Cross country skiing, for those whose 20-year-old Jarvenins haven't left the basement in several years, is three things.

It is, at its best, a blissfully gliding communion with nature, where deer frolic and birds dance from branch to branch as one shooshes peacefully through lightly dusted paths.

It is also a quadriceps burning trek up gradual hills with no end in site, which make one rue every drag of every Marlboro that one has ever pulled.

It is also a terrifying plunge down rocky descents, where one knows a crash is inevitable – the only uncertainty is which body part will be injured.

However, only the first of these images appeared in my cabin-fevered mind as I prepared for my afternoon jaunt to Mendon Ponds Park in beautiful Western New York.

About 20 years ago, when I was 10, my parents bought themselves and their offspring cross country skis. We had just moved into a new house in the country, with 20 picturesque acres, complete with a small pond, a trickling waterfall and winding trails that seemed designed for such polar pursuits.

We would often venture into the woods for a light ski trip or maybe up to Byrncliff Resort, a golf club that moonlights as a cross country ski center in the winter months. We skied intermittently for the next five years or so.

At such time, our collective need for speed increased, while our affinity for the simple pleasures provided by cross country skiing slowly melted as the March snow. We had become a snowmobiling family, and the cross country skis patiently leaned against the wall of the garage, knowing their time would come again.

And so, 20 years after they were purchased, I took a wet cloth to my father's Jarvenins (since the ones purchased for me at age 10 wouldn't quite suffice and had probably been sold for pocket change at a garage sale anyway) and proceeded to wipe away the years of gunk that had accumulated on them. Surely, I thought, snapping on the skis and zipping away would be no different than hopping on a Huffy and pedaling down the road.

I dressed in more layers than I needed, remembered my park map, put Toasty Toes in the soles of my ski boots, and set out eagerly for my slide down memory lane.

The East Esker trail begins with (and consists mostly of) a gradual uphill of about 200 yards. I don't remember the 16-year-old me stopping a third of the way up a slight incline, just a few steps into the beginning of a trip, to reconsider being out there in the first place. But I forged ahead, figuring they put the hard part of the trail first so that the end can be an enjoyable downhill cascade. Sometimes my optimism is completely unwarranted.

I conquered the first leg of the journey and soon stood perched atop a considerable downhill segment of the trail. I was jacked! This was always my favorite part of skiing. Although I'd only actually downhill skied once, Byrncliff's trails culminated in a monster hill (by adolescent cross country skier standards). When I'd reach the crest of the hill I'd do my Alberto Tomba, assume the tuck position, and fly with dizzying speeds down the mountain, only to calmly and smoothly bring myself to a graceful, snow-spraying stop.

But today would be a bit different. I thought it was, as the old adage goes, like riding a bike. So I pushed off, assumed the tuck position, and, as I was gaining speed, caught a patch of dirt or rock or both and came tumbling down, my right butt cheek taking the brunt of the force. Skiing was officially not as I remembered it.

I continued down the hill and proceeded to crash twice more, to the certain delight of the concerned, non-ski wearing, hiker in front of me. I soon passed the pedestrian of superior intelligence (even the slowest skier can apparently pass someone walking) and asked him if he were yet able to contain his laughter from watching my cascading tumble. He hadn't.

I carried on. The next hill I actually conquered. I tucked and kept a low center of gravity and a wide base. I'm back baby! But this would prove to be the exception, rather than the rule. Every hill with even the slightest pitch from that point forward proved to be that big air bag you see in movies to catch people threatening to jump off buildings… only filled with nails, not air.

Drastic downhills, by comparison, were a tiny slice of the sweet life compared to the interminable uphill torture treatments that make up at least 99 percent of this trail. I relied on my arms to push me forward, and when they gave out, which didn't take long, I duck-walked. Then I side stepped. I even got to the point where I took my skis off and resorted to hoofing it up a particularly sharp incline. Unfortunately, these boots weren't made for walking.

A lot of thoughts run through your mind when you're creeping and climbing with all you have to ski up a hill that any 80-year old could backpedal up. But the main thing I kept thinking of is this: on the other side of this (expletive) hill is one of those slow, straight, serene declines for which skiers' dreams are made.

Well, you know what? Sometimes that's exactly what's on the other side of that (expletive) hill. Most of the time it's another uphill without end, but every so often you get a piece of God's country carved out ahead of you and you can just give a slight push with the poles and off you'll go. You're whisked away, in complete control, tucked or untucked, just rolling peacefully through the world. There's a pond full of geese on your right. There's a hill with deer looking down on your left. And neither of your knees hurt, nothing on your body is cold, problems don't exist and all is right in the world.

It is that moment that will bring me back sooner, rather than later. It is that moment that made this Nordic novice thankful this was how he spent his day. Because cross country skiing might be terrified careening down paths paved with pebbles and infinite uphills that sneer, snort and chuckle as you laboriously lumber ahead. But, it is also the magnificent serenity that one imagines a winter's foray into the wilderness might be. And this past one most certainly won't be my last.