My
phone makes that weird noise that indicates I have a new text. I sigh audibly because sometimes my text
messages are annoying. Sometimes they’re
from my phone provider reminding me that they’ll be taking out my monthly
payment via auto-debit, as if after years and years of having the same
provider, I don’t already know this information. Sometimes it’s a text warning me of something
important – Amber alert, a roadblock or an accident fifty miles south of
here, weather notices of impending doom and gloom.
This
new text is a doozie: Do you want to go snowshoeing?
With
three feet of snow already on the ground and flurries due over the next few
days (not to mention another storm for the weekend), snowshoeing sounds like
fun, but I don’t know for sure. You see,
I’ve never tried snowshoeing before.
I
figure snowshoeing probably requires the same outfit shoveling in three feet of
snow does: boots, heavy socks, snow pants, jacket, fleece, scarf, hat, and
gloves. When I arrive at my friend’s
house, we decide to run a couple of errands and stop for lunch before going out
in the snow. This way we can drag our
other friend (her next door neighbor) out with us. My friends both live on the west side of
town, and their property abuts some public-owned walking trails. If we cut through the woods, there’s a big
field we can snowshoe around.
I
am no stranger to bombing through the woods in too-deep snow. I grew up pulling stunts like this with my
sister and pals through the acres of woods surrounding our house in New
Hampshire. We’d never heard of cross
country skis or recreational snowshoes, so we would strap on our downhill skis
and cut our own paths through trees, boulders, and over wood piles. Our favorite path was straight down the front
walk, across the part of the driveway we never shoveled in winter, and right
into the low branches of the summer bike trails we cut through the woods. I didn’t hit a real ski hill (with groomed
trails and mechanical tows) until I had well-mastered the art of kamikaze downhill
forest skiing. How we managed to get through
our formative years without ever breaking bones is still an unsolved mystery of
epic proportions.
Friend
#1 and I strap on our snowshoes (I am borrowing an old pair of her son’s) and examine
the mounds of snow we need to scale just to get to the yard to head to the
trails. There is a skinny cut-through
about one leg-width wide, so we try that.
My friend plants one snowshoe and her two poles, expertly rolls against
the snowbank, hauls her other foot up and over, and makes it to the other
side. I, the novice, take two steps on
the snowshoes, get myself into the small path, and somehow manage to wedge my
fat ass into the crevice we are using to start our journey.
After
laughing way too hard, I finally manage to unwedge my fat ass and we trudge
through the thick powder to Friend #2’s yard next door. The snow is so deep that we barely notice when
we cross the stone wall except that our ski poles sink in about four feet,
disappearing into the snow up to our wrists.
After gathering up our pal, the three of us head to the tree line. We can see the snowy field a few hundred
yards away. We have to cross another
stone wall, a stream bed, and get through the pricker bushes first, though.
This
is where all the years disappear, and I’m like a kid again. I know how to get through the overgrowth and
the sharp dangers of the woods in the snowy winter. I’ve done this before. I was an expert backwoods downhill skier
through conditions just like this. My
friends check on me to make sure I’m okay and keeping up. No problems, I assure them. To me, this is like reliving my childhood
except that I’m not trying to whack my sister in the face with errant branches
as we bomb through.
When
we get out to the field, someone, probably a cross-country skier, has beaten
down a decent path for us to follow. We
make a couple of circuits, stop for pictures, laugh way too hard, and drag our
spent butts back through the woods and back to the pristine, untrodden deep
snow of my two friends’ yards. Friend #1
and I see Friend #2 safely to her back door, re-cross the stone wall separating
the properties, then we spend some time tamping down a snow trail for the oil
delivery company. This is not without
its comedy as my friend somehow barrelrolls over a snowbank near her walkway,
and I again get myself wedged into a sitting position trying to get down from
the oil-man path. I stupidly have my
coat unzipped at this point, and I now have snow up my back and down my snow pants.
Ninety
minutes after I strap the snowshoes on, I sit on the front step and disengage
the mechanisms that hold the boots in place.
I am snowy, sweaty, spent, and my stomach aches from laughing. My phone makes that noise again, indicating
that I have a text message. It is
another friend asking me if I’m doing anything fun. If only my fingers weren’t starting to get
chilly and I could type faster, I could text the entire tale. Just like the original text invitation, the
end result is similar: It’s a doozie … and
I can’t wait to do it again. Hmmmm…. I
wonder if my sister wants to go bombing through the woods at her house in
Maine? I’m pretty sure she has
snowshoes, too, and I promise that this time I really will hold the branches back
for her.
