Porter, rolling through snow, bolts ahead 50 yards then comes back to us, then bolts ahead again, loving the moment. Our trail, an easy one, crosses a creek on a narrow bridge and climbs into dense fir, then breaks out into sunny fields and skirts an openfaced hill. The full moon rises behind ridge above us, and the eastern, then northern and southern skylines succumb to rosy alpenglow. In so many ways cross-country skiing is the antithesis for everything that is wrong with Christmas. Every backaching shopper is a sapling pine bent over from the weight of new snow.
Every clogged freeway is the set ski track winding into darkening forest.
Every blinking-lighted checkout stand is a frostnipped fence keeping cattle out of the creek. The public address system announcing a store closing in 15 minutes is the contrail from a 727 arching silently high into the sunset. Endless Christmas carols sung by rock stars are coyote tracks crossing the ski trail and leading up a knoll. We stop for a moment to talk about something, then pause and notice how quiet it has become. The only thing I can hear is the ringing in my ears.