On Wooden Skis with a Camera in Hand

If you’ve been a long-time reader of my newsletters, you’ll know that every once in a while (usually during the spring) I go completely off topic with a story that I’ve written that is off topic for photography. The last one I shared was Bald Eagles Were Rare Back Then. That was last April. I write a lot of these that sit on my hard drive and never get shared.

So, while not related to photography, I have a strong belief that we shouldn’t define ourselves by what we do. Everyone isn’t defined by one specific hobby or profession. At least, I’m not. I find it healthy to explore other interests. Writing is one of my interests. I also work doing some freelance writing and blogging. Plus, I’m a little depressed about the lack of winter this year so I don’t have any new photos.

This week, I’m taking a bit of a mulligan and sharing this old essay that I recently discovered in an old journal. I wrote it back when I first moved to the north shore nearly 20 years ago. We didn’t know how long we were going to stay or if we would like it. In ways, I still don’t know how long I’m going to stay here. While it’s home, it hasn’t felt like my forever home.

I do laugh a bit about this essay. Now, Nordic skiing is my primary winter activity, and last time I went snowboarding I could hardly get down the hill! That’s such a big flip since I moved here. I’m going to fill this essay with photos of friends and winter adventures.

On Wooden Skis

By Bryan Hansel

The tips of my homemade, cedar and hickory Nordic skis glided securely in the compacted groomed tracks as I cracked the corner to face a steep downhill. The tracks converged in the distance at the bottom of the hill and looked like a screaming descent. As securely as I knew the skis were built, they felt unsecure under my clipped in feet. If I had been on a snowboard, which was a sport I felt confident in, the hill would barely provide enough momentum to go, but the last time I was on Nordic skis was high school just under two decades ago.

The lack of recent experience made the blue route challenging. Plus, I was never that good of a cross country skier.

Early in the morning I had packed my car full of skis, poles, camera gear with the intension of finding an easy trail to learn on, but as I drove down the shore from Grand Marais Carlton Peak caught my attention.

Carlton Peak’s rounded, pine-covered top stands out against the sky, especially on a sunny, blue bird day. Carlton Peak stands out because about a billion years ago, blocks of anorthosite, a hard rock that is lighter than boiling magma, floated to the surface of a sea of magma forming what would be the ridgelines along Lake Superior. As the eons melted into eons, the surface eroded leaving the rounded anorthosite peak exposed and towering above the surrounding valleys and big lake.

Having just moved to northern Minnesota because my partner, now wife, had gotten a job in Grand Marais, I had never been to the top of Carlton before. Now I wanted to find adventure in Minnesota instead of Colorado where I wanted to be. I still wasn't sure Minnesota was the right choice.

I found myself in an overflowing parking lot at the base of the route to Carlton, and hesitantly strapped my pack full of photo gear onto my back. Then I clicked into my new bindings. Bindings that I had just mounted to the skis the week before. I pushed off and just about fell as the pack’s weight threw off my balance.

Slowly, I shuffled to the first obstacle, the snow-covered Sawbill Trail. I thought about walking across the road, but I had built these skis, and if I had built the skis, I knew I could repair any damage a snow-covered road would do.

Building the skis had been easy. I took a 2- by 6-inch board and cut the profile shape of a ski into it. I had no real design to work from, so I made a few guesses about the length, camber, and the tip shape. The cut board became my form. I tacked thin plywood onto the surface of the cut to make a smoother surface to bend the wood on.

Then I cut ½-inch by 3-inch strips of cedar that was left over from canoe building. I cut the same sized strips from a piece of clear hickory purchased for the project. I glued the surfaces, sandwiched the cedar between the hickory and clamped the mess down to my form. After both blanks dried, I cut a grove down the center of the bottom of the skis, cut the side cut and tail size, wished I had a higher tip, but the shaping was finished. To finish, I opened a can of pine tar that smelled of the outdoors and then applied it to my skis’ base with a blowtorch.

The skis were ready for adventure for about $20 plus the bindings and boots.

I skied across the snow-covered road on my sturdy, homemade wooden skis. Once on the main trail, which is groomed on an old road, I would like to say that I kicked and glided up the hill, but I shuffled and broke a sweat getting to the top. Luckily, animal tracks in the snow following the trail distracted me from the work. A light wind cooled me at the top.

After I ran out of tracks, I dropped my skis and hid them in the snow. Then I followed what looked to be a trail through the woods. My legs plunged to my hips as I took each step. At that point, it occurred to me that I wasn’t learning skiing anymore. Instead, I was on an adventure to see what was around the corner. I thought back to conversations with a friend who had pioneered climbing routes up Devils Tower about how we were the type of people who always needed to see what was around the next corner.

The trail climbed past rock faces and up steep slippery slopes and the snow depth relented. Careful foot placements made sure I didn’t slip on steep snow-covered rounded rock slopes. Then I reached the summit of Carlton Peak. The view out over Lake Superior, colored blue from reflecting the sky, caused me to gasp. I looked down upon the treetops that I had just skied through. Twisted and wind shaped pines surrounded me. I was reminded of the top of Black Elk Peak in the Black Hills where I had briefly lived and hiked through miles and miles of wilderness to reach.

Despite starting at a parking lot full of cars, I felt surrounded by nothing but wilderness. The solitude and quietness of hiking and skiing just a few miles from the road settled upon me. I sat down upon the summit and listened to the wind and the clouds passing by. They were speaking to me in a language I couldn’t understand but in silence I could just make out a conversation that made me feel small and young on this ancient peak.

I sat like that until I realized that I needed to get to my car before dark. Reluctantly, I made my way back to my skis, clicked into them and pointed downhill. The descent started slowly but because the tracks converged so far away, it felt like it would take forever for me to get safely down the hill.

I stepped out of the tracks and snow plowed the speed off. Here I was only a mile from the road and having an adventure on skis I built from scratch. I decided to stop snowplowing and I stepped back onto the tracks. I was remembering how to ski from all those years ago. It was coming back. I double poled and then tucked down, bent my knees, and let the icy track pull me down the hill. The air whipped across my face.

It was brisk.

I felt alive.

I thought if this is an adventure I can have just next to the parking lot, then Minnesota was the right place. We had chosen wisely.

Until next time

I hope you enjoyed this winter diversion. I’ll see you again in two weeks with a photography topic.