Back on the Skinnies: A Bear Lake Comeback Story (Sort Of)

There’s a specific kind of silence that only exists in the Bear Lake backcountry after a fresh snowfall. It’s a pristine, muffled quiet that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. At least, it feels that way until you’re lying face-down in a snowdrift with your legs tangled like a discarded pair of pretzels, wondering how something as thin as a cross-country ski can be so incredibly difficult to control.

This week, Bob and I finally got back on the trails. And when we say got back, we mean it in the most literal sense: we haven’t touched a pair of Nordic skis in years.

The Re-Education of Our Equilibrium

We didn’t go it alone. We were accompanied by friends who possess a level of patience usually reserved for saint-tier kindergarten teachers. They didn’t just lead the way; they acted as our spotters, our coaches, and—most importantly—our human extraction equipment.

Cross-country skiing is often described as “gliding.” For the seasoned pro, it looks like a rhythmic, effortless dance across the white expanse. For us, it felt more like a series of enthusiastic lunges followed by immediate gravity checks.

To Fall Is Human; To Get Up Is… Exhausting

We fell down. Frequently. In the interest of local transparency, let’s just say the snowpack is now significantly more packed in several spots thanks to our repeated impact.

There was the Slow-Motion Tip, where you realize you’re leaning too far left but your brain can’t coordinate a response in time. There was the Downhill Panic, where a three-degree incline feels like a black diamond run at Jackson Hole. And then there was the Tangled Web, where your left ski decides it wants to be your right ski and you end up in a heap.

Through every tumble, our friends were there. They didn’t laugh (well… not much). They offered hands, poles, and the kind of advice that sounds simple until you try to follow it: Keep your knees bent and just keep moving.

Why We’ll Be Back Next Week

Despite the bruised egos and the muscles we forgot we had (turns out your hip flexors do a lot of work when you’re trying not to die), it was an incredible day.

There is something quietly transformative about a Bear Lake winter. Between bouts of clumsiness, there were moments of pure magic—the sun hitting frost-heavy pines, the impossible blues of sky and lake against sparkling white snow, and the realization that even if we aren’t graceful, we are out there.

And yes, there was a sandwich.

And a goblet of champagne.

We’re nothing if not committed to balance.

The season has officially started.

If you see some erratic tracks and a few human-sized craters near the trailhead, you’ll know the Bear Lake Local crew has been through. Huge thanks to our patient guides. We promise to fall down at least 10% less next time.

Have you hit the trails yet this season? Are you a glider, a tumbler… or wisely still thinking about it?