Live Free: The Divot

A story of scarred landscapes and body parts

I’m not a cross-country ski guy. I like gravity. I like chairlifts. Nordic skiing is for wiry endurance athletes who can push their heart rates into the stratosphere and motor all day long. 

That’s not how I’m built. It was with some trepidation that I ventured to my brother Chris’s place in Washington, NH, for a boys’ weekend one frosty February, featuring a cross-country outing on the trails behind his house.

These weren’t the smooth, manicured trails you might find at the Jackson Ski Touring Center. Nothing close. These were scarred landscapes — Class VI “highways” (defined by state law as “all highways which have not been maintained and repaired by the town in suitable condition for travel thereon for five successive years or more”) — better suited for ATVs and 4x4s. They’re decent hiking routes in the summer. But during winter, they’re a minefield, with countless booby traps hidden under the snow.

There were six of us, including my brothers Sean and Chris, and we planned a raucous evening with a pot of chili simmering and plenty of tequila. Deciding we’d do something good for our bodies before pickling our livers, we headed out to one of these highways for a trek on our skinny skis. 

Admittedly, I had my doubts. I’ve never been very stable on Nordic skis. I’ve snowboarded and skied on alpine boards for years, preferring the control of having my heels locked down. Having a free heel is necessary for the push-and-glide movements of Nordic skiing, but the corresponding instability makes me nervous. Add unpredictable terrain, and I was sweating bullets.

The first hour, picking through the route’s challenging ruts and troughs, was uneventful. The uphills were a slog, and the downhills, thanks to my suspect skills, were pretty sketchy. Some, like Sean, looked solid, but most of us struggled. Finally, the group realized the conditions weren’t likely to improve, and we decided to turn around. Immediately, we faced a downhill that looked much more daunting than it had during the preceding climb.I launched first, but my enthusiasm proved my undoing. I kept picking up speed. Near the bottom of the slope was a huge fallen pine suspended across the trail. For a split second, I envisioned myself impaled on its branches. I took the only option my oxygen-starved brain offered — a headfirst dive. I pulled it off, pitching my 200-pound frame underneath the hulking trunk. That’s when a white flash of pain went through my body.

Hidden underneath the pristine snow cover was a stump, and I found it with my left hip. I knew instantly I was badly hurt. I got light-headed, my stomach was doing cartwheels, and my leg started convulsing. But to my pals at the top of the hill, it was a perfectly executed Pete Rose baseball slide. As I was writhing in pain, they howled and shouted encouragement. 

Finally, Sean, an orthopedic surgeon, came to my aid. We determined it was a bad bruise, considering I have plenty of padding in that area. But it was a long, agonizing schlep back to the house. The boys — being boys — teased me relentlessly, unconvinced it was anything serious. 

That evening, I strapped a bag of ice to my hip, took a few painkillers and then let the tequila works its magic. We sat for hours, sharing laughs and telling tall tales. The overnight, though, was brutal. Each time I rolled onto the hip, a stabbing pain would wake me. A week afterward, an enormous purple and orange bruise surfaced, running from my hip to my left knee. Later, a doctor told me that I’d sheared the muscles near my hip (that was the divot), and adjacent bump was the torn fibers curling into a ball. 

“Well,” I thought, “that explains why it felt like the top of my head was torn off.” 

Recently, Sean and I were out riding our bikes, in full cycling regalia. Cycling clothes, of course, don’t hide much; whatever curves you’ve got will show. As Sean pedaled behind me, he asked: “What’s up with your hip?”

Pointing to the distinct crease in my left flank, I replied: “You mean this dent right here? Remember boys’ weekend at Chris’s house, when I got hurt? And everyone thought I was faking it?”

Eventually, the pain and the bruise faded. But the divot remains. As does my respect for New Hampshire’s rugged back roads.