Valentine’s Day has always mattered to Elaine and I. At this point it feels like superstition, but more than that it’s a way of marking time. Doing something together. Something intentional. And if there is a better way to spend a day with your soulmate than cross-country skiing through quiet woods, we haven’t found it.

We skied again into the forests and lakes of Susitna country, following a swoopy, draped trail that seemed designed to pull us gently forward. The skiing was joyful on a micro level. Birch bark peeling back in thin white curls. Witch’s Hair hanging from branches, dusted with snow and living up to its name. Along the way were massive glacial erratics, boulders pushed down long ago from the Alaska Range and left half buried in the forest. We skied around one slowly, its edges holding six feet of snow, because it deserved acknowledgment.

The trail continued north and the country began to feel darker, quieter, more remote. That’s where we met our first real overflow. Water hidden beneath the snow, invisible until it wasn’t. Ankles wet. Skis freezing solid. Bindings locked in place. We stopped, pulled out a scraper, and chipped ice until everything moved again. It was inconvenient and cold and oddly welcome. A small problem we could solve. A little adversity to focus on. We both liked that.

We skied back toward the cabin tired and quiet. Elaine cried more than once that day. The realization that this was something her mom loved to do, and now couldn’t. That’s the thing with loss. People talk about how you feel closer to those who’ve passed, but sometimes all you feel is their absence. She gets to spend the day with me, and that knowledge carries weight too.

I’m proud of Elaine. She isn’t avoiding the grief or trying to tidy it up. In our culture there’s pressure to move on quickly, but that hasn’t always been the norm. Years ago in Anaktuvuk Pass, we met a man who told us plainly that he was in mourning. Not as an emotion, but as a state of being. Elaine’s tears didn’t feel disruptive. They felt natural. Part of the rhythm. Skiing through the woods has always done that. It opens things up.

The next day we headed into a new zone, dropping onto a narrower trail that followed the river. At first we passed families out on classic gear, laughing through swoopy turns. We climbed to a high point and enjoyed a fast descent before committing to the river trail proper. Open leads murmured beneath the ice. The trail steepened enough that we sidestepped sections, pushing deeper into country that felt like it might go on forever. I wanted to keep going. The light said otherwise.

On the way back we took an inner route and ran into an older couple on similar gear. We stopped. Talked. Asked questions. Slowly realized how small Alaska can be. Before we parted, he mentioned the weather was clearing and cooling and that we should stop by the airport the next day. Something special, he said.

We skied back toward town as the light faded again. Cold, full, and quietly grateful for days that don’t try to fix anything. They just let you move through it.