From the FasterSkier archive — posts syndicated from athletes’ and coaches’ own blogs between 2004 and 2012, kept online as published. Current coverage is at fasterskier.com.
Annika Martell racing during the NENSA club relays, Saturday, March 28, 2026 at Craftsbury. (Photo: Phil Belena)
The Craftsbury Green Racing Project has named Annika Martell as its new Head Ski Coach.
Martell brings a resume that spans nearly every corner of the Nordic skiing world. A Minnesota native, she headed east to ski at Colby College, where she captained the team and earned recognition for her leadership before graduating with a degree in economics and environmental science.
Her coaching career has taken a similarly wide path. Early on, she interned with the US Biathlon Association and coached juniors at Ford Sayre and the Berkshire Nordic Ski Club, before moving into elite-level work as an assistant coach with the Stratton Mountain School T2 Team. She spent four years as an assistant coach at Williams College, during which time she completed two stints as a Trail to Gold Fellow with the US Ski Team and served twice on the wax staff for Team New England at Junior Nationals.
Most recently, Martell was the Head Nordic Coach at St. Michael’s College, where she guided the program to highly competitive results.
Her background extends well beyond the ski tracks. She is a certified weightlifting coach and handled strength and conditioning duties at Williams. She also has experience in finance and operations management, and holds a Master’s degree in Sports Business from Drexel University.
The Craftbury Green Racing Project is still accepting athlete applications for the incoming 2026 snow class — Apply Here
Martell follows Jessie Diggins on course in Beitostolen in 2022. (Photo: Nordic Focus)
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Hailey Swirbul (USA) racing the 20 k Classic Mass Start in Goms, Switzerland, two weeks ago. (Photo: Authamayou/NordicFocus)
When Hailey Swirbul logged onto a Zoom call from Italy last Monday, she was already living inside uncertainty.
“I’m in Livigno right now,” she said. “Yeah — the higher one.”
The U.S. team held two pre-Olympic altitude camps, and Livigno was the higher-altitude option. With thinner air, it’s a place where nothing happens quickly, where adaptation takes patience, and where clarity is rarely immediate. When we spoke, it still wasn’t public which races she might ski, or even whether she would start any at all. She was there because she had qualified back onto the U.S. Olympic Cross-Country Ski Team — but nothing beyond that had been decided.
She didn’t talk about it like a comeback. She didn’t talk about it like redemption, either. Mostly, she sounded attentive — to her body, to her thinking, to the risk of letting the story get ahead of her.
“I’ve thought about this whole thing more as an experiment,” she said. “Like… can I do this? And can I do it in a way that actually feels good?”
The Olympics mattered. She didn’t pretend they didn’t. But they weren’t the point.
“What can I do?” she kept asking.
Hailey Swirbul’s entry into endurance sports began with mountain bike racing with her family around Colorado. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
Before Skiing Was the Point
Swirbul’s relationship with endurance sport started long before skiing felt central, or even intentional.
“I grew up in just a really active family,” she said. “My parents valued getting outside and doing that with our family.”
Neither parent was an elite athlete. That wasn’t the model. The emphasis was simpler: movement, time outdoors, effort shared rather than measured.
“They just love being outside and moving our bodies,” she said. “And they taught that to my brother and me growing up.”
The first sport that really mattered to her wasn’t skiing.
“The main thing we loved to do as a family when we were young was mountain bike races,” she said. “We would travel around Colorado or the West and camp as a family and do these bike races.”
Mountain biking wasn’t cross-training. It was the center.
“That was kind of the first main sport that my brother and I both really loved,” she said.
Nordic skiing entered her life almost accidentally. Her older brother decided to try it as winter conditioning for mountain biking.
“So as the younger sister,” she said, “I was just going to follow whatever he did.”
Her first experience skate skiing was blunt.
“I had never skate skied before,” she said. “And I just got destroyed. I was so far behind everyone.”
What stayed with her wasn’t embarrassment. It was the challenge.
“I remember feeling this sense of, like, I need to figure this out,” she said.
Progress came quickly, and with it a new kind of motivation.
“I remember feeling like, whoa,” she said. “It’s pretty fun to do well at it — whatever well means.”
What drew her in wasn’t winning so much as the learning curve.
“Skiing is such a hard sport to master,” she said. “I don’t think anyone really can. It’s always evolving.”
By middle school, she was actively seeking out more difficulty.
“I wanted to race more,” she said. “I would go on jogs in the fall after soccer practice because I was like, I need to get more training.”
She started racing up in age groups — not because anyone pushed her, but because she wanted to be there.
“I raced up as a U16 when I was still 13,” she said. “And I qualified for Junior Nationals that year.”
Being part of something bigger mattered.
“Getting to go and be part of this bigger thing,” she said, “that was incredibly motivating to me.”
Hailey Swirbul celebrates the U16 Junior National Championship title in the Freestyle Mass Start in Stowe, Vermont, in 2014. (Photo: Voisin/FasterSkier)
Racing Up — Until There Was Nowhere Left to Go
Much of Swirbul’s early career followed that same pattern.
“My young career — and honestly much of my career — was defined by racing up,” she said.
It worked. Racing older athletes fed her curiosity and reinforced the idea that discomfort was something to move toward, not away from.
But as she progressed through the development pipeline and into the World Cup system, the feedback loop changed.
“There’s this moment where it flips,” she said. “And suddenly you’re supposed to be top 30.”
Early World Cups felt expansive. Points mattered. Starts felt earned.
“Getting points felt exciting,” she said.
Hailey Swirbul scored her first varied World Cup points in the 2019 Davos, Switzerland, Skate Sprint. (Photo: NordicFocus)
Over time, expectations hardened. Results that once signaled progress became baseline.
“It stops being exciting,” she said.
What made it difficult wasn’t failure in the dramatic sense. It was repetition.
“It’s really hard to go over there and be 45th every weekend,” she said. “And still believe in yourself.”
She kept coming back to that number — not as a complaint, but as a psychological reality.
“When that happens over and over,” she said, “it starts to mean something about you.”
The pressure didn’t explode. It narrowed.
“I felt really rigid,” she said. “And I didn’t like that.”
By the end, the issue wasn’t the results.
“There wasn’t anything wrong, exactly,” she said. “That was kind of the hard part.”
She wasn’t falling apart. She just wasn’t herself anymore.
Rosie Brennan (USA), Samantha Smith (USA), Jessie Diggins (USA), Julia Kern (USA), and Hailey Swirbul (USA) (l-r) celebrate the end of the season and Swirbul’s retirement in 2023. (Photo: NordicFocus)
Leaving Without Drama
Swirbul didn’t retire in crisis. She retired calmly.
“I don’t regret retiring,” she said. “At all.”
She enrolled in an engineering program. She stepped away from the race calendar. For the first time in years, skiing wasn’t the organizing principle of her life.
That winter, she worked as a ski patrol member in Colorado.
“At Aspen Highlands, we have this hike-to terrain up at 12,000 feet,” she said. “It’s like an 800-vertical-foot hike.”
For weeks at a time, that meant repeating the same climb again and again.
“You’re hiking up and down that bowl for six hours a day,” she said. “And honestly, I loved it.”
She was careful to separate that year from any training narrative.
“That wasn’t training,” she said. “It was just work.”
What mattered was usefulness. Responsibility. Being competent at something that didn’t care who she was or what she’d done before.
“There’s something really grounding about that,” she said.
Her body worked constantly, but without scrutiny.
“I just loved hiking,” she said. “That was my whole day.”
Hunter Wonders, Hailey Swirbul, and Chip Schoff (former APU skier and wax tech) on a multi-day hut trip. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
When Time Shows Up
The idea of returning didn’t appear during that patrol season in any obvious way. It arrived later, through moments that didn’t seem connected at first.
One came from a book about time—the idea that a human life spans roughly 4,000 weeks.
“It wasn’t panic,” she said. “It was more like honesty.”
Another came from a comment made by someone she respected — casual enough that it might have been ignored.
“I kind of just sat with it,” she said. “And I couldn’t shake it.”
What lingered wasn’t urgency. It was clarity.
“If I’m ever going to do this again,” she said, “it’s now.”
Not because she felt behind. Because waiting indefinitely no longer felt natural.
The Risk of Trying Again
Coming back wasn’t simple. It carried risk.
“I didn’t want to come back if I was just going to be the same athlete,” she said.
She worried about slipping back into rigidity. About obligation replacing curiosity again.
“I’m way more aware now of how easily I can slip back into that mindset,” she said.
She also worried about the other possibility.
“What if I come back,” she said, “and I’m just not good enough anymore?”
She didn’t rush past that thought.
“That’s part of the experiment,” she said. “Like… maybe it doesn’t work.”
Hailey Swirbul (APU) racing the US National Championships Mass Start Freestyle in Lake Placid in January. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
Starting Where She Actually Was
When Swirbul decided to race again, she didn’t shortcut the process. She entered domestic races. She lined up without protection.
“I was literally starting from the back in mass starts,” she said. “And I was like, okay. This is fine.”
Fine didn’t mean easy. It meant honest.
“I actually loved that,” she said. “It took so much pressure off.”
Domestic racing gave her feedback she could read again. Progress looked like progress. Bad days stayed contained.
Later, she reached for a phrase that stuck with her — the idea of a “safe nest.”
“A place where you can go out into the world and get beat down a little bit,” she said, “but you always have somewhere you can come back to and rebuild your confidence.”
For her, that place was domestic racing.
Samantha Smith (USA), Hailey Swirbul (USA), NS Rosie Brennan (USA), (l-r) in the 20 k Classic Mass Start in Goms, Switzerland, two weeks ago. (Photo: Authamayou/NordicFocus)
Europe, Revisited
She never forgot what the other side felt like.
“There’s this moment where it flips,” she said again of World Cups. “And suddenly you’re supposed to be top 30.”
She talked about Europe without bitterness, but with clarity.
“It’s really hard to go over there and be 45th every weekend,” she said. “And still believe in yourself.”
This time, she wasn’t trying to prove she could survive that environment again.
She wanted to know whether she could return without losing herself to it.
Not Being Only One Thing
Throughout her return, Swirbul kept coaching at Alaska Pacific University.
“I was doing three sessions a day sometimes,” she said. “Elite team, masters, devos.”
The workload was heavy. She didn’t romanticize it. But she didn’t want to let it go.
“Being around kids who are just excited to ski,” she said, “it reminds you why you started.”
She was conscious of what she modeled — not just in training, but in attitude.
“I didn’t want to be only an athlete again,” she said.
Hailey Swirbul enters these Olympic Games not only to prove she can still perform at an elite level, but also to celebrate that she still loves endurance sports, just as she did growing up in Colorado. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
Where the Experiment Stands
Qualifying for the Olympic team didn’t resolve the experiment. It simply moved it forward.
“It doesn’t make the decision right,” she said. “It’s just what happened.”
She didn’t frame it as validation.
“I don’t regret retiring,” she said. “At all.”
While in Livigno, she waited — not gripping, not withdrawing.
The Olympics were close enough to matter. Far enough away to remain uncertain.
Now the races have started, and Swirbul is presumably days away from a race start at the Winter Olympic Games. So the hypothesis has been written and the lab experiment designed.
“What can I do?” she asked.
Not forever. Not for anyone else. But the time to run the test has arrived.
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Hunter Wonders (USA) racing the Skiathlon at the 2023 World Championships in Planica, Slovenia. (Photo: Modica/NordicFocus)
When U.S. Ski & Snowboard released its roster for the 2026 Olympic Winter Games, Hunter Wonders’ name appeared without emphasis. No asterisk. No parenthetical explanation. Just another line in a list that had already absorbed months of speculation, anxiety, and arithmetic.
To most readers, the name represented a straightforward outcome: an athlete peaking at the right moment, a season resolved by results. But the roster line masked a career that did not move in a single direction. Wonders’ path bent, paused, and restarted. At one point, it appeared to end entirely.
Understanding how he arrived at the Olympics requires starting far from the Games themselves — in a place where progress is quiet, repetition matters more than recognition, and development happens long before it is visible.
Hunter canoe racing with his dad in Michigan. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
Alaska, Not Michigan
Hunter Wonders is sometimes misidentified as a Midwestern skier. His parents are from Michigan — his father from Grayling, his mother from Traverse City — and the family returned there most summers to visit grandparents. Wonders spent long stretches canoe racing in Michigan and maintaining close ties to extended family.
But Alaska is home.
“My parents were originally from Michigan… And yeah, they moved to Alaska. It was supposed to be like a two-year thing for my dad’s work,” Wonders said. “And he just knew, like, nope, we’re not going back. I’m staying here.”
That decision happened decades before Wonders had any agency of his own. By the time he was born, Alaska was already permanent.
“I’m definitely from Alaska and have lived there my whole life,” he said.
In American cross-country skiing, place is not just a backdrop. It is infrastructure. Alaska exists at the edge of the domestic system — geographically distant from centralized camps, expensive to travel from, and easy to overlook. Athletes there develop without constant reference points, often without external validation.
For Wonders, that isolation became formative.
Hunter Wonders, Hailey Swirbul, and Chip Schoff (former APU skier and wax tech) on a multi-day hut trip. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
Alaska, Off the Circuit
In Alaska, training is often solitary. Progress is built through lifestyle and repetition rather than comparison, and improvement is measured internally long before it is confirmed externally.
The winters matter. So does the darkness. Training extends into hours when daylight is no longer guaranteed, when motivation cannot depend on atmosphere or audience. You go out because it’s how you choose to live and enjoy your life.
That rhythm shaped Wonders’ relationship to skiing early. He did not grow up racing for recognition. He learned to train for alignment — the quiet sense that body, terrain, and effort were moving together. Alaska not only accelerated his trajectory. It birthed it.
Hunter Wonders (APU/Alaska) takes the lead in the U16 Boys Mass Start Freestyle race at the US Junior National Championship in Stowe, Vermont in 2014. (Photo: Voisin/FasterSkier)
A Childhood of Rotation
Wonders grew up chasing his older siblings — twin brother and sister, five years ahead — through a constantly shifting landscape of sports. Alpine skiing. Motocross. Soccer. Ski jumping. Biathlon. Mountain biking.
“Anytime I started getting into a sport, my family shifted away from that one,” he said.
The pattern was not neglect, but necessity. Supporting multiple competitive sports for multiple children eventually became unsustainable.
“My parents were like, all right, we can’t do all this stuff. We gotta limit it. And they chose to Nordic ski. And so naturally, I was kind of dragged into that scene.”
Nordic skiing, at least initially, was not a calling. It was what remained once the family consolidated its energy.
Wonders’ first encounter with skis reflects that informality.
“It was my dad playing with me on my back deck in 2001. And I’m not really skiing that much, but that was kind of my first encounter with it.”
There was no mythology attached to that moment. No sense of destiny. Skiing entered his life as play, then habit, then gradually — almost without announcement — as a central structure.
Hunter Wonders (APU/Alaska) winning the U16 Boys Mass Start Freestyle race at the 2014 US Junior National Championship in Stowe, Vermont. (Photo: Voisin/FasterSkier)
Stowe, Vermont
The first moment when that structure revealed competitive meaning came far from Alaska.
Wonders qualified for Junior Nationals in Stowe, Vermont, in 2014. He did so narrowly, selected as the fifth or sixth skier on Team Alaska.
“I barely made Team Alaska. But it was a big goal for me as a U16,” he said.
What followed surprised nearly everyone, including Wonders himself.
“And just out of nowhere, I ended up getting a second place in the individual start race and first place in the mass start. And that was just like, whoa, where did that come from?”
The results did not instantly rewrite his trajectory. But they altered his internal calculus.
“I think it kind of clicked for me that, okay, I can do this. I can be competitive.”
The significance of that realization was not the result itself, but permission. Permission to imagine a longer horizon.
The U.S. men’s silver-medal relay at the 2018 Junior World Championships in Goms, Switzerland, with (from left to right) Luke Jager, Hunter Wonders, Gus Schumacher, and Ben Ogden. (Photo: Julia Kern)
The Long Middle Begins
What followed was not a rapid ascent, but a prolonged middle years defined by steady development, incremental gains, and results that suggested promise without announcing arrival.
On the World Cup, Wonders often raced from the margins. Finishes in the 50s and 60s gave way slowly to finishes in the 30s. The progress was real, but it did not demand attention.
In American men’s skiing, where depth is both strength and complication, that middle can be unforgiving. Selection is rarely guaranteed. Criteria shift. Opportunity compresses.
Wonders responded the way he had learned to respond in Alaska: by focusing inward. Training remained central.
“For me, training has always been kind of the fun part… The training and living that lifestyle is really, really big to me.”
That orientation would become essential later — when the question was no longer how to improve, but whether improvement was still worth pursuing.
Hunter Wonders races at Government Peak Recreation Area, Palmer, Alaska, Nov. 14, 2021, in the season-opening Race to the Outhouse #1. (photo: Eric Strabel for APUNSC)
APU and Staying Put
Alaska Pacific University provided continuity during those years. It was neither a junior factory nor a national-team satellite. Its athletes often arrived through unconventional paths and stayed longer than expected.
For Wonders, APU offered stability without stagnation. Coaching relationships endured. Autonomy was preserved. Expectations were internal before they were external.
Progress was allowed to be slow.
That patience would later prove critical — because when Wonders eventually left the sport, and then considered returning, there was no system to rebuild, no trust to reestablish. The ground remained where he had left it.
Hunter Wonders (USA) on his way to 16th place in the 10 k Classic in Beitostolen, Norway in 2022. (Photo: NordicFocus)
Proof, Finally
The breakthrough season arrived quietly, without spectacle or announcement.
During the 2022–23 World Cup season, Wonders recorded the strongest international results of his career: a 16th-place finish in Beitostølen, Norway an 11th-place finish in Oberstdorf, Germany and a 23rd-place finish at Holmenkollen. The trajectory was unmistakable, even if it did not demand attention.
“For me, that was a big jump from spending my time in the 50s, 60s,” he said.
The significance of those results was not external. They did not alter his standing overnight or change how the sport viewed him. Their impact was internal.
“It felt good. To prove to myself that I could ski with some of the best out there.”
For years, that belief had existed as conviction rather than certainty. Now it had evidence. The question of whether he belonged — the one that had quietly governed training blocks, selections, and seasons — no longer needed answering.
What remained was not ambition, but choice.
Hunter Wonders (USA) on his way to 23rd place in the Holmenkollen 50 k Freestyle in Oslo, Norway in 2023. (Photo: Modica/NordicFocus)
Leaving Without Collapse
Retirement in endurance sport is often framed as inevitable. Bodies fail. Results decline. Motivation erodes. The decision arrives trailing visible causes.
Hunter Wonders’ retirement did not follow that pattern.
When he stepped away from World Cup racing in the spring of 2023, his career was not unraveling. It was consolidating. The season behind him had not forced his hand; it had freed it.
“My planned last World Cup… it was right after a really good season for me,” he said.
The timing mattered. He was not leaving with questions unanswered. He was leaving with a sense of completion.
For a long time, Wonders had believed he could compete at that level. Now he knew it. And that knowledge altered the logic of staying.
With the central doubt resolved, the future opened in unexpected ways. Instead of sharpening ambition, success created space to consider what life beyond skiing might look like, and whether the cost of continuing still made sense.
“I thought I was content. I thought I was, you know… ready to move on.”
The decision was not driven by exhaustion or dissatisfaction. It was driven by certainty — and by the rare freedom that certainty can bring.
Crust ski in the spring time (Wonders’ all time favorite form of skiing). (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
What It Means to Leave While Improving
Leaving while things are going well carries a specific psychological weight. There is no obvious decline to explain the decision. No external force to blame. The athlete leaves not because the door is closing, but because it remains open.
Improvement, once experienced, does not fade quietly. The body remembers what alignment feels like — when training, racing, and confidence converge. Walking away at that moment does not resolve ambition; it suspends it.
Wonders framed his retirement as closure. But closure in elite sport is rarely permanent. The unanswered questions tend to return first, often in subtler forms.
In his case, the unresolved question was not whether he could ski at the highest level. That had been answered. The question was whether he wanted to continue building a life that revolved so completely around it.
From Seasons to Paychecks
After stepping away, Wonders entered a different rhythm entirely.
“That whole following summer, I worked construction, learned a lot of new skills. That’s when I got my pilot’s license.”
The change was not symbolic. It was practical. Construction offered tangible progress — work that produced visible results and predictable compensation.
“Even when skiing was going well, I just wanted to get out of it and work a normal job, get the normal paycheck, things like that.”
The appeal of normalcy was not rooted in dissatisfaction with skiing. It was rooted in adulthood. After years of living season to season, the idea of stability carried weight.
At the same time, Wonders had recently completed his degree at Alaska Pacific University.
“I graduated with a bachelor’s in business administration,” he said.
What followed was a transition many elite athletes experience but rarely articulate.
“I found a really hard transition when I graduated from being a student athlete to just an athlete. I felt like I wasn’t progressing elsewhere in life. And that was pretty hard for me.”
Without coursework, semesters, or academic milestones, skiing existed in isolation. Progress on snow no longer corresponded to progress in life. The imbalance unsettled him.
The Second Discipline
Aviation entered that gap not as a hobby, but as a parallel discipline.
“I have my pilot’s license now, and I’ve been working on my instrument rating,” Wonders said.
He described the training with precision.
“Being able to fly only using what’s on the dashboard of the plane. Basically, no looking outside the plane.”
Instrument flight is unforgiving. It demands trust in systems over instinct, procedure over perception. For Wonders, it offered a structure that mirrored elite sport without duplicating it.
“It’s been giving me something to work on outside of skiing, which has been really nice.”
More importantly, it offered psychological margin.
“It’s a very important thing for me, I think, to not feel trapped.”
The word matters. Trapped implies more than fatigue or burnout. It implies a loss of agency — the sense that leaving would erase identity rather than expand it.
Aviation gave Wonders a way to be committed to skiing without being consumed by it.
A Life That Almost Fit
For a time, the other life worked.
Construction days were long and direct. Progress was visible. Paychecks arrived on schedule. Flight training offered complexity, mastery, and forward motion.
The pace was different. The stakes were different. The feedback was immediate.
Skiing receded into the background — not as a regret, but as a completed chapter.
Yet even in that distance, the sport did not disappear entirely. It remained embedded in routine, in memory, in the body’s sense of what effort felt like.
Wonders did not describe missing racing. He described missing the calendar.
In November of 2022 Hunter Wonders (USA) was on his way to 30th place at the opening World Cup weekend in Ruka, Finland, but a year later he was home in Alaska. (Photo: NordicFocus)
November
“When everyone started peacing out to go race, I was like, man, what am I doing?”
November arrived the way it always does in elite skiing — as a turning point. Training blocks gave way to travel. Preparation became exposure.
For athletes still inside the system, November is movement. For those who have stepped away, it is absence.
The routines disappear first. Then the shared language. Eventually, the calendar itself feels unfamiliar.
Wonders’ realization was not emotional. It was logistical.
“I can always be installing insulation in some random house someday, but I can’t be skiing forever.”
November clarified something Wonders had not fully confronted while working construction or studying flight manuals: skiing was not just a job he had left. It was a window with an expiration date.
The question was no longer whether another life was possible. That had been answered. The question was whether he was prepared to let the skiing life close while it remained viable.
APU Head Coach Erik Flora, Chip Schoff, and Oscar Flora after getting the PistenBully running on Eagle Glacier last spring. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
The Conversation That Changed the Direction
Wonders began talking again with his APU coach, Erik Flora. The conversations were not urgent.
“He was very enthusiastic about my getting back into skiing. And so that just made that step a little easier.”
There was no pressure to return immediately. No demand for proof. The space remained open.
What followed was not an impulsive comeback, but a deliberate reconstruction.
Fishing trip on the Gulkana river this last September with close friends. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
A Three-Year Calendar
Rather than simply resuming his previous life, Wonders built a framework designed to prevent the same tension from reemerging.
“I just planned out this three-year calendar kind of to right now,” he said.
The calendar was not about training volume or race targets.
“I blocked off weeks that I was like, okay, these chunks of time, I’m not going to be thinking about ski racing.”
Those blocks were non-negotiable.
Moose hunting with his father and brother. Fishing weekends on the Kenai Peninsula. Commitments that anchored him to a life beyond snow.
“There are certain things I was willing to give up and certain things I wasn’t.”
The decision to return was conditional. Skiing would be central again, but not all-consuming.
Moose hunting camp with his dad and brother in interior Alaska. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
The Return, Without Announcement
When Hunter Wonders returned to full-time racing, there was no formal reintroduction. No narrative reset. No expectation that the sport should receive him differently than it had before.
He did not return as a project. He returned as a person who had already tested the alternative.
The first season back was uneven by his own account — fitness arriving in pieces, rhythm coming and going — but the framework held. The calendar he had built remained intact. The boundaries were not abandoned under pressure.
“Coming back from retirement wasn’t the easiest. Not… not the most productive thing,” he said.
The difference this time was not performance. It was posture. He no longer treated each result as a referendum on identity. He had already stepped outside the system once and learned what waited there.
That knowledge altered how he handled uncertainty.
Hunter Wonders (USA) during the 10 k Freestyle in Les Rousses, France of January of 2025. (Photo: Authamayou/NordicFocus)
Progress Without Urgency
As the return season unfolded, improvement came incrementally — the way it always had for Wonders. There was no single race that announced transformation. Instead, there was accumulation: training blocks completed, races absorbed, effort normalized.
The quiet confidence that had once been provisional now appeared settled. Racing no longer felt like a test of belonging. It felt like execution.
That distinction matters in Olympic years, when urgency can distort judgment. Athletes often feel pressure to force form, to manufacture moments that prove readiness. Wonders did not describe that impulse. He described a narrowing focus.
“I really tried to narrow the focus. And limit some distractions in the last year. I just wanted to go all in.”
The phrase carried none of its earlier desperation. “All in” now meant presence rather than sacrifice — committing fully to skiing while refusing to let it consume everything else.
Hunter Wonders (#369 – APU) on his way to winning the opening race, a 10 k Individual Start Classic, at the US National Championships in Lake Placid, New York, at the beginning of January. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
The Olympic Winter, Reframed
Olympic selection seasons tend to magnify everything. Results are scrutinized more closely. Criteria are parsed more aggressively. Small margins carry exaggerated meaning.
For athletes who have never stepped outside the system, that pressure can feel total. For Wonders, it did not.
He had already lived the other version of his life — the one with construction hours, flight manuals, and normal paychecks. He knew that version was viable. He also knew it was incomplete.
That knowledge changed how the Olympic Winter Games landed.
The selection process did not define him. It tested him.
Hunter Wonders (USA) racing the 10 k Classic in Oberhof, Germany on the final weekend of racing that was considered for making the US Olympic Team. (Photo: Authamayou/NordicFocus)
Selection as Consequence
When the Olympic team was named, Wonders’ response did not resemble arrival. It resembled recognition.
“My parents are coming over. I’m very excited about that,” he said.
Their presence mattered more than the announcement itself.
“Regardless of whether I made the Olympics or not, they were going to be supportive and proud.”
That certainty allowed the moment to settle without drama.
Still, the meaning was clear.
“To me, making the Olympics is kind of like paying them back… like, I finally made it.”
The phrasing was not triumphant. It was relational. The Olympics were not framed as destiny fulfilled, but as acknowledgment earned — proof that the years of logistics, travel, and patience had resolved into something concrete.
Hunter Wonders (USA) during the 20 k Classic Mass Start in Goms, Switzerland, the weekend after he had been named to the US Olympic Team. (Photo: Authamayou/NordicFocus)
After the Goal
The days after selection often reveal more than the selection itself. For many athletes, the achievement creates a vacuum. The central question disappears, replaced by a quieter one: Now what?
Wonders articulated that shift immediately.
“Now it’s hard. I’ve been kind of thinking about now, what are my goals going forward?”
Qualification had resolved the season’s largest uncertainty. It also removed the shelter of pursuit.
“I don’t want to look like a bum at the Olympics… that’s not why I came here.”
The bluntness mattered. Making the team had never been the end of the story. It was a threshold — one that demanded a different kind of clarity.
Wonders taking his friend, who’s also a pilot, on a flight while he visits Alaska. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
Flying by Instruments
The metaphor that runs quietly through Wonders’ story — though he never names it as such — is aviation.
“Being able to fly only using what’s on the dashboard of the plane,” he said, describing his instrument rating.
Instrument flight requires a specific discipline. When visibility disappears, instinct becomes unreliable. The pilot must trust systems rather than sensation, training rather than impulse.
That discipline mirrors the way Wonders has navigated his return. He has learned not to chase feelings — not to react to noise — but to trust the structures he has built.
In an Olympic year defined by margins, criteria, and scrutiny, that trust is rare.
When these two embrace each other next, they will have gone from this first ski on the back deck all the way to the Olympics. (Photo: Courtesy Photo)
A Different Kind of Olympic Story
Hunter Wonders will arrive at the Olympic Games as a first-time Olympian. He will not arrive as someone who chased the Olympics at all costs.
He has already lived the alternative. He knows what it means to step away, to build another life, to find meaning beyond the sport. That knowledge changes how the Olympics function in his story.
The arc matters because it resists simplification. It does not fit neatly into the narratives elite sport prefers — prodigy, burnout, comeback. It occupies a quieter space: adulthood.
Wonders did not return because he had nothing else. He returned because he chose skiing again — deliberately, with boundaries intact, with the instruments checked and trusted.
In endurance sport, where careers are often defined by urgency and fear of loss, that choice may be the rarest qualification of all.
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If Hunter Wonders (#302) earns an Olympic start this February, hopefully, it will be a little less chaotic than the start of the US Junior National Championship in Stowe, Vermont, in 2014. (Photo: Voisin/FasterSkier)
The men’s Classic Sprint heats got started with quarterfinal number one at the US Nationals Cross-Country Ski Championship at Mt Vanhoevenberg in Lake Placid NY. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
The last day of the U.S. National Cross-Country Ski Championships in Lake Placid arrived the way honest days in this sport often do. The snow at Mt. Van Hoevenberg had been churned and scoured by a week of racing and changing weather, its surface no longer pristine but revealing, the kind that gives little for free. Legs were tired. Arms were tender. Expectations had been trimmed back by accumulated kilometers and decisions already made.
For the men lining up for the classic sprint, this was not simply a final chance at a national title. In an Olympic winter, nothing is ever only what it claims to be. The sprint was an audition—not necessarily for Olympic selection, but for relevance. For future start rights. For the ability to say, credibly, that range still exists.
Sprint qualification, in particular, has a way of stripping sport down to its essentials. No drafting. No hiding. One lap to explain yourself. As has been said all week about sprints, it does not matter how clever you are in the heats if you cannot arrive there in the first place. In Lake Placid, that truth shaped the day from the first starter onward.
Fin Bailey (UVM) makes his way up the Lake Placid sprint course’s signature climb. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
Qualification: where the day declares itself
Qualification mattered here in a way that went beyond podiums and medals. With sprint start rights in the World Cup largely determined by qualification speed, the men knew exactly what was at stake. If this were a sorting mechanism, it was a blunt one.
The fastest man through the course was John Schwinghamer, whose time at the top of the board set the early benchmark. But the story quickly widened. Pierre Grall-Johnson followed closely, and then Will Koch, who would soon become central to the day’s most unusual tactical thread, placed third.
A few seconds farther back sat a cluster of names that told a deeper story: athletes with distance pedigrees, athletes chasing U23 selection, athletes managing fatigue from a long week and still trying to produce speed on demand.
Among them was Zanden McMullen, who qualified tenth, solid but not dominant. “The qualifier felt a little off,” McMullen admitted. “I didn’t feel smooth and thought I skied poorly through the terrain. I was happy to qualify and have another chance to improve on the day.”
That, in retrospect, was the quiet warning shot.
Classic striding versus powerful double poling was one of the key storylines in the men’s Classic Sprint. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
A decision made in minutes
If qualification is the most honest part of sprinting, it is also where improvisation sometimes reveals itself. Koch arrived at the start line with little margin and even less certainty.
“I was already pretty tired going into the classic sprint,” Koch said. A bonk midway through the 20-kilometer freestyle earlier in the week had drained his reserves, and classic sprint had never been his strength. “With about ten minutes to go before my qualifier, I still couldn’t get my classic skis to kick.”
The decision that followed was not theoretical. Koch asked his coach to prepare a pair of skate skis — not as a backup, but as a commitment. He reached the start with roughly 90 seconds to spare, hoping that strength alone might be enough to advance.
Third in the qualifier erased doubt immediately. “When I ended up third, I knew it was the right call,” he said. “I never even tested a classic ski the rest of the day.”
The gamble would ripple through every round that followed.
Will Koch (SVSEF) powered through the qualification and heats, double poling on skate skis. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
Heats: when fatigue starts to speak
Classic sprint heats at Mt. Van Hoevenberg reward clarity. The course offers opportunities, but they are conditional. Mistime a move, and the course and competition punish hesitation. Get trapped behind the wrong skis, and speed evaporates.
Koch’s plan was simple and exhausting: lead early, create space before the climb, and survive long enough for glide to matter again. “If I could crest the climb with the group, my skis would be fast enough to carry me through,” he explained.
For a time, it worked exactly as intended.
But others were playing different games.
Zach Jayne arrived at the sprint with a different set of calculations. Already qualified for U23 Worlds and carrying a narrow SuperTour points lead, his goals were layered. “I wanted to finish strong,” Jayne said. “I also wanted to make the final so I could displace other U23 athletes and help ensure my teammate Max Kluck made the trip.”
Jayne, Koch, and teammate Carl Rune all opted to double-pole the heats on skate skis, a choice that paid dividends early. “It worked really well in the quarterfinal,” Jayne said. “But as the rounds went on and fatigue built, I was definitely wishing I’d brought a pair of klister skis.”
That fatigue — cumulative, unrelenting — became the quiet theme of the afternoon.
Zanden McMullen (APU) showed he had made the right calculations for himself in the final, creating a gap on the large climb, which he was able to maintain on the final downhill. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
Trusting kick in uncertain snow
While some chased glide, Max Kluck made a different bet. His week had been defined by nerves more than novelty. “I was more nervous than I’ve been in years,” Kluck said. “I knew my U23 spot was on the line.”
The snow tempted experimentation, but Kluck resisted. “I was pretty certain I wanted to stay on classic skis unless the weather took a major turn,” he explained. “I stuck with my gut.”
The reward came immediately. In the quarterfinals, Kluck ran the climb with confidence, kick biting cleanly while others labored, arms already beginning to pay the price. “I figured I might be able to make double-poling work once,” he said. “But I didn’t think I could personally do it four times.”
His solution was economy. By trusting his wax and striding more often, Kluck preserved his upper body for the finishing straight — a detail that would matter later.
UVM’s Fin Bailey was showing he was on form and a threat for the podium throughout the heats, but his final got off to an unlucky start with a broken pole. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
The final: legs versus arms
By the time the final assembly was complete, the calculus was visible even from the sidelines. The men who had double-poled all day carried speed — and fatigue. Those who had relied on kick carried legs.
McMullen understood the equation precisely. “Going into the final, I knew the few boys that double-poled all day would be tired,” he said. “My plan was to keep them in reach before the final climb and then gap them.”
Snow conditions had continued to degrade, wind and rain complicating grip and timing. McMullen’s classic skis, however, remained reliable. “Our classic skis felt good,” he said. “I didn’t think there was a need to try and double-pole the race.”
When the decisive climb arrived, McMullen did not hesitate. He strung together clean transitions, trusted his kick, and separated decisively. “I felt really fresh still at the start of the final,” he said. “I knew I would be able to run away with it.”
Behind him, the chase unfolded exactly as predicted. Koch’s glide carried him, but the cost of four rounds of double-poling showed. Kluck’s restraint paid dividends, his saved arms helping him close strongly. Jayne fought valiantly through fatigue, his earlier work for teammates already done.
McMullen crossed the line alone — a national champion not because he had chased novelty, but because he had waited for the moment that mattered.
Zanden McMullen (APU) comes to the finish of the Classic Sprint with his second national title in as many days at the US Nationals Cross-Country Ski Championship at Mt Van Hoevenberg in Lake Placid, NY. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
What the result actually means
The men’s classic sprint did not reshape Olympic selection overnight. Sprint specialists were unlikely to be named from Nationals alone. But the race clarified something subtler and perhaps more important.
It showed who can adapt under stress. Who can make decisions when plans unravel? Who understands that qualification speed opens doors long before medals do?
For Koch, the day was a revelation. “The classic sprint was a really pleasant surprise to end the week,” he said, even as he acknowledged that broader goals remained unmet.
For Jayne, consistency mattered more than headlines. “I don’t race to prove people right or wrong,” he said. “I know what I’m capable of.”
For Kluck, the outcome was tangible. “Securing my U23 spot was the biggest goal of my season,” he said. “Locking it down here feels incredible.”
And for McMullen, the victory was both affirmation and invitation. “I hope people know now that I’m an all-around skier,” he said. “And I hope the Olympic selection committee knows I have a lot of potential to succeed at the Olympics.”
Zanden McMullen (APU) first place, Will Koch (SVSEF) second place, and Max Kluck (UU) third place at the US Nationals Cross-Country Ski Championship Classic Sprint at Mt Vanhoevenberg in Lake Placid NY. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
A quiet ending, honestly earned
As the course emptied and the equipment was packed away, Mt. Van Hoevenberg returned to stillness. Another Nationals was complete. Another set of arguments had been made — not loudly, not always cleanly, but honestly.
Sprint racing, especially in January of an Olympic year, has a way of revealing truths athletes might prefer to delay. Qualification does not negotiate. Fatigue does not compromise. Decisions, once made, echo through every climb and corner that follows.
On this final day in Lake Placid, the men who listened closely to their bodies, their skis, and the snow underfoot, were the ones who left with something lasting.
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What was truly on display this week at the US Nationals Cross-Country Ski Championship at Mt Van Hoevenberg in Lake Placid, NY was not only that cross-country skiing is an awesome sport, but the community that embodies it is something worth celebrating. (Photo Nancie Battaglia)
Traffic was thick at the beginning of the US National Cross-Country Ski Championship Women’s 20 k Freestyle Mass Start in Lake Placid, NY. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
There is a particular moment in a long mass start when the race quietly declares what it will be. It does not arrive with a surge, a crash, or even a decisive move. It arrives when the pack thins just enough that the edges of the course begin to matter—when skis no longer overlap cleanly, when passing requires intention, and when each athlete realizes—often simultaneously—that this is no longer a collective undertaking.
At Mt. Van Hoevenberg, that moment came early.
The women’s 20-kilometer freestyle mass start at the 2026 U.S. National Cross-Country Ski Championships unfolded under conditions that rewarded clarity and punished hesitation. The course was wide in places, narrow in consequence. Fresh snow lined the edges, slower and heavier than the main track, turning every attempt to move forward into a calculation of cost. The pace at the front was honest from the gun—fast enough to string the field out, fast enough to strip away the illusion that patience alone would bring opportunity.
In an Olympic winter, Nationals rarely exist in isolation. They are arguments as much as races, each result carrying the quiet weight of future conversations. But on this morning, before selection scenarios and season arcs could intrude, the race itself demanded attention. Four laps. Twenty kilometers. A course that climbs insistently and asks athletes to be precise even when tired.
What followed was not one story, but several—layered, intersecting, and revealing.
Colorado’s Tilde Bångman did much of the work at the front of the Women’s 20 k Freestyle Mass Start in Lake Placid, NY. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
The Fast Start That Changed Everything
From near the front, the race immediately took on the shape many expected. Kendall Kramer, eager to avoid the kind of chaos that can derail a mass start before it has truly begun, made her intentions clear.
“I wanted to go out fast because I didn’t want any funny business—colliding or breaking equipment,” Kramer said later. “I was super looking forward to being in the front of a mass start after being caught in the back on World Cups.”
For Kramer, the early pace felt familiar rather than reckless. World Cups, she noted, often begin faster than domestic races, and the instinct to establish position early has become second nature. The speed was assertive but manageable. She felt fit, capable, present.
Behind her, the effect was immediate. The field stretched, then fractured, then reorganized into smaller, more intentional units. For athletes starting deeper in the field, this stringing-out created both opportunity and pressure.
Novie McCabe, starting from bib 26, felt the opening kilometers open rather than close.
“My plan for the start was just to stay relaxed and try to work my way up,” she said. “It honestly ended up being easier than expected because the front girls took it out so fast. It was very strung out, and there was lots of room to move around.”
Within minutes, McCabe had navigated cleanly into the front group. What followed was less about advancing and more about survival.
“I got to the front pack about three minutes into the race,” she said. “So I spent most of it there just trying to hang on for as long as I could—and ended up having it in me to hang till the end.”
That phrase—hang on—would recur in different forms throughout the day, taking on slightly different meanings depending on where each skier found herself in the race.
Ava Thurston (#8 – Dartmouth) couldn’t quite hang on to the lead group of three, but eventually skied with Hailey Swirbul (#67 – APU) and Haley Brewster (#46 – UVM) before finishing fourth overall and third-place American. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
When the Front Pulls Away
Not everyone who tested the front pace could stay there.
Late in the first lap, Ava Thurston made her own attempt to bridge. She came close enough to feel the rhythm of the leaders, close enough to understand the cost.
“I tried to get back onto the front group, and I got pretty close,” Thurston said. “But I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to match their pace.”
The realization came with consequences. For a brief stretch, she found herself skiing alone—a dangerous place in a mass start, especially early, when gaps can grow quietly and decisively.
“That was where I did have a little bit of that panic,” she admitted.
The panic did not last. Company arrived in the form of Hailey Swirbul and Haley Brewster, and with it, perspective.
“Once I was skiing with them, I was kind of just thinking, ‘This is a good group. I can stay with these guys,’” Thurston said.
From there, her race became less about chasing what was ahead and more about managing what was happening around her. She tucked in, matched surges, and responded quickly to small separations before they became something larger.
“There were a couple of times where I would fall off the pack just a little bit,” she said. “Each time, I worked hard to get right back on before letting it be a big gap. I was really stoked on that.”
On a course like Van Hoevenberg—four laps of sustained uphill skating—those moments add up. Fitness is exposed repeatedly, not all at once. For Thurston, the race offered reassurance.
“This was the first race longer than 10k I’d done this year, and the first mass start that wasn’t a sprint,” she said. “It was a really good indicator that my fitness is there. It’s hard to fake anything on this course.”
She would finish fourth, clearly separated from the podium trio but equally clear of the deeper chase—an honest result in a demanding field.
With higher FIS points from not racing the past two seasons, Hailey Swirbul (#67 – APU) needed to ski through a lot of traffic during the early kilometers, but eventually found herself in the chase pack. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
Racing From the Back Without Racing Small
While the front and mid-pack sorted themselves, Hailey Swirbul was running an entirely different race.
Starting from bib 67, she entered the day knowing she would need to be deliberate.
“I didn’t even realize I would be seated so far back until the start list came out,” she said. “Obviously, I would be, because my FIS points aren’t low at this point—but it was an experience.”
The challenge was not simply moving forward. It was how to do so without paying too steep a price.
“The edges of the course had fresh snow on them,” Swirbul explained. “It was much slower, and a much higher energy expenditure to get around people that way.”
Instead of forcing passes, she waited. Instead of locking into the pace of whatever group surrounded her at a given moment, she kept her attention forward.
“I almost approached the first couple laps like an individual start,” she said. “It’s really easy to lock into the group you’re around and forget about the people ahead of you.”
Women’s racing, she noted, often begins with a fast, destabilizing surge—a period where the goal is simply to hang on long enough for things to settle.
“That’s exactly what happened today,” she said. “The leaders go fast, string it out, and then the real race starts again.”
For Swirbul, the balance was constant: advancing through traffic while respecting the race’s length.
“A 20k is a long race,” she said. “You can’t really pay for it.”
Though she never bridged to the front trio, Swirbul finished fifth—solidly clear of the next wave behind her—and left the course satisfied with her execution and proud of the broader team effort.
“Our coach absolutely crushed it with skis and feeds,” she said. “It was a good day to be APU.”
Novie McCabe (APU) maintained contact on the uphills and used the downhills to close the small gaps to Tilde Bångman (CU) at the front of the race. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
The Margins at the Front
At the sharp end, the race narrowed to a familiar dynamic: strength, speed, and patience under pressure.
As the kilometers mounted, Tilde Bångman began to apply pressure on the climbs, testing the group’s elasticity. By mid-race, the front had distilled to three: Bångman, McCabe, and Kramer. The chase group behind them was no longer within striking distance, and the podium places would be decided among those three alone.
McCabe felt the pressure immediately.
“In the last few kilometers, Tilde was skiing super strong and still really pushing the pace,” she said. “She would gap me a little bit on some of the hills.”
Each gap mattered. Each closure required confidence—in skis, in timing, and in restraint.
“I had some super good skis, so I was able to glide back up to her,” McCabe said.
The plan crystallized: stay attached through the final hill, try once to make a move, and if that failed, save everything for the finish.
“I tried to get a gap on the last hill, which didn’t quite work,” she said. “So I tried one last time at the finish.”
It was enough.
McCabe crossed the line first, securing the national title after a race built not on constant aggression, but on measured commitment. The emotion that surfaced surprised even her.
“I think when I crossed the line, I mostly just felt super happy to be back racing and feeling like myself,” she said.
The win mattered. So did what it represented.
“Going into this week, I wasn’t sure it was the best idea for me to race frequently this season,” she said. “Now I have a lot more confidence that I can race—and maybe more importantly, recover from racing.”
In an Olympic year, that distinction is not trivial.
The lead pack and eventual overall podium with Kendall Kramer (APU), Tilde Bångman (CU), and Novie McCabe (APU) (l – r). (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
Kramer’s Race: Control Without Regret
For Kendall Kramer, the separation late in the race came not through fitness, but friction.
“My skis slowed down as they went,” she said. “They started to feel sticky—like I skied through too much Gatorade or something.”
The effect was most pronounced on the downhills, where speed should have come freely.
“The girls had to push my poles to speed me up to keep together,” she said. “Eventually, they could just gap on all the downhills.”
Once the gap formed, Kramer shifted her focus from contesting the win to finishing the race well.
“I’m happy to maintain my place and feel good,” she said. “I can’t complain.”
What she wanted from the race, she explained, was not chaos or last-minute risk, but sustained pressure in a small group.
“I wanted a small pack where we could test at every little bit,” she said, “as opposed to leaving it to a sprint or taking risks at a time like this.”
She finished third, completing the podium, and left Lake Placid without repeating her national title—but with confirmation that mattered just as much.
“I felt fit and totally capable today,” she said. “I didn’t feel bad feelings.”
Novie McCabe (APU) managed to put a small gap on teammate Kendall Kramer to get away with Tilde Bångman (CU) and eventually ski to the national title in the finish stretch. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
What the Race Revealed
By the time the women completed their fourth lap, the story of the day was no longer about who surged when, but about how each athlete managed the same course differently—and honestly.
McCabe raced with restraint until she no longer needed to. Kramer raced with intent and accepted the margins. Thurston learned, adjusted, and confirmed her distance fitness. Swirbul navigated from deep in the field with patience and clarity.
None of those narratives exists in isolation. Together, they form a portrait of a championship race that did what the best distance races always do: expose truth without exaggeration.
At U.S. Nationals, the women did not simply ski 20 kilometers. They negotiated space, managed doubt, trusted preparation, and tested belief.
In an Olympic winter, those are not side effects.
They are the point.
The national podium for the US National Cross-Country Ski Championship Women’s 20 k Freestyle Mass Start with Novie McCabe (APU) first, Kendall Kramer (APU) second, and Ava Thurston (Dartmouth) third. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
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The overall podium for the US National Cross-Country Ski Championship Women’s 20 k Freestyle Mass Start with Novie McCabe (APU) first, Tilde Bångman (CU) second, and Kendall Kramer (APU) third. (Photo: Nancie Battaglia)
