Nordic Pulse

14 April 2026 Tuesday 12:01 PM

The Ballad of Winter's Last Stand

Our Monday tears for Winter Four
Had scarcely left the air,
When Tuesday's sober scouting party
Confirmed she'd left her lair.

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The grooming crew, by duty bound—
Though aided, it is said,
By cappuccinos, rich and rare,
With lavish foamy head—

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Set forth to tour the winding trails,
To see what still remained,
And found that Spring had moved right in
Before she'd even knocked or phoned.

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They found some ice—spectacular stuff—
All polished, hard and fast;
The sort that lets your entire life
Flash brightly as you pass.

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They found bare dirt in growing bands,
Where skis looked rather grim.
The forest whispered, "Not today..."
Then added, "Portage, friend."

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They found the mud in generous pools,
Soft offerings, dark and deep,
Prepared to claim abandoned skis
The swamp gods long to keep.

.

Now none of this will halt the few
Who'll venture out regardless.
We tip our hats to such resolve...
While gently questioning the thought process.

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The season now becomes a place
Where every tribe appears;
A glorious muddled free-for-all
That marks the changing years.

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The skiers still will soldier on
Till grass outnumbers snow,
Insisting every brownish patch
"Has one more lap to go."

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The dogs, meanwhile, will materialize
In places unforeseen.
Kind owners, please remove the proof
Your faithful friends have been.

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The fat bikers, those fearless souls,
Who scoff at mud and slush,
Will happily investigate
What others wouldn't touch.

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The runners and the walkers, too,
Are kindly asked to tread
The singletrack where possible—
Leave postholes for the dead.

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The lodge will close at half-past four;
The washrooms need a rest.
Even faithful buildings earn
An early springtime recess.

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Disc golfers, yes, we know you're keen,
Your baskets call your name.
But patience—soon enough you'll fling
Your plastic discs again.

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So here's to trails that can't decide
If winter's gone for good;
Where every outing is a guess,
Yet still feels as it should.

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If Aaron's vanished down the trails,
Pursuing jobs eighteen,
The yellow safe outside the office
Will gladly intervene.

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A little gift helps keep these woods
In shape for all who roam;
And rentals, too, have earned relief—
Our gear is heading home.

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So shoulder hope and common sense,
Bring laughter if you can.
We'll stumble into spring together...

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Exactly as we always planned.