Kippers On The Fire

It was a beautiful winter's day. The sun made the snow glisten and I knew it would warm up as the day wore on. I picked up my camera and called my neighbour to see if she wanted to go with me. She was an inspiration on long drives and always made me take time to stop when I might have gone on past the perfect picture. 

Being an adventurer herself, she decided it would be an ideal day to teach me how to cross-country ski. I rummaged through the shed and found an old pair of skis and boots my daughter had left behind. Not knowing I needed just the right "size" to do this, I figured if the skis had smooth bottoms and the boots were a half decent fit, I was prepared.

Of course I had to add to the fun and suggested we take my old black kettle, a wire rack for the fire, and some kippers (smoked herring) I had been longing to cook outdoors. I filled an old milk crate with newspaper and dry wood for the fire, packed food and water, put the skis in the car, picked up my neighbour and off we went.

We turned off the main highway and drove until we came to a pond where we used to fish. Building the fire close to the water for easy extinguishing seemed the natural thing to do. We unpacked the car and headed down to the edge of the pond and went to our knees in snow getting to what we felt was the perfect spot. For some reason, a fire by the edge of the road didn't have the same appeal.

There was an old woods road nearby, a nice level place for me to strap on the skis while waiting for the kippers to cook. This was easy. I headed down the middle of the old deserted road, slowly sliding one foot ahead of the other, and feeling very pleased with myself. I am not very brave in the woods so before long, I decided it was time to head back. Before I could turn around, I looked up and saw a truck coming towards me. The driver stopped and waited for me to make my move. In a panic and a hurry, I learned a few important facts about cross-country skiing. When your feet are six feet long, you can't turn around quickly on a narrow road, you can't crawl, and you can't run and hide. I pulled off the skis and moved off the road. The driver stopped beside me and rolled down his window. With a stone cold, yet somewhat sympathetic look he said "first time eh", rolled up his window and drove off. I picked up the skis, completely embarrassed, and walked back to the car.

The heat from the fire felt good, the black kettle was steaming, and the smell of kippers cooking filled the air. I took a couple of pictures of the fire and sat down on the milk crate to eat. My friend and I had quite a laugh as she described my skiing incident from her vantage point. I didn't learn to ski but that picture of our fire has sold more copies than any other single shot I have ever taken. I guess there are a lot of fellow Newfoundlanders who enjoy a taste of winter.