If you drive 20 odd minutes south of St. Lawrence University, you will encounter Higley Flow State Park, which sits alongside the Raquette River. The park was charted on the southern shores of the Warm Brook and Higley Flow, which juts out from the river like arms. The park wears the inlets like a hat. 

In the summer months, the park’s waterways are frequented by fishers and paddlers, whose pastimes get along with the river’s sluggish current and well-behaved swells. When summer turns to fall, and the park’s green trees are painted burnt orange, the paddlers turn into flannel-clad hikers. But in the winter — once the inlets freeze over, the Raquette becomes littered with icebergs, and the autumn leaves finally disappear from the trees — a different type of recreational activity dominates the landscape. 

“Kick the snow off the tip of your boot on the back of your other and clip it into the ski,” said my friend Connor St. Peter ’24, with a look of envy in his eyes. He is the president of the Nordic skiing club and was supposed to teach me the sport today, but while preparing for the outing, he made the mistake of assuming the clip on his personal boots would fit into our rented skis. 

Luckily, my clips fit, as did the boots, although barely. I wear a size 15 shoe, so most of the time, finding anything that fits my feet is a miracle. The black boots we rented from the Outdoor Program could not have been bigger than a 13. However, with a little force, they fit snugly around my feet. My left boot had worn, gray laces that hardly had enough length to be tied. My right boot had long, fluorescent green laces that needed to be wrapped twice around my ankle before they could be fastened. The rented skis were black with red and white stripes wrapped around their bodies. 

Even though St. Peter was not able to ski, he was insistent that I learn. He handed me a pair of metal sticks, which I later discovered were named ski poles, and motioned for me to follow him toward a trail. 

Pine trees lined either side of the path with a few bare trunks mixed in between. To the left of the trails head sat a sign that read “Pine Trail.” To the right sat a wooden kiosk where the trail’s registerbook sat prominently displayed on a shelf. Next to the book sat a lone black mitten and a pair of brown imitation leather gloves with fluffy fur where the hands enter. 

The temperature sat at 50 degrees, much higher than the average for February, 29 degrees. Snow would thaw into water during the day and re-freeze overnight, meaning the trail itself had little snow that had not become hardened ice. Unusually warm winds cut through the trees as we signed our names on the register and set off. 

A pair of footprints in the shape of snow boots and a pair of paw prints to their right appeared in the ice and led us for about 15 feet down the trail, where they abruptly ended near a patch of yellow snow. Here, the trail gradually curved to the right, and a downhill grade began. 

“Hold your weight over your knees and push with the sticks,” said St. Peter, sensing that I felt some unease over this part of the trail. Up to this point, I had essentially just performed a kind-of hobbly, modified waltz as I moved along the path, now I was forced to try something outside of my comfort zone. 

Taking his advice, I bent my knees slightly and pushed in unison with the poles. I moved all of a few feet before grinding to a stop. Hesitantly, I did it again, and again, until my skis took the job of propelling me down the gradual slope. The skis glided over the icy trail, and I gingerly began to move at an increased speed. A loud noise began emanating from beneath me, starting as a muffled scraping sound before transitioning into a high-pitched hissing. The warm air began to feel cold as it pushed harder and harder against my face. 

For whatever reason, sheer beginner’s luck or some other good fortune, I held my stance with poise for the first half of the descent. Just past the halfway point, I panicked, and my legs suddenly straightened. The skis beneath me that had, for the most part, remained straight, began pointing in opposite directions, and in an instant, my torso had swapped places with them, throwing my back into the hard ice. 

“That’s why you keep your knees bent,” yelled St. Peter from the top of the hill. 
“I held on for a little while,” I protested from the ground. “I think I get it now, though. You kind of just let the skis do it.” 
“Kind of,” he said. “There’s another drop-off soon. Try again there.” 

We made our way down the trail a bit further. My back was cold from its face-to-face meeting with the trail, but the peculiar warm breeze did a lot to ease that sensation. About 45 feet from the base of the last slope, another, much more intimidating one began. 

At the base of this slope was a bald maple tree, which split the trail in two. 

“You’re gonna shuffle up your feet towards the end and use that to turn,” said St. Peter as his focus shifted to the tree. “Don’t lean to turn; step to turn.” 
“Okay, I’ll try,” I replied. 

Once again, I pushed myself forward and began to feel cold air against my face. This slope was much faster than the last. The maple looked larger as I approached it with more speed. I quickly marched my legs, trying to angle the skis slightly to the left to no avail. The cold air had turned into freezing wind against my face. Just as earlier, my back met the trail. However, this time, it was an intentional act to avoid being flattened by the maple. 

“That wasn’t as bad,” yelled St. Peter as he joined me at the foot of the slope. “You made a decision that lets you try again.” 

Try again I did. Just around the corner to the left sat a summer access road covered in ice. At its base was the Higley Flow. 

For the third time, I sat into my skis, put my head down, and used the sticks to guide myself forward. My skis immediately got caught in tracks carved by a previous skier and flew down the ice — my feet and body reluctantly followed along. 

St. Peter jogged in the powdery snow alongside me. His mouth moved, but I could hear no words. A layer of wind cut over my ears and blocked whatever he said from being understood. 

I lifted my eyes to see that the water was now visible to my left, and before I knew it, my skis slowed, and all the speed I had built up was gone. It was replaced by a calmness supplemented by the view of the flow. 

As I surveyed the landscape, St. Peter stood to my left doing the same. 

“Time to go back up,” he said.