On this day in 1915, Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado officially became a national park. Even in cold weather, you can explore the park’s spectacular mountain environments by snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, sledding and wildlife watching. In fact, winter is an especially good time to look for elk, mule deer, moose and other large mammals. Sunrise photo of Dream Lake in 2014 by C. Brindle, National Park Service.
There is at least one good thing about the snow: there are fresh prints every morning from deer, rabbits, squirrels, and all the other small things that still live in the woods. It’s comforting to know that they are not entirely alone. She tries not to think about the possibility that they may, at some point, need those animals for food. She’d rather save her bullets for creatures who deserve them.
There is no shortage of those.
They’ve had five straight days of sunlight and the snow is starting to melt. Outside the window Skinner is stomping around the yard, brow knit in concentration. Mulder is upstairs doing who knows what, and Will—
Lately Will makes her nervous. His blue eyes absent, unfocused; he spends hours holed up in Mulder’s old office, and Scully doesn’t want to ask him what he’s doing in there. He has little enough privacy as it is. She can’t decide if she is afraid for him or afraid of him.
She can feel the narrative unraveling.
In her notebook she writes tirelessly, looking for connections, clues that might lead her to answers. She thinks of her father more and more often these days. The stories he’d read her before bedtime, tales of quests and journeys. It was the only time she had her father to herself; none of her siblings had the patience for being read to. But Dana had loved those moments: her father’s gruff voice, the sound of the pages turning. She’d read to Will like that, too. Harry Potter, the Chronicles of Narnia, The Hobbit. She still has her father’s old copy of Moby Dick — it was the only specific bequest he’d made to any of his children, a fact that had driven a wedge between her and Bill that they’d never entirely overcome — but she’d never read it to Will. It belonged to her and Ahab, and anyway, by the time Will was old enough for it, he’d wanted to read things all on his own.
She’d understood him better then.
Skinner comes back inside. “I’m going to walk to town,” he announces.
Scully closes the notebook and stares at him. “You’re not serious.” The snow outside is still at least eighteen inches deep and town is eight miles away, no easy trek in good weather.
But he reaches behind him and holds out a ski pole. “I went looking through your neighbor’s shed.”
“You’re not serious,” she repeats. And on the other hand, why hadn’t they thought of it earlier? The McNallys, a two-lawyer husband-and-wife team with three comically good-looking children, played every sport Scully had ever heard of, and some she hadn’t; she’ll never forget when Will came home from their house asking if he could take up hurling.
“There are two pairs,” Skinner says.
Mulder’s halfway down the stairs. “Two pairs of what?”
“You any good at cross-country skiing?”
He raises his eyebrows. “It’s been about forty years.”
“It can’t be you,” Scully says quietly. “I’ll go.”
His eyes flash dark but it’s gone in a second. He straightens his back. “Sure,” Mulder says. “Of course.”
“What are you expecting to find?” She addresses the question to Skinner. Scully knows what she expects: a ghost town where she used to buy groceries and pick up lousy take-out Chinese. Bloodstains on the floorboards and darker things, too, and the bodies taken away, stolen, the memory of headlights in the dead of night.
Skinner leans his back against the door. “A message. Information still travels, Dana, you know that. You carried some of those messages yourself.” All those lists of names; she still sees them on the back of her eyelids at night. “Or — it’s possible my contact made it there before the snow.”
“And he’s stayed there for three weeks?” Scully asks, dubious.
The older man gestures toward the window, where the sun glints too-bright off the snow. “Where else would he have gone?”
She remembers Antarctica, her feet sinking deeper into the snow with each desperate step. She remembers looking behind her to see how far they’d come. It felt like they’d been walking for hours but the place where they’d fallen was only a hundred feet back. Their footprints in matched sets then, as always, except where one of them had pulled the other through.
“If we’re going, we do it now,” she says, and she doesn’t look at Mulder. “So we can get there and back before the sun sets.”
“Agreed,” Skinner says.
Scully fights the urge to hunt down Will and tell him goodbye. We’ll be back tonight, she reminds herself. He won’t even notice we’re gone.
This phrase does not bode well for you. It usually means you’re making an idiot of yourself. “Skjerp deg” could be translated as “Sharpen yourself up,” and it’s used in all sorts of contexts.
Teachers use it to tell students to pay attention. I yell it at friends who are doing something ridiculous. Cops use it to tell off criminals who are obviously lying to them, parents say it when telling off their five-year old who has just drawn with crayons all over the new wallpaper.
This is a common feature of all the Scandinavian countries: We have a word to describe the feeling of warmth and friendliness that arises from sharing simple pleasures of life with people you like.
For audience, its cross country skiing, biathlon (skiing and shooting w guns) and handball (followed by alpine and soccer). For popular in what most people do its soccer, handball and dancing (I think. sources for these are inconclusive)