Frozen Lashes, Québec

At -20C, I can measure the cold in dryness. My hair is crispy and I wear it in two Marsha-esc pony tails to curtail the static. At this temperature, my nostril hairs are frozen, and my nose makes a quiet crackle whenever I’m compelled to pinch it.

Juls and her friend Lyal are introducing my body to cross-country skiing. This is a deceptively harmless-looking sport involving keeping one’s skis within neat parallel tracks and applying a set of otherwise redundant arm, leg and buttocks muscles to the laws of motion.

The cross-country skier is poised, balanced and admirably coordinated. The cross-country skier is a master of momentum.

I am not a cross country skier.

On a flat surface, my skis and I grapple with the fundamental physics involved in transferring energy from potential to kinetic; I’m all arms and legs, outstretched and overextended in repeated bursts of enthusiasm. I look like an animated hiker. Meanwhile Juls’ tight buttocks propel her forward in silky smooth motion, into the pine forest and out of sight.

On downhill slopes, my issue now lies with gravity. Having insufficient skills to slow down, (let alone actually stop), I tackle the runs with the bending of knees and tucking of ‘sticks’ under arms and fly past snow-laden pine limbs with the kind of wide-eyed gumption of a novice who has not yet collided with a tree.

So, when Juls and Lyal suggest night skiing, somewhere local, an evening event involving a cookup and alcohol, naturally I do not hesitate to show my enthusiasm and place complete trust in the assumption that my friends would not allow me to come to harm.

* * * * *

I can hear Juls' long high pitched scream somewhere ahead in the darkness. There's no echo, the sound quickly dissipating in the snow, and I know that she's having a ball.

I apply the same blind faith skiing technique I'd been practicing with degrees of success during day, now under the comforting cloak of darkness. I can't see the tracks. I can't see much at all really, except for the white lining of snow on trees silhouetted against a starry sky. The benefit is I’ve no reference point to gauge the speed at which I’m moving. Until, that is, I pass one of the torches lighting a downhill bend with sudden and startling clarity. My inevitable high speed face plants are impressive.

Afterwards we join the crowd of about 30 at the ski club for a traditional Québécois cook-up of soup, tender meats and carafes of wine. It turns out that we were three of only five skiers out on the course; the rest having opted for the more civilised evening recreation of snow-shoeing, and on coming inside we look rosy cheeked and rather maniacal in comparison. I’m the only one with frozen hair and lashes. The wine tastes brilliant.

Juls' wastes no time in telling the DJ that there be Australians in the house and, someplace early in the ceremonies I hear my name amidst an announcement in French, everyone is looking at me and I am applauded as the foreigner stupid enough to ski blind on the very day she had learnt. Blatant attempts to win over the DJ prompts an eclectic series of pop and folk tunes in English, everything from Simon and Garfunkel to Robbie Williams, and at the opening beats of ACDC's Highway to Hell, we start the dance floor in our thermals.

Needless to say, we're the stayers.

Obscure Tangents

Lyal's Mushroom Soup

Fry a heap of finely chopped garlic and onion in olive oil and set aside. Fry two lean slivers of bacon and chop up finely. Fry up butter and olive oil, add chopped fresh dark field mushrooms, then the garlic, onion and bacon. Add pepper, parsley and chives... and serve with a dollop of sour cream. Good like velvet...