23 January 1999: Snowshoeing

Yesterday we stopped in the Safeway in Boulder on the way to RMNP to snowshoe. RDC ordered sandwiches; I scampered off in search of bananas. Passing an end-of-aisle display, something caught my eye. I turned, read the label more carefully, and continued on my way, laughing in my head. I was too tired to laugh outside my head; the tiredness had caused my initial misreading. Meanwhile, a store employee saw me stop, look, and go along, and so she asked if she could help me find anything. I glanced at her, assessing whether she'd get the joke.

"No, thanks, I'm not looking for anything in particular, it's just as I passed that display of Tampax that advertises a flexible applicator, my brain didn't process it quite right and so what I first read was 'flammable applicator.' And I thought, that's got to hurt." She cracked up.

This, I decided, makes up somewhat for the need to invent the word "flammable" at all: too many people thought "inflammable" meant another new word, "non-flammable."

Snowshoeing was much more successful than downhill skiing has been. No one has to steal water to manufacture snow; no big corporation has to be paid for lift service; and I can wear normal boots. No guilt, no expense, no pain. Win-win-win.

As we drove through Estes Park and the beginning of the RMNP, the wind gusted considerably. I shivered in expectation of a windchill factor that would petrify the very marrow of my bones. I did dress appropriately, anyway: Gobi sock liners, wool socks, hiking boots; polypropylene thermals up and down, fleece pants, cotton turtleneck, wool sweater, water-resistant bibbed snow pants, headband, gloves, parka. I'm not used to wearing three separate layers on my legs and was afraid if I squatted I would split a seam. I opted for goggles instead of sunglasses because when it's windy and dry, my eyes with their contact lenses do appreciate a closed environment.

And so we were off. Snowshoeing is nothing, at least not with the snowshoes we rented from REI. I expected the snowshoes to be tennis racket-shaped things and that walking in them would require a prolonged horse-stance. I hoped at least for an elongated oval or rounded rectangle. I expected a shoe that would be several inches longer than my foot front and back and few inches wider. I expected to start out staggering and finish the day as bowlegged as any chaps-wearing cowboy.

Instead each shoe was a rectangle of fluorescent orange with a hinge in the middle: I could walk naturally, picking up my heel like a telemarking skier. Yes, the shoe had about four inches extra front and back, but the hinge that ran along that bit of foot just behind all the toes and in front of the instep--where's a podiatrist when I want one?--allowed a normal walk. Anyone who walks with feet close together like some mincing fool might have had a problem; anyone who walks with feet properly hip-distance apart should've had no problem. And I didn't.

The trail started out around Bear Lake, a popular summer destination because this pretty lake with spectacular mountains is about twenty yards from a parking lot. Then it went uphill. This was harder for me than hiking for different reasons than I expected. I thought the shoes would be an encumbrance; they weren't at all. But I did have a lot more layers on my body than I almost ever do and certainly more than I ever wear while exercising; and I was poling, really planting and pushing with my ski poles because I live in fear of having lunchlady arms; and of course, I was drying out. I was breathing hard, and my nose was clogging. Wearing goggles made it hard to snork, so I was breathing through my mouth, which felt parched almost immediately, with reason (you loses a lot of moisture exhaling that way). We had brought a lot, if not plenty of, water, and so we paused to drink and I blew my nose and made sure to breathe right after that.

The whole walk was through pine and aspen forests and completely sheltered from the wind; only the treetops swayed overhead. If we'd been in that wind, even the layers we wore would've been insufficient; as it was, we sweated. Two miles in, we got to the lake. Unlike Bear Lake, Bierstadt Lake is exposed to the wind and its surface of ice mostly scoured clean of snow. Wind can make drifts of any sort of snow, but this snow is so dry it forms dune shapes as if it were sand. It was beautiful, but clouds were trying to spill over the divide and I figured the return journey would be longer, so we headed back after a snack and lots of water. Three Clark's Nutcrackers watched every scrap we ate with a jealous eye. They are too used to hand-outs.

We took off our packs to eat and when we donned them afterward, their weight pressed our wet clothes into our backs. That was chilly, but we warmed up quickly. The first mile back was flat, then we had a half mile up and a half mile down, which is just the sort of profile I like: ending in a downslope.

Another nice thing about snowshoeing is that it's much easier to meet people than it is while skiing. Maybe when we're better we can find a more challenging trail that's less populated; for our first time it was nice to chat with the parents delightedly giggling at the view across the lake of their son smooching the woman they were sure would be his wife; with the woman from Alabama who was valiantly snowshoeing despite never having seen snow before; with the couple up from Austin who'd set out that morning for the west side of the park. That last elicited much sympathy because in the summer, east and west are an hour's drive apart but in winter about five hours' drive separates them.

On the final stretch of trail, on its downhill side, RDC pointed out patterns of marks in the powder snow, which had been lightly refrozen into a fragile crust--the tracks of little animals? he wondered. It's not little animals, I laughed, but little snowballs kicked up by people along the trail and falling down the slope. He wanted little animals and so shoveled up some snow with a pole to test my theory. A few little snowballs flew up, dropped, and skipped down the slope, bouncing and with each bounce gathering more snow unto themselves, and leaving little animal tracks in their wakes. We began to play, seeing how many snowballs we could form with each shovel, how big we could get them, and how far they could go. Mine kept ploughing themselves into trees. It's like playing Poohsticks or skipping stones.

And so we finished.

In my beloved passenger seat, I changed into drier layers by the time we stopped in the ranger station to pee. There RDC changed and I stripped off my bra and wrung the thing out in the sink. It was disgusting. When I came out of the bathroom RDC was impressed with how darkly soaked with sweat it was and I reminded him what useless appendages breasts are.

We stopped in Estes Park and stopped in its library briefly. I like to belong to every library system in whatever state I inhabit. I found Corelli's Mandolin, which Beth has recommended. Then I managed to stay awake the whole way home, which RDC appreciated.

RDC was pleased with how the day turned out: I spent most of it grinning, in contrast to the bulk of a day spent skiing, during which he attempts to fix my face, pushing up the corners of my mouth into a semblance of a smile.

When we got back to Denver, we passed a sparechanger holding a sign on the sidewalk. His sign said "Thransit. Please help." There was a definite H in his transit; both of us saw it as we stopped at a red light. "Thransit?" I asked. What is this supposed to mean? "It just goes to show that I should be a graphic designer for the homeless." You know, little clues like not to use pencil on cardboard, minimize verbiage that your audience hasn't time to read, stuff like that.

I shouldn't say "homeless"; not all homeless people beg. And I think of "sparechangers" as street rats who hassle passersby. What do you call a tattered tired-looking fellow holding a sign at a streetcorner? RDC said "bum." Who's mean now? But the other day I was sparechanged by a someone with oxygen tubes going into his nose and a tank by his side, smoking a cigarette. Am I being really unkind here or is that just inexcusable? How stupid do you have to be to smoke on oxygen?

So maybe my graphic design suggestions should wait until people grasp more basic concepts, like not to try to elicit sympathy while being so such a nitwit.