By Jörgen Johansson
Where the road ended I took to my skis. It turned out to be over-optimistic. Like a kid wanting to get his skis out when the first frost whitened the lawn. The snow cover was not much, less than behind my house and the brook was still running, freezing slush to my old Fischer skis.
After falling and scraping my knee I walked with my skis tucked under my arm the last stretch to an old spot by the little lake. My backyard forests, always a safe refuge. I leaned the skis against a tree and kicked away the snow, clearing a spot for fire and contemplation.
The ubiquitous tune to hum while the fire is working itself into shape is of course "Smoke gets in your eyes".
Mm, coffee on its way. It turned out I had left my cup at home, but you can drink straight from the pot. If you do not want to leave part of your lips glued to it, a piece of advice is to run a pinch of snow along the scalding rim before you have a go.