My Birkie story began in the 1970’s when my grandparents, spurred by maintenance problems, decided to sell their arctic-cat sleds and buy two pairs of Finnish made wooden skis. It may have also been a heart attack my grandfather suffered that caused the change-over. Whatever the inspiration, their purchase and his ensuing knowledge of waxing and tarring changed the way my brother and I experienced winter. I was about 3 when I first put on skis, though it was a few years later that I stood at the top of the first hill on Loop A on the Wintergreen Ski trail, just east of Park Falls on highway 70, a feeling of terror I had never imagined surging through me. The bottom was flattened out with previous skiers falling, and I wanted more than anything to get through that flat bottom and up the short hill that followed. I followed my brother, who being 4 years older usually could get through it. Most of time time, I did not. But each year we returned to these trails, taller, stronger, and ready to try again. We skied through the jokes of elementary school, the trials of middle school and high school. I skied alone, I skied with everyone. We rarely took our skis out in southern Wisconsin where we lived, but when we were up north, we couldn’t wait to be on the trails again. One year my grandfather packed a lunch and hauled some wood to a spot on a county trail where we roasted hot dogs and drank hot chocolate. I had no idea that I could eat outside, in the snow, in the middle of the forest, and how good it would taste. By skiing with us, our grandparents introduced us to the national forest in winter and taught us that it was just as beautiful and open to us then as it was in the summer. With the right clothing. Our grandfather has since died, and our grandmother lives outside of the forest closer to family. Last winter we were sharing time at her house during the week of the Birkebeiner. She told us how they always listened to the Birkie finishers on the radio. My husband, three children and I had just spent several days skiing at the Palmquist farm and all I wanted to do was more skiing. That is when I suggested to my brother that we register for 2014. He had never entered any kind of race. I had never been in a ski race. But we loved to ski, we loved the trail, the woods, the often-perfect snow. We signed up for the full race. Then the trail run. That is when I realized what a training endeavor this would be. The entire course is made up of Loop A hills! In January a death in the family brought us near the northwoods once again. It was the weekend of the Birkie Tour and we signed up again. It was during the last 9K of that crisp ski day that I had an overwhelming sense of my grandfather’s presence in the woods. It was more that him being there, though he was truly a man of the woods, from working in timber to trail grooming to snowmobiling and finally skiing. I felt a part of him living through me as I sailed down hills and struggled back up. I overheard some men taking a break and discussing carbon skis and wax. While I had barely any wax left on my well-worn touring skis, I had my grandfather and the gift that my grandparents gave to me when they trading their sleds for skis. It is partly for them that I ski this year, to say, thank you.