I suppose I could live a happy life if I didn’t own snowshoes, but I’m not sure I’d want to try.
A friend and I traveled up into the Olympic Mountains yesterday and snowshoed out an exposed, windswept ridge in nosehair-freezing temperatures, the trees around us absolutely plastered with the most beautiful snow and ice. The conditions were what outdoor enthusiasts with a penchant for understatement like to call “sporty.” City Folks would call it freeze-you-ass-off cold.
But you know what? My friend and I had just the best day, and as I write this, 24-hours after the hike, my brain is still juiced on endorphins and my soul is doing the Happy Dance of a fellow who is high on Life, Nature, and all the rest of that Granola-Head/Hiker kind of blahblahblah.
Not to belittle the blahblahblah. I’m down with it. Or high on it. Or whatever...
