No truer words were ever spoken

These are the times that try men’s souls. No truer words have ever been spoken, words that were uttered by Thomas Paine in 1776 during the Revolutionary War.

Lately, I have been saying the same thing each time I’ve gone out grooming Razorback Ridges cross-country ski trails.

This season started happily — sort of. Early snow is usually a blessing, but the 14 inches of heavy, somewhat wet snow early on made a mess out of trails we of the Sayner-Star Lake Lions thought were mowed, brushed, and ready for the season.

A first turn around the trails told us the same sad tale every snowmobile and cross-country ski trail organization in north Wisconsin had when the snow stopped falling.

As all those organizations in the winter recreation business did, we got all the manpower we could muster to clean things up, so this cross-country season at Razorback would be sensational.

About 250 man-hours later, the trails were cleared, all except a few that were — and still are — clogged with downed trees, mountains of brush, and scores of saplings up to four inches in diameter that came down across them.

All that said, I looked forward to a great season of skiing. While that may still be in the works, a second snow bomb brought even more stuff down across the trails.

Volunteers went back into action, and now, and finally for the rest of the season — hopefully — the trails at Razorback will provide skiers with excellent conditions.

I’ve already put together more kilometers — we in the Nordic ski arena still measure our trails in kilometers, just like Norway and practically every other Nordic country — than I was able to get in throughout the entirety of January last year.

I might not be skiing the American Birkebeiner anymore, but I still love getting out on skinny skis not only at Razorback but on other great trails as well, like Minocqua Winter Park, Win-Man in Winchester, and the Mecca trails in Mercer.

I grew up as a downhill skier, beginning when I was seven years old at Mus-Ski Mountain, located less than three miles from the home I grew up in.

At that age, I was a shrimp, not tall enough to grab the tow rope going up Bunny Hill for weekly night skiing.

To get up the hill, my dad, who was the head of the ski patrol, would have me slide in between his legs, my arms wrapped around his legs, while he grabbed the rope to take us up.

During my first few outings, I learned that it would be a wise thing to figure out how to turn and stop at the bottom of the hill.

Initially, my stopping technique involved leaning over to topple onto the snow at least a good 10 feet or so before I would make an acquaintance with the outside wall of the ski chalet.

Fortunately, by the next ski season, I had gained a few inches in height and could manage the rope tow myself. I also learned that it was better to know how to turn into a sliding stop at the bottom of a ski run than to crash land before eating the wood siding of the chalet.

It took until the end of my second season of skiing glory before I was deemed tall enough to ride the Sitz-Lift to the top of Mus-Ski Mountain, and competent enough on my skis to fly down Holiday, Birch Run, and even the steepest run of all, Headwall. It was skiing glory.

The fun at Mus-Ski Mountain ended, as it did around the same time for such hills that also closed, including Sheltered Valley in Three Lakes, Squirrel Hill in Minocqua, and all the other small ski areas in our neck of the woods, as the much larger hills near Hurley and Ironwood drew away our weekend skiers who came from all over downstate areas.

I didn’t get back on skis until 1979 when a good friend got me into cross-country.

Along with several other friends, I worked with the DNR to get a land-use agreement to start up the Razorback Ridges trails, two years after we groomed several kilometers of our then clandestine trails straight across the road from my house.

The rest, as they say, is history. Since 1982, Razorback Ridges has been a favorite of local skiers, as well as serving as my primary training ground for the American Birkebeiner, where I foolishly tortured my body throughout my first skiing of the storied event in 1984.

Against my better judgment throughout my Birkie years, I finished 20 of the 53-kilometer races, along with seven of the 24-K companion Korteloppet races on the same trail, all skiing the classic style.

I will probably ski until I can’t stand on my own two hind legs anymore, with an exception being that if I live to be 88, I will ski the Birkie once more to become the oldest skier ever to finish the race, an 87-year-old currently holding that record.

I would advise everyone not to hold their breath for 12 years until I turn 88.