A Hero Gone
Saturday, June 16, 2007 at 12:36PM “Sorry for your loss,” a friend said last week.
This was said about a quiet, taciturn man whose recent death at 74 from pancreatic cancer struck me surprisingly hard as something quite personal, even though I had not seen him for some twenty years - and so I wondered why his passing was such a blow. I think it was because even though he was not a close friend, he had somehow settled into my psyche as a sporting hero, so his death meant some of the familiar and comforting furniture of my own life had just dropped away without warning.
He was a leathery-faced, kindly man named Kauko Riihiaho. It took some work to get him laughing, but then came the twinkle, and genuine mirth. He was a carpenter by trade, who came to Canada with his family in the 60s from Finland, where, as National Junior Champion in cross-country skiing he left behind a reputation something akin to that of hockey’s Wayne Gretzky in Canada.
So it was fitting that I first met him on the snow at my Dad’s farm in 1973 where a few of us beginners had gathered, new skiis in hand, excited to try a freshly-made 1.3 kilometer track through winding bush. This was old-style, single-track skiing where you had better interpret the topography well before each push of the skis or lose a lot of time. There was a lovely and intimate fluffy whiteness to be enjoyed gliding past pine branches that would spill cold snow on your heated body. As a former Olympic athlete and only 33, I figured I was strong enough to master this new sport pretty quickly. So we asked Kauko to show us how it is done, and were soon treated to the sight of true athletic grace as he glided effortlessly along, everything in a perfect natural rhythm even up the hills, while we slipped and thrashed, way behind him. The best we could manage was about 7 minutes a loop, pushing hard, and two or three times around seemed like a tough workout. So, the lesson done, and quite tired, we agreed to go in for hearty soup.
“Kauko, are you coming?
“No thank you,” he said in halting English. “Now, I go for ski.”
Huh? We were just skiing. How long will you go for?
“Maybe two hour,” was the answer.
We were astonished at the mere idea, and so we hung around a bit to watch him. How long will each loop take him? Well, he ticked by us twice at a steady 4 minute and 30 second pace, and that’s when the awe and hero-worship began, shaking our heads that he intended to go that pace for two hours.
In the decade that followed, when a two or three hour hard ski had become normal even for us, we raced against him on many occasions, and it was always the same. No matter how proficient we became, or how eager to test each new skill level, all of us remember those moments, now burned in memory when, racing on just the right grip-wax, and thinking that we were now doing so well, and were much younger than him anyway, and maybe had a start-time a full 15 minutes ahead of him on a 30k race…well, that just maybe this time we wouldn’t see him before the finish! And just about then you could hear the regular “snick-snick-snick” of his poles on the snow, and maybe a little exertion-cough just to let you know he was about to run you down, and then came the mumbled word “track” to get you out of the way so he could pass fast, always looking just so very fine, balanced on one ski, with the other leg kicking like a mule. We had heard that anyone who refused to move over for him just might get to feel the tips of his ski poles in their low back as he took care of that for them (though I never saw him do this). In a race he was definitely a man on a mission. For a half-minute or so after he went by we would try to keep up, shaking our heads at how despite our best efforts he just kept moving relentlessly away. Cross-country grip waxes are rated for temperature, and if you use a wax rated colder than the snow you are on, you will just slip and get horribly frustrated. All his competitive life Kauko used grip waxes at least one, maybe two grades colder than other racers. I know people who raced against him when he was on the Canadian National team who still say, “We all thought he had some secret recipe. No one ever figured out how he did it!” Mostly, it was technique. He weighted each ski just exactly right, fully, and just at the right time so that he simply didn’t need grippy wax like the rest of us; he was a snow dancer.
After a race, and around a bonfire outside a log cabin deep in the woods, changing damp racing suits, bare-skinned at minus 20 degrees, and taking some beer, he and his equally tough older Finnish friends, some of whom had fought against the Russian invaders in WWII, would tell stories about being on a Finnish ski patrol, armed and dangerous. It was riveting to hear. Covered in white make-up, a half-dozen soldiers would ski together guided only by compasses (no walkie-talkies allowed) over frozen rolling hills at dusk, searching out disabled Russian trains, rifles on their backs. They were killers in white. It was the most continuously cold winter in Finnish history – never above -30C for three months. When they neared a convoy halted by the bitter cold, they would fall forward and lie on their skis, gripping the tips with their hands. Then they would shuffle forward in the deep snow a few feet at a time. The Russian sentries were posted about 100 meters apart. Shuffle too vigorously, and they would wheel and shoot you dead in the snow. So very slowly and carefully was best. Then, within range and at the right moment the Finns would reach for their rifles (Kauko said the best marksmen could put a bullet in a man’s eye at 100 metres) and shoot the enemy in the back.
Mission accomplished, they would leave quickly, and then: “we ski about 30 kilometre more to next convoy. And shoot again.” The Russians, who had clodhopper skis and no waxes at all, had no chance to chase them down. So fast were the Finns, even through unbroken snow, “Russians think we have few dozen patrol in different places. But it was only us, moving fast.” This amazed us all, and we asked: “After skiing so far to attack again, in such cold, how did you get dry. Where did you sleep?
The answer: “We ski one more hour, slow, to dry off, then with special blanket, go under snow like dog, to sleep a little.” One older friend said that he never went inside a human habitation for almost three months in that famous winter war. Kauko and his other Finnish ski-friends were all tough like that, whether skiing, orienteering, or running like deer through the bush. We admired them for their uncomplaining fortitude. Training with them we could actually feel a little of it rubbing off now and then, and it made us feel like manlier men. It still does. This was their gift.
Reader Comments (4)
Greetings from Finland.
Thanks again
All the best,
Nina Riihiaho