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Snowshoes
By Diane Daniel, 01/28/99
Peering out from behind my balaclava, I felt as if I was walking over waves - the snow a sea of gray, the hills like rolling crests, the snowdrifts whitecaps.
Along with five others, I had set off at nightfall for a moonlight snowshoe hike around a golf course at the base of Vermont's Stratton Mountain. A thick layer of clouds obscured a nearly full moon, but no matter; the snow reflected enough light that we didn't have to turn on our headlamps.
So far the walk had been relatively easy, but then Roger Hill, our guide and director of snowshoe programs at Stratton, veered off the cross-country trail. Down a hill we went, my feet sinking several inches into the snow, metal teeth on the bottom of my shoes keeping me from slipping. Without the snowshoes to distribute our weight and keep us upright, the walk would have been impossible.
Snowshoeing is for people who never bought the story that cross-country sking is as easy as walking. It is for all those not blessed with a sense of balance. Take it from me - New England's wobbliest skier - snowshoeing not only is like walking, it is walking. And doing it at night makes it all the more special.
We took a break during our hourlong trek around Stratton's golf course at a stone house built by writer Pearl S. Buck, now used as a warming hut for skiers. Inside, a fire was roaring and the hot chocolate bubbling (ski areas do have their advantages).
Roger led us back a different way, through woods and up and down rolling hills. We returned to the clubhouse red-cheeked and invigorated, legs a little tired from clomping around in snow-covered shoes. You can easily burn 500 calories-plus an hour while snowshoeing. Time for more hot chocolate.
Rain and sleet greeted me the next morning. No problem. One of the great advantages of snowshoeing is you don't have to worry so much about what skiers live and die by - "conditions."
While many skiers elected to stay in the lodge, I drove to Sun Bowl, Stratton's backcountry nordic center, where many trails had yet to be groomed. I strapped on my snowshoes, rain falling lightly, and picked up a well-marked trail that led immediately into thick woods. Up I went, my heart pounding from the exertion of breaking a trail in more than a foot of wet snow. I lost my balance a few times and toppled over sideways, but my body and ego came through unbruised.
Every now and then I'd pause in my noisy clomping to listen to the rain and the singing of the few birds who didn't head south. Moose and deer tracks were the only other sign of animal life. The trails merged and veered, but I paid little attention. I knew I could find my way back by following my own Bigfoot tracks.
Diane Daniel is a member of the Globe staff.
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