Out There

With Cynthia Saunders
Walk a Mile in my (Snow) Shoes

Walking in snowshoes, according to my good friend, Kate, is like wearing Nickelodeon moon boots. A veteran “snowshoer,” this is how she playfully promoted the sport to me last Sunday morning as we were tightening the straps over our boots at Canterbury Farm. I’ll admit that I didn’t really get the reference, but it sounded pretty promising. Childhood toys always make nice associations, and it was a good, sunny morning for bounding through the snow.

Canterbury Farm has been owned by the same family since 1940, and it kind of feels like it—in a really good way. Before we saw the ski shop sign, a woman I soon knew to be Linda Bacon waved out the window, smiling at us. She came around through the kitchen wearing a bright yellow apron with little red chili peppers all over it. After shaking our hands and introducing herself as the proprietor, Linda helped us get set up with what we needed. (I should say here that although we had come to snowshoe, rentals at Canterbury are very flexible. Bringing your own equipment is common, but if you rent, you are welcome to switch back and forth between skis, snowshoes, and ice skates, whatever tickles your fancy at any given point in the day.) So, it wasn’t long before we were setting out with our complimentary copy of the hand-drawn map of trails.

We made our way down behind the house on a trail curving beside the recently cleared ice skating rink, over a small bridge, and off to our left down the sides of trail that would eventually lead us about two miles up to some frozen swamps and Rudd Pond. It took maybe twenty or so steps before I figured out how to stop the snow from catapulting up my back in the upward flip of each step, but once I got it, moving felt light and easy. We walked and talked at a leisurely pace off to the side of the groomed ski trails, catching up and working out at the same time.

Now and then some cross-country skiers passing by would seem genuinely curious about the merits of snowshoeing. What was it like? Why were we doing it? Was it just like hiking in the snow? “Kind of,” I said. But it wasn’t exactly; it was a little different. Physically, it was more of a smooth, snow-crunching shuffle, but that wasn’t the main difference. Again, to paraphrase Kate’s wisdom, with snowshoes, you can go places at times when no one else can. You have a freedom of movement, and the grips on the bottoms of the shoes give you confidence on otherwise potentially slippery slopes and deep drifts.

So, I have come to my own conclusion. Snowshoeing, it turns out, is kind of like a backstage pass to winter. If you’ve done this before, you know exactly what I’m talking about. All morning, my eyes searched the snow for animal tracks, watching the tiny specks of chipmunk prints vanish at the bases of tall, skinny trees as I wandered past. The twigs of pine trees I had brushed against clung to the shoulders of my jacket, making me feel as if I was welcome in their space, as if they wanted me to come back. I guess it’s safe to say I’m looking forward to the chance.

About Cynthia Saunders
North Adams native Cynthia Saunders wrote her first poem, “The car went after/ the star” at age 5, and has been writing, and chasing stars in her car ever since. Currently, she teaches English at Wahconah Regional High School in Dalton and lives with her kitten, Thomasina.