Saturday, after three days at Fj llnora I went out on Ekoln, a large, irregular lake which is connected all the way to Stockholm. The plowed track from Skarholmen to Hammarskog about 7 km away was not as well cared for as Stickan's but was enthusiastically used by hundreds of Swedes of all ages. Elderly couples glided past young families. Snow crazed dogs dragged their masters at break neck speeds. Along the shore winter brown reeds rustle above whiteness.
Red cliffs plunge into whiteness.
Looking into the distance there are a few lonely specks make their way unhindered through the whiteness, beckoning. Seven km just won't do, not even fourteen. I ignore the coffee served in the house on the hillside at Hammarskog and plunge into the whiteness, a sugared crust but two fingers deep, seemingly inviolable yet offering only halfhearted resistance. The freedom found away from the plowed path is delicious and the speck of a distant island becomes a sheltered spot for lunch. In the center of the country the snow cover keeps the lakes unskateable but the need to skate can still be satisfied by cross county skiing, skating style.