Cross-country skiing had me pretty anxious since I haven’t done it for a couple of winters. My first attempts at teaching my bionic hip this “new” skill were successful; that means I didn’t fall down! However, I felt safer on snowshoes despite landing in deep snowbanks after stepping onto one with another or hooking “a toe” over a limb.
When two big black dogs were with us for prolonged sleepovers, one would occasionally slip up and step on the back of a snowshoe. That was bad enough, but when Jake jumped on one, bringing me to an abrupt standstill mid-stride, I tried desperately not to do a face plant!
They and I made tracks all over the lanes and bush behind us, packing the surface just by being there. But then the snow softened. Challenges increased when those long-legged pets galloped past me or went off the packed trails. Down they flopped, legs disappearing but tails waving high while grins stayed on happy hairy faces.
Eventually the desire to snowshoe lessened, so I donned my light hikers, attached “ice grippers” and we walked the roads, doggies persuaded somewhat reluctantly to stay out of driveways or submit to leashes. Now this produced an interesting challenge: I needed one pole for balance, and I had two dogs!
On March 1, our Friday morning walking group was deciding where to go. I didn’t hear the word “snowshoes” once, although that has also been their mode of transport for months. Where can we walk, without attachments, on a quiet, cleared road, so doggie friends can run and there are few driveways? We found the perfect place in Greer subdivision and upper Candle Creek Road. Problem solved. Of course, we looked off into the snowy hinterland, planning future outings for when the snow has gone.
Another time, I purposely left snowshoes behind when planning to walk home from the blue bridge across North Thompson River. John dropped Jake and me off. Oops! No flattened, firm trail existed on that part of the dike and ski trails had all but disappeared. Some hardy soul had walked through, stepping high and long in big boots. I tried, unsuccessfully, to follow his tracks while Jake leapt along beside me, sinking with each bound.
Next, I stood gingerly on top of untrodden snow. Ah – it held me. But, as soon as I moved my weight to step forward, down I thudded, knee-deep in mushy snow. We aborted, staggering to the road that would take us past the confluence with Clearwater River. Swinging along that rough but plowed gravel surface, circumnavigating puddles, was a snap. The lighting was such that we could see the bottom of shallow, ice-free North Thompson River. In places, green algae has been washed away by the current, leaving parallel stripes in the river’s bottom. In other places, you can count every pebble and smooth rock – if you so choose!
The road near the confluence is shaded so snow and ice last longer there. Seeing tracks made by wide bicycle tires and occasionally meeting cyclists had me dragging out my bike. It felt good, though chilly on my face, peddling along dry roads. Next day I left it in the shed, unwilling to try pushing through the previous night’s snowfall. We see horses with their chatty riders go by the house now. They too are avoiding the challenge of plodding through lanes still covered with deep and unpredictable snow.
Now – bring on more sunshine, longer days. The robins are announcing that spring is here.