Running in Snow

It’s not easy. It’s not the treadmill of sand. No. Snow is a throat. After weeks of freeze, a 50-degree day has me penciling for two miles on what was yesterday the snowshoer’s tarmac. I don’t mind. This day, this one 50-degree day, will quench my thirst ‘til April, maybe May.

I’m giddy drunk with the distance I hiked in the tracks of so many deer, along the waves frozen but breaking back into the water piece-by-piece, the way that in the end, the sky opened up to a blue you see once during the winter if you’re lucky. At least here in Marquette.

Note: I do not run. It is not an activity I partake in with any sort of regularity. I hike. But today, the snow was almost easier to navigate if I moved faster, and after a while, it was (ahem) fun. I was laughing at myself, alone in a woods edged with the second largest body of freshwater in the world. The world.

I talk to those crazy little birds that follow you, the name of which I can never remember, and I’m happy. I’m tired of the busy me. Tired of taking things for granted. I live here. In this gorgeous place in the middle of “nowhere,” according to many. It’s not a “coast” per se, and it’s Midwest—clearly we’re all beer-guzzling rednecks driving recklessly between pines with our gang of snowmobilers.

Yes. That’s what we are.

Of course the locals have perpetuated this “myth” of the Upper Peninsula so as to keep out unwelcome guests, maintain a low pop. That’s what I think. What’s more, lately, I can’t begin to think of how I’ll leave here in a year. If I want to. If I should. Will.

Dear Dad: I’m sorry, but I’ve become a Yooper. I'm recording the winter through hikes, the way the season ebbs and flows. I'm not too proud to say I need a guide. I'm not too proud to say I'm still learning. How to relax. How to laugh. To run in snow.