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I hear the heavy breathing of the bodies I love in each of the bedrooms leading to the kitchen. This moment is a privilege that of solitude among dreams. The household is asleep in the warmth unique to the end of the night, and a faint orange light illuminates my work surface where I sort the leaves to place in my teapot as hot water boils on the stove. Between the aromas of tulsi and peppermint, I look up to see a heavy snow falling in slow motion in the black city sky. I think of Arvo Pärt. His music would be the perfect soundtrack to accompany this warm moment of calm.

With one hand, I pick up the snack I prepared the night before; with the other, I put the lid on my thermos. I stuff everything into my waterproof bag beside my neoprene mittens and boots, my towel, and a spare pair of socks. I’ve already put on my swimsuit, which I’ve covered with bulky jogging pants, a merino cardigan, and a fleece. I tiptoe down the stairs, swing my coat over my forearm, and open the door. A strong wind blows into the house. I smile wide.

In the car, the dashboard clock reads 5:32 a.m. I take the road between the snowdrifts which follow the shapes of the wind. In a few minutes, the river appears to my right. The freeway is deserted; only a few truckers heading toward the North Shore yawn, coffee in hand. I drive toward the mountains, toward one of the rivers I know is fast enough not to freeze over in the winter. I’m glad I have, as always, snowshoes and a sled in the car. Over the years, winter swimming has become, for me, not just an activity, but a way of life. In the trunk of my car, I always find a cord of wood, some kindling, everything I need for cooking, a sleeping bag, two axes, a well-used kettle, some tea, a shovel, and other tools to help me out in case of a breakdown. With this setup, I can follow my whims and go for a hike whenever I want.

Arriving at the place I know from cycling in the summer, I park my car and start loading the sled. I check twice that I have everything I need and put on my coat, neck warmer, toque, and mittens. I add a fluorescent bib to my winter outfit and head into the woods on a snowmobile trail. The snow there is more compact and makes it easier for me to get to the river. At this time on a weekday, I expect to encounter more wild animals than people. Since I started walking, I’ve already counted two hares with white fur. The snowflakes resume their dance as I arrive at the spot for my swim. The deep blues have turned to grey. In its waltz, the snow is the conductor of the forest, imposing an enveloping silence that would soothe all broken hearts.

Here, in this ceremonial silence, I start setting up my temporary camp. First, I need to find a place near the river that is not on the ice. The first thing that makes it possible to enter the water in the winter is to know its body and bed beforehand in all seasons. Even though the river is lined with snow, I know its banks, and I can guess that some advances are brittle or that they are not its real borders, but rather temporary islands of ice.

To avoid having to walk for a long time when I get out of the water, I choose a location near my entrance to place my things. With my feet, I stamp the snow to create the bed for the fire. Since I don’t know the thickness of the white blanket, I try to compact it as much as possible to avoid losing my fire in it while it burns without me. In the winter, some operations are more difficult than others due to the cold. I’ve long since abandoned my pride of starting all my fires naturally, and I use a lighter to keep my fingers from freezing in the cold wind that often blows through the corridors formed by the rivers. Quickly, mesmerizing flames dance before my eyes. As I watch over my heat source, I begin to prepare for my outing.

The thermos of tea and my snack await my return on the wool blanket with which I’ve covered the ground. I take off my mittens, then all my clothes, from bottom to top. As I remove them, I pile them on the sled in a very specific order that will quickly allow me to get warm and dry after my swim. I slip my feet into the boots and my hands into the mittens.

This morning is quite cold despite the snow; my thermometer reads -22 degrees Celsius. Before even entering the river, I choose to keep my toque on to avoid losing too much heat. Carefully, I advance toward the cur- rent. The water shimmers in a thousand places thanks to a clearing in the sky, while a great gust of wind makes the snow swirl near the water.

I crouch down. Put one leg in, then the other. My feet touch a large rock which, when summer comes, is exposed and becomes an unparalleled lounging spot. I know this bottom. This certainty gives me confidence, so I take a deep breath and turn my body toward the descent. As I exhale, I immerse myself up to my shoulders and raise my eyes toward the tops of theswaying spruce trees. I breathe in again, letting in all my love for this moment. I exhale, giving back to the land. Again and again. As long as I feel safe. I breathe deeply. I know the grandeur of what awaits me once I get out of the water. The ecstasy to come, courtesy of the endorphins that will follow.

But for now, I’m here, as I should be.

I’m no longer on the land; I, too, am the land. And then, that’s everything.

Of course, there’s a long list of the benefits of Nordic swimming, including improved mood and pain tolerance, reduced stress levels, and a strengthened immune system, to name just a few. But the most important thing for me isn’t the regulation of my nervous system or the measurement of my physical and psychological abilities. What matters, after getting up in the night, walking through the forest, and watching the river and the shades of blue, is the reiteration of my place in the course of life.

We love what we know. We protect what we love.

Through my swimming, I actively participate in protecting the land.