I enjoy cross-country skiing for both the exercise and the chance to be outdoors.
The first time I went skiing last season, I forged a new path through the fresh snow. It was hard, exhausting work, and bitterly cold, but breaking that trail gave me a strong sense of accomplishment.
A couple of weeks later, I went out again. This time, snowdrifts had formed, creating unpredictable terrain. One ski would glide smoothly, while the next would suddenly sink six inches deep. I had to focus on each movement to keep my balance, fully present in every moment. That focus helped, but the inconsistency still challenged me, and at times, I fell.
Eventually, I found the path I had created during my first outing. Although some snow had drifted over it, the trail still made the hilly terrain far easier to navigate than the untouched drifts. At one point, the drifts grew so high that I lost my old path temporarily, but I soon discovered a set of tracks. At first, I thought they were mine, but the more I examined them, the more I realized they belonged to someone else. Following this skier’s path, I could take long, smooth strides without the constant struggle I had just endured.
As I continued, it became clear the skier who made this path was either more skilled or more daring than I was, as the route dipped down steeper slopes, curved sharply, and climbed taller hills. Still, I kept going and didn’t fall. Eventually, this new trail merged again with my own two-week-old path. Along the shared route I noticed other tracks of rabbits, dogs, deer, all moving in the same general direction. When the trail split, I had to choose between sticking with my original path or following the newer one. I chose the new one, which again converged with my old trail, but this time it had me traveling in the opposite direction.
It made me wonder: had the other skier been going the opposite way all along? I had simply assumed we were moving in the same direction. Looking closer, I noticed the ski-pole marks, little punctures dragging bits of snow backward, showing that the other skier had started where I ended weeks ago, and ended where I had begun. We had each found, followed, and benefited from the other’s path, even at different times, in different conditions, and heading in different directions.
And as I finished the loop, I realized that sometimes progress isn’t about who goes first or where they end up, it’s about how our paths quietly support one another along the way.