In a loop on a lake by a resort, an old sport revives

Nick Chiasson director of guest services at Lake Morey Resort in Fairlee, Vt., hits his stride. (David Arnold for The Boston Globe)

The skating stride is long, rhythmic, a left-right, left-right swing that sends me zipping across the icy skein atop Lake Morey like a pendulum in slow motion. The air bites at my face and stings my nostrils. The day is short, the shadows long. There is no heat coming out of this sun.

Then again, if I were looking for relative comfort I would be skating circles down at the local rink. Instead I am cruising along a snow-free loop more than 4 miles long, a ribbon of ice cleared just for skaters.

No crowds, no youngsters threatening hip checks, and no buzzer shrieking that it's time to change direction. It is just I, my dog, a distant shoreline dotted with sleeping summer homes, and mountain views to live for. This is a glide backward in time.

The sport is Nordic skating, one of the oldest recreational sports to come to northern New England, in at least a moderately organized way. Popular in Scandinavia for centuries, it is cheap, clean, simple, and grand.

Nordic skating, loosely defined, is outdoor skating on natural ice using long blades to smooth the ride over bumps. The skates come in various configurations, including a free heel "combo," which allows the participant to choose skates one day and cross-country skis the next.

Spearheading the back-to-basics Nordic skating move- ment is Jamie Hess, 54, of Norwich, owner of Nordic Skater, a local skate and ski shop.

"I don't play hockey or figure skate. I get bored skating in circles," Hess says. He is a Cape Cod native who grew up skating on ponds and lakes. Hess traveled to Sweden a decade ago and fell in love with "point-to-point" skating. There, entire communities go cross-country skating.

And if the Swedes can find camaraderie and health on long blades, then so can New Englanders, Hess figures.

One product of his dream is the Lake Morey loop, a 4 1/2-mile path at the doorstep of Lake Morey Resort. The resort helps maintain the path for what has become a small growth industry. In 2004, the resort hosted an inaugural "Skate-athon" day on the lake and 80 people attended. Last year, the number had mushroomed to 300. Last month, almost 700 people showed up for the Skate-athon.

More than 2,000 people receive e-mails from Hess, sometimes daily. His passion for the sport is never far below the surface. An example from this season includes the following:

"My friend [William Tuthill], who brought his family to Dewey's Pond last weekend, just sent me this story that I'd like to share with you:

'I come from a long line of ice lovers [Tuthill writes], and once it is in your blood, there is no getting over it. . . . I'll never forget being pulled out of bed, stuffed into a bundle of blankets and carried down the sandy path through the woods to the ice. A high yellow moon scattered effervescent light like gold coins over the bay that lay frozen and solid at the end of the path. I went right back to sleep in my mother's arms, but not without taking note of the sounds, sights and smells of wild winter ice.' "

True confession: I also started young with natural ice in my veins.

I grew up skating on ponds and the edges of streams in Concord, where I was accustomed to watching more than a few hockey pucks slip from my stick's grasp into the meandering black of the Sudbury or Assabet rivers.

The puck that stopped just short was the real challenge. Be smart and leave it be? Or gamble with my life, gingerly attempt the reach, and make sure my parents never knew? No story about skating outdoors should finesse the hazards of thin ice.

On one hand, no credible person can guarantee that an entire expanse of a pond, regardless of test borings, is 100 percent safe.

"You are always going to have the threat of water inlets to deal with," said Nick Chiasson, the resort's director of guest services.

On the other hand, you've got to factor in the safety record of people such as Hess, who has skated tens of thousands of miles on natural ice worldwide and never fallen in. Hess has never even seen anyone fall in. He always skates with a device called ice claws around his neck that he hopes will allow him to claw his way out of a hole. They have yet to serve as more than ornaments.

Hess's rules for safety include carrying a ski pole-like device in times of doubt; if he can poke it through the ice, he stays off. He also makes a point not to be the season's first skater or its last. And he assumes that if a lake is supporting cars, snowmobiles, or ice fishing shacks, it is going to support him.

And bless him. With the sounds, sights, and smells of wild winter ice.

David Arnold can be reached at northwester@comcast.net.