since that encounter, and our family has grown by another son. We left Alaska and now live in suburban Colorado. Because my heart prevailed over my head, we brought the pulk with us. Anchorage has miles of groomed trails within minutes of our former residence but the weather at our new home is fickle; snow doesn’t stick around long enough to warrant grooming. Lack of childcare for my elder son and the long drives to ski areas prevented me from sharing the pulk experience with my younger child, Zebu.

The pulk collected dust for a year. And then I sold it.

As I closed the door behind the family who bought the sled, I cried. I wept for the cold, crisp air and the exhilaration of swooping down a hill, for the personal strength I’d discovered, and the adventures that were forever in Wildebeest’s and my past. But mostly I wept for Zebu and how he’d never know the thrill of gliding along the trail, searching out moose amidst clusters of birch trees. As my husband hugged me, I wondered if my tears were silly.

“No,” he replied. “That was your freedom ride.”

He was right: the pulk had liberated me from the mundane and sometimes claustrophobic life of an Alaskan stay-at-home mom and, in the process, I’d transformed into a strong, confident, and emotionally stable mama. But we’d moved on, and I had to accept those times were behind me. I had to find new ways to stay healthy while mothering two young children.

So Zebu and I found other winter-time activities to fill the void. Granted, step aerobics in front of a television don’t hold the same magic as skiing alongside the Cook Inlet with the Alaska Mountain Range framing the background, but this is something I do with my youngest son. He smiles up at me, marching in place while imitating my arm movements. We count out steps, his numbers often tripping up my own, and then afterward sit side-by-side on the floor, stretching our muscles as the family dogs sniff and lick our faces.

Sometimes I suffer pangs of regret that ours is a tamer experience than his brother and I shared. But then I remind myself that mom and son aerobics are completely valid, even if there is no adrenaline rush. Zebu and I are creating our memories, and the only significant difference is I traded moose for dogs. And polar fleece for spandex.
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**do yourself a favor and have some laughs as the brilliant George Carlin discusses “Stuff”