The sound of the mountain resort at Snow Summit was still loitering in the air over the tall pine trees to my left. A man’s voice was droning on and on over a loudspeaker of some sort. Why on a Sunday morning do they have to do that?
I just kept climbing, up the steep grade, in deep powder cutting what felt like one hundred switchbacks just to manage from sliding backwards head over heels on this near vertical snowfield. Just when I thought I had this snow-trudge figured out, my snowshoe would plunge deep into an abyss. Getting out of these contorted positions I’m guessing was as good as attending an advanced yoga class with ski pants and poles. No preparation possible here folks.
When I crested the main vert section, I was welcomed by a blistering alpine wind that sent hardened specs of snow into the frozen skin on my nose. I’m not complaining here, mainly because I’m always looking for a lesson or a new experience of some kind to log into my bag of tricks, to take with me on my next big adventure. Given I’m signed up for a 50 mile, a 100 mile and a 200 mile race this year, I’ve felt a draw to get into the elements again. This day being a good reminder that nature is always there with a surprise for me, as long as I’m willing to venture into it. Seek and ye shall find, as it were.
This four hour effort felt hastened by a book I listened to the entire way, mainly because I couldn’t stop listening. Her colorful and descriptive story of descending into neurosis was only bearable to listen to because she told it in such a relatable way. But then I found out that she (the author) didn’t have much of a happy ending, and she didn’t survive the success of her own hard lived experiences that she so ably transcribed into this indictment on contemporary mores.
On snowshoes…and mores…keeping it real.