SNOWSHOES
Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Robert Frost
Life has been full to the brim, lately. Being a single mom to a vibrant teen lass, the steward of two high-energy lab mix dogs, and engaged in a fulfilling career can be consuming even without the further enrichment of extracurricular personal and community activities. Late summer was spent training for a 50k run, successfully accomplished towards the end of October. Just about every other spare moment in September and October, my daughter and I spent as part of the cast in our community theater’s production of The Music Man, which closed the last weekend in October. My recently widowed mother came for her first ever solo visit for a week to see the show, and of course, we totally embrace Halloween. When the heavy training for the run, my mom going back to Montana, the musical, and holiday events all ceased simultaneously, I felt misplaced. My dogs, however, were elated! I now had a free weekend to take them on an adventure.
The weekend came. Friday evening, I drove an hour to meet my daughter’s dad. It was his weekend to enjoy her company. She would be at her dad’s until Sunday afternoon, leaving the dogs and I unsupervised. I drove back home, dropped off the pups, and went to the local pub for a beer and a burger. While hanging out at the bar, I pulled out my phone, opened a map app, and made plans. My eyes were drawn to a local trail typically too populated for my taste, but possessed of a rewarding viewpoint.. The trail is an out and back, about 10 miles round trip, has a 1,200 ft elevation gain, topping out at 10,415 ft. The destination is an overlook of Wyoming’s Wind River range that makes one reconsider their place on this planet. You emerge abruptly from dense forest at a rugged rock outcropping with massive, jagged boulders. Just beyond the boulders is a sheer drop to an expansive canyon that holds indigo blue lakes lying like blueberry jelly beans tossed on the forest floor. The mountains rise steeply from the lakes to eventually create a jagged sawtooth horizon containing about 20 of the prominent peaks of the Wind River range. If you’re lucky, this time of year the sawtooth horizon will be a stark white and slate line against a cerulean sky.
Typically, several times a year I run it during a summer night, catch the sunrise at the overlook, and run back in the early morning. This timing avoids most of the people, dogs, horses, mules, lamas, goats, and yaks that humans employ to carry their lunch for them. There are only a handful of humans as loony as I am who hike the path in the starlight, and even fewer of the pack animals. I had not made the journey yet this season. As the snow had already arrived in the mountains, I was running out of time before the road to the trailhead was open only for pedestrian traffic.
Saturday morning, chores ensnared me and pushed off the run. The weather promised to be the same on both days. Sunday morning, I woke without an alarm and started gathering my gear. This should have been done the night before, but it was a weekend for procrastination. When hiking in winter weather, I usually take a day pack with an emergency bivy, my stove, extra layers, and the like. The inReach was tossed in as a promise to my mama if I am where there isn’t a phone signal, and a battery too. I have a silly phobia of the cold that inspires a little extra caution. I asked around for insight on the snow depth up there to decide if spikes or snowshoes would be needed. I decided to bring the spikes and leave the shoes.
While gathering my gear, I became aware of a familiar rushing sound. The view out the living room window was gray and soggy. It was pouring rain outside! This really put me in a quandary. It isn’t that I shy away from rain or snow. It’s just that I tend to be a little cautious and I had a time limitation. I needed to be done hiking by 3:30 PM so I could go meet my daughter’s dad at our exchange spot and retrieve my offspring. I stared fretfully out the window, cursing my procrastination when Saturday was so ideal. Engaging in denial, or positivity if you prefer, I persisted in preparing. Departure was delayed as long as possible, and I decided that rain at the house was merely beautiful fluffy snow up on the trail. I was convinced the rain would stop by the time we arrived at the trailhead. Power of positive thinking and all. Also, if the weather was too sketchy, I promised to turn back.
I arrived at the trailhead in exactly enough time to make it to the overlook and back, IF it was easy travel. Large snowflakes were suspended in the mist, and the sky was a soft gray with some blue emerging in the distance. There was a good chance that the view from the overlook would be entirely obscured by clouds, but I was willing to take that chance, being that, no matter the destination, the journey is most of the fun.
Unsurprisingly, there was only one other vehicle at the trailhead, so peaceful solitude would be at hand. I set a timer for two hours so I wouldn’t lose track of the turn-around time, and the boys and I set out on the trail. They were elated! They both love snow and hiking, so this was a double treat. And it being the first snow of the year for them, a super adventure.
About three minutes into the trail, I notice scarlet drops of fresh blood on the snow. One of the dogs is bleeding. I call them both to me and investigate. Juniper, my three-year-old aussie chocolate lab cross, has vertically split the toenail on his front right paw. It just nicked the quick. He’s not impressed with it, it isn’t slowing him down. Not much does. I figure the cold snow is probably the best thing for it, so we press on.
About a mile in, we encounter two hunters, I’m guessing a romantic pair, hiking to the trailhead. They are not successful hunters, but they seem pleased to be out in the fresh snow. They compliment me on my well-behaved boys, and we proceed in our opposite directions. After finishing my 50k, I decided that, for a spell at least, my adventures would be for the dogs and for the joy of it. I would let pace go, take pictures, rest when I wanted to, and just immerse myself entirely, be present in the experience. Even so, there was a niggling in my head that I needed to press on and make my goal. So, I picked up the pace just a bit, I did want to make it to the overlook before needing to return.
The boys and I gobbled up the trail, passing through a channel of deadfall from a fantastic wind storm several autumns ago. The trail winds through thick woods and the abundant down-fall was sawn to clear the trail of the massive trunks laying across it. Enormous roots and sawn trunks outline the path, making it feel like a tangled wooden trench. There were no tracks to follow. It had been snowing all morning, erasing what may have been there. Eventually, the trail emerged into a vast meadow that in the summer is painted by colorful wildflowers. I took a few moments to observe the meadow. A blanket of snow thick enough to cover the grass and shrubs glittered, white and trackless. Memories always seep into my heart and out of my eyes when entering this meadow. I pause to honor them, remembering a January camping trip with the father of my daughter, nearly 17 years ago.
That camping trip was my first time on snowshoes. He hung a colorful banner of prayer flags, dug out trenches and rooms for the tent and kitchen, and built a big, warm fire to make sure I was comfortable. Even in -20 F degrees, with the fire and the snow cave, I was warm in just my snow pants and sweater. All these years later, I could still walk to the location of the campsite and let the memories warm my cheeks like the fire did all those years ago.
Absolute silence hung in the sparkling gray air. I could hear my heart and the dogs’ panting, but little else. The sky had a few small glimmers of blue in the distance, windows to extensive ethereal mountain landscapes. I started walking again, the sound of crunching snow beneath my feet took over the thick silence. The trail had vanished in the meadow, with the drifting snow completely erasing the trace from view. I knew where the path was hidden, there was a marker at an intersection, so it wasn’t a concern. It is easier, however, even in the knee-deep snow, to walk on the trail. I observed, for the first time, a vague line of large boulders and realized that they had been moved, just enough, to line the trail. I aimed for a path downslope of them. My timer rang, letting me know half of my allotted time had passed. The overlook is about one mile from this point, and my return would be downhill on a now broken trail. To make it to the overlook and return on time, I would need to be 40 minutes faster, which is more than half again the pace I had kept thus far. There was a voice saying, “that’s doable Jennie.”
At the other side of the meadow, in the trees again, the trail re-emerged. The limbs of the trees catch much of the snow and so the depth was reduced to a mere few inches. We wound around a few colossal and erratic boulders. Twisting around a sharp turn, the dogs became spooked. Juniper was nervous and Buster, a one-eyed, two-year-old lab mix I recently adopted, simply would not take another step. In this moment, I realized I left my bear spray at home. I unwound the leashes from my waist and hooked up the boys. They calmed down and we proceeded in-tether down the trail. There are several ponds just before the overlook, they lay invisible due to the snow cover. I doubted the ponds were completely frozen, slush was filling my tracks. Tethered as a trio, we carried on.
Arriving at the overlook, and despite the truncated timeframe, I stopped to gaze across the Wind River range. There was a gray cloud suspended just below the peaks, but everything up to the horizon was quite vivid, if monochromatic. The trees look gray when covered in a light dusting of snow. The lakes were gunmetal blue, and the snow was white against a dove gray sky. Everything had the feel of rumpled old denim. The silence was eerie. I took some photos and a few deep breaths, appreciating the silence and solitude.
Being contained within an expansive view, likely unchanged for millions of viewers over tens of thousands of years, somehow makes me calm. I feel an understanding of my priorities, and my role in everything. I turned around to head downhill in my own tracks. No longer reliant on electronic devices as my steps lead the way. I never did see what spooked the dogs, and Juniper’s paw had quit bleeding. So once past the ponds, I took the boys off the lead and let them run free. We meandered through the boulders and crossed the meadow. From the edge of the forest, the trail went fast, and the snow was no longer deep. About halfway back to the trailhead, we encountered tracks that weren’t mine. Someone had come through the woods and joined the trail after I had been there. We never met them, still alone in our wilderness.
One minute over my allotted time, we arrived at the trailhead, now vacant. The cold engine coughed to life, the dogs sprawled exhausted across the seat. I turned the wheel to head for my daughter, bright, beautiful, born sixteen years ago last autumn. And remember her conception, on a cold January night, tucked deep in a snow blanketed meadow, the first time I wore snowshoes.
