My snowshoes are almost as old as I am, but they seem to be holding up well. My parents bought them, along with the pair my Dad still uses, direct from the old craftsman who made them. That was shortly after we moved to Maine in 1967, I think. Down here in central Pennsylvania, some winters go by without any suitable conditions for snowshoeing at all, but here we are still in January and there’s already enough snow — some 13 inches now.
Snowshoeing is kind of the opposite of a sport: it’s slow and ungainly, and doesn’t require any special skills other than the ability to walk. It does let one cross hidden logs and boulders without worrying about twisting an ankle, and in any snow deeper than about mid-calf it’s the only practical way to get around — skis don’t cut it. Snowshoeing for me is a way of feeling connected to the north woods, not to mention to family tradition.
I happened to be filming when a ruffed grouse burst out of the snow right in front of me, and I got some footage of its rapidly disappearing hind end. I had a little more luck filming the somewhat less reclusive old couple I met on the trail.
Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).