I bend down and shove my grey hiking boots from the 90s into my new snowshoes, yanking the straps tight. I stand back up, my face hot from exertion, and straighten my black wool hat, my favorite toque that I had bought at the Sun Peaks ski resort in Revelstoke, BC in 2002. I don’t remember much about that winter vacation. Only that I had been single and 32 (depressing) and on a ski trip with my parents (more depressing) and my married younger brother (just kill me).
I pull on my too-big gloves that I’ve borrowed from my huge fifteen year old son, and tentatively put one foot forward. I start to hike up the white, snow encrusted hill before me. There is a clear path where other snowshoes have left their mark, so I feel confident setting off in that general direction. The shoes have crampons underneath the toes and when I step they dig into the icy ground. It’s like going for a nice walk. A nice walk with tennis rackets on your feet. I concentrate on each step, focusing on the ground right in front of me. When my neck starts to ache I remember to look up.
The view is lovely. I am walking up a wide trail that is groomed with ridges from snowmobile tracks. There are three or four cross country skiers up ahead, struggling with the incline, making V marks with their skis to keep from sliding backwards. I try to keep up a brisk pace. The snow shoes aren’t as quiet as I hoped they would be – they crunch and drag with every step – but I have to admit, as ungraceful as I feel, I am gaining on the skiers ahead of me. I am using ski poles from an old pair of skis and wearing wide leg snowboarding pants that are probably out of style (although come to think of it they are so very old, they might be cool again). I had felt a little niggle of pride that morning when I pulled them up and the button slipped into the buttonhole. In fact, they are a little looser in the waist than the last time I wore them years ago, back when Nelly sang about apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur. I can feel the small compact muscles in my arms contracting with every push of the poles, and my torso moving with my deep breaths. My thighs and calves feel strong and lithe and ready for a long trip, like a penned up horse let out to run.
There is no wind at all. It is cold, a few degrees below freezing, but I am dressed warmly and have water in my camelback and some protein bars in my pack. The trail I am looking for is supposed to be a mile or two down the road. When I see it, it is just a little indentation off to the right, heading into the trees. I check my watch and stomp off the groomed path. Immediately the sound of my shoes is muffled by the deeper snow. I expect to have to lift my knees with every step in an exaggerated duck walk, but the shoes stay right on top of the snow.
Soon I am deep in the forest, tree branches drooping over my head, snow piled inches high on every branch. The stillness is hypnotic. I stop every few minutes to catch my breath and just listen to the winter trees. I stand for a long time, breathing in the cold air, watching the sunlight glint off the untouched snow all around me. It is so quiet. No bird noises or distant voices. The trees smile down on me. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with a feeling of belonging. I am welcome here. Nothing bad can happen while this crowd of maternal trees watches over me. Yes, they seem to whisper. Yes. Come in. Their arms opened wide.
I resume my walk uphill, following the fresh tracks of a lone cross country skier. I maneuver over little hills and dips, corners and open areas. I trudge happily for a long time. At last the path opens up into a high meadow of smooth snow. In the distance the Sierra Nevada Mountains stand stoically, dusted with white. I realize that I haven’t thought of anything in ages. My mind has been peacefully blank, thinking only, don’t step on that branch, don’t lose sight of the ski track, keep breathing, keep walking. Good job. Good. The usual inner monologue of grocery lists and household chores and mild concerns about my teenagers and familiar replays of gripes and grudges with my husband of 19 years all faded away. I have returned to myself; the soul who used to move through the world humming a happy song, seeing beautiful things everywhere, a laugh or a joke on the tip of my tongue. I had almost forgotten that spirit deep within me that marveled at the world and every single thing in it. The aliveness that knows it is only visiting this place, this life, for a little while.
I stop near a tree stump nearly as tall as me and lean my poles against the rough bark that is covered in scratchy, lime green moss. I pull off my gloves so I can take a long drink from my camelbak tube. The water is delicious. I smile down at my red snowshoes and then raise my cold face up to the trees, surveying the flat blue sky, the lavish spread of sparkling snow and the still mountains in the distance.
Thank you, I whisper. I’ll be back.