Snowshoeing to the Beat of Different Drummer

Judging from the deeply furrowed trenches on the face of my neon-clad adventure guide, I would guess that he is at least 25 years my senior. His apparent age has done nothing to diminish his obvious physical prowess, and I concede that he also supersedes me in stamina. This is most certainly a good thing, considering that we are gearing up for my first backcountry snowshoeing experience.

The first order of business is strapping on the snowshoes and an introduction to the techniques we will use over the two hour hike at 14,000 feet. The instruction period for our intimate group of four is very brief; in fact, it takes longer to strap on our shoes than to learn how to use them. Our guide, Randy, a veteran from the Keystone Nordic Center, reaffirms the mantra that if you can walk, you can snowshoe.

My confidence is buoyed by his obvious ease with the sport, but I have a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. As a confirmed flatlander from the plains of Texas, my body has already been reeling from the effects of altitude even with the simplest of activities. Now I am even higher up at the top of Dercum Mountain with plans to participate in a fairly strenuous activity. Just bending to strap my shoes has left me slightly winded.

With eternal optimism, Randy urges us toward the trailhead. In the flat section at the top of the mountain, I am able to soak in the pristine mountains set against a bluebird sky backdrop. Were it not for the skiers and snowboarders whizzing about to claim the beginnings of their run, staring out into the landscape would be mesmerizing. The weather is perfect, sunny and brilliant skies with not a trace of wind. With a methodical crunch, crunch of the spikes digging into the hard packed snow, I am relieved to find that snowshoeing seems to be as effortless as advertised.

From our position at the exit of the ski lift, we can see our intended trail about 50 yards below at the bottom of a steep hill.  Coming to the edge of the hill, the four novices instinctively stop, unsure of how to proceed. The hill is certainly steep enough to tumble down easily. A sit and scoot method of descent seems wisest. Without breaking stride, Randy implores us all to lean forward and keep stepping, promising that the spikes of the shoes will grip the snow and keep us upright.

I take a tentative step forward, a step that shuffles with timidity. Randy casually looks over his shoulder and with a winning smile tosses out an encouragement to trust the shoes. I am beginning to see a “need to know” quality in Randy’s teaching style with his preference to only give as much instruction as we need for the immediate task. He soldiers on, and with only the choice to follow or get left behind, I take another few steps.

“Trust the shoes! Trust the shoes!” my internal voice is laced with equal parts insistence and panic. With each crunching step, my awkward center of gravity seems to insist that I will topple face first into the snow, but the shoes are, indeed trustworthy. At the bottom of the hill, I feel as though I have conquered my first obstacle and set my sights on the trail ahead.

For the first few yards the trail is wide and flat. A rapport among the other participants begins, as we toss out pleasant conversation and stop to take pictures of the breathtaking vistas. In the midst of the conversation, unperceptively, the trail turns towards a steady incline.

“It’s just a short climb from here,” Randy encourages. Even though I can’t see his eyes through the reflections in his Ray-Bans, I know he is candy-coating the truth from the chipper tone in his voice.

With the incline everything intensifies including the heat inside my thick jacket. Despite the temperatures that are well below freezing, I instinctively open the front of jacket to avoid sweating and release the building energy.

Step. Crunch. Step. Crunch. Pant. Pant. Pant.

My already elevated heart rate begins to race uncomfortably and my lungs burn with every sucking breath of the dreadfully thin air. Out of pride and solidarity, I press on in hopes of keeping up with the group, but every step is labored.  Soon, I am moving, but so slowly that Randy circles back around to step along beside me at the back of the pack. I feel like I am in the third grade and my teacher has just written my name on the board. As he makes his way to me, I feel disgusted. I am in good shape and exercise regularly, but this “walk” along the mountain pass is rather indelicately kicking my butt.

“What seems to be the trouble,” he tosses out so casually that it is obvious that he has a solution to the problem.

As I stand there sucking wind, I pause for a moment to evaluate what I say to my exuberant guide next. In truth, I want to cut my eyes sideways at him and unleash a barrage of sarcasm and whining about my imminent death on this cursed mountain. Instead, I smile weakly.  My southern breeding which has saddled me with an inability to adapt to the altitude has also afflicted me with an unflappable politeness. I would just as likely stand and smile and slop sugar while my arm was being cut off. I am certainly not going to start whining about my wimpy lungs unless one actually pops.

Between labored breaths, I sweetly share my troubles with the altitude and the apparent lack of breathable air.  Mr. Neon Windbreaker absolutely has a solution to my problem: the survival step. A back country snow shoe-er trying to conserve energy should never break stride, but rather continue to keep stepping and rest on the back leg to breathe when needed. Apparently, bending over with your hands on your knees while deeply heaving in air is not the correct form. He also suggests that I take smaller steps and keep moving rather than stopping every few feet.

The message is loud and clear. Keep moving you windsucking whiner! I smile again, but apparently my smile does not hide my true feelings. Randy assures me that if I will do the survival step and take smaller steps, it will be easier. I resist the urge to tell him that what would be easier would be to fall down in a crumpled heap in the snow and make ski patrol take me back. I don’t say it, but I am thinking it as I will my weak body to survival step up the hill.

At the top of the hill that feels like Mount Everest, I feel elated. The views are spectacular and I am back again with the group who have been making laps in a bowl while waiting for me. I am humbled by their strength, either physical or mental, and chastise myself for assuming that I wouldn’t be at the back of the pack. I make a mental note to revisit the lesson to not think too highly of yourself when I am not dizzied by altitude. Humility is never a lesson that is easy to learn, but it sucks even more at 14,000 feet.

In the flat, breathing becomes easier and the sport of snowshoeing is tolerable again. I make a quick check of my watch and realize that I have just over an hour before I have to pick up my son from ski school. I am grateful that I disclosed this at the beginning of our lesson, so it seems much less like a copout now. I remind Randy of the time just as he is eyeing the next hill and extolling the views on the other side. The rest of the group is raring to climb to the top of the next crest (of course they are!), so I volunteer to return to the ski lift on my own.  I assure Randy that I can make it back unassisted, and despite my ineptness in the past, he trusts me to go on my way.

Turning on my heels, I know that I have quite a hike ahead of me. Thankfully, most of it is downhill, but there are a few small inclines to conquer, and of course, there is the giant slope to climb at the beginning of the trail.

I set out determined. Step. Crunch. Step Crunch. Pant.

On my return, I decide to do it my way. Survival step and keeping pace with the crowd be gone. I’m on my own and I am calling the shots.

I walk as long as I can stand and then crouch or sit on the path to rest when I choose. I am disciplined about my apparent laziness. I only allow myself to sit for a count of 60 before I get back up and continue moving. On several occasions, ski patrol stops to check to see if I need help. I know that I can easily ask for assistance and be back at the top of the mountain with a minimum of effort, but I want to finish. A cop out doesn’t seem so appealing when I am on my own. It may be ugly and lacking all levels of grace, but I am going to finish.

Step. Crunch. Step. Pant.

With every step, I find I am thinking less about my burning lungs and trying hard to take in the scenery. The more I focus on the glistening snow, the calmer I feel. There is lucidity in the silence. Snowshoeing is a solitary sport, I decide. Hurrying to keep pace with a group takes away the inherent beauty of taking it at your own speed.

Thirty minutes before I am scheduled to pick up my son, I am at the bottom of the hill where the whole adventure started. I remember Randy shouting to “trust the shoes” and decide that I am going to have to trust my body for this last stretch. Whatever weakness I have physically, I know I can overcome with mental strength.

I form a plan. Ten steps up. Rest ten seconds. Mentally count to ten as I will each small step. Mentally count to ten as I heave air into my lungs. Repeat. When ten steps becomes too hard, I drop to five. Pride doesn’t matter, only progress. With no one to rush me and no one to encourage me, I find power in going it alone. I know that I success or failure lies with me.

Crunch. Step. Crunch. Step. Pant.

In the final stretch, I can see the top of the hill where the scenery abruptly shifts from the serenity of the solitary path to the buzz at the exit to the ski lift. Five more steps.

All pride lost, I don’t even resist crumpling to a heap at the top of the hill. I pray that the snowboarders will take pity on me and not run me over as they drop into the trail below. As one zooms past me, he remarks “Dude, did you climb that hill? Tough!” His words are enough encouragement to pry me from my crumpled ball to a seated position.

From my vantage point at the crest, I can see how far I came and still feel the burning effort in my chest. Quietly, I reflect on my journey, realizing that there must be a life metaphor to compare the first part of my journey (traveling with the group) to the last part of my journey (traveling alone). Ideas about the value of going it alone and not keeping pace with the pack swirl around with musings about relying on yourself and marching to your own beat. After all the effort, I feel like I deserve to have some kind of life lesson to takeaway, but although the life lesson is apparent, the only feeling to relish is gratitude that I did not pop a lung.