Snow Day

It’s a rare storm, and it brings more snow to the East Coast than we’ve seen in a few years. At daybreak, I dress in layers, put on thick wool socks and rubber boots.

There’s another 5+ inches on the ground. I have shoveled the driveway twice already in 24 hours. The snow is heavier this morning. Mother Nature has put some moisture in it. The weather man says we’ve received a foot or more, which I put close to 14 inches.

My neighbors bring forth their snowblower machines and we shovel the snow into waist high walls around the cars and houses.

The streets are sloppy. It’s cold and cloudy, and there will be no melting in the near future.

We all go about the business of cleaning up our pathways back to the world, and making sure the postal carrier can get to the box.

In the afternoon gloominess, I grab my snowshoes from the trunk and a set of poles. Balaclava, face mask, insulated boots and mittens, I walk to the greenway. A few silly folk try their luck with a slog through the snow that rises above the tops of their boots. They turn back quickly.

I cinch the bindings and adjust the poles. I want to get moving. The secret to winter hiking is not wearing lots of clothing as much about keeping moving. Exertion brings warmth, stand still and you’ll cool off quickly.

Soon I am on my way. There is a track where a vehicle has traveled this footpath, but it was at least 8 hours ago- the fresh snowfall that has begun to obscure its trail.

I settle into one track and notice my doppelgänger has preceded me. The unmistakable track of snowshoes stretches out before me.

I make good time reaching the nature preserve that leads to the bay. Making the turn, I follow the solo tracks through the marsh. The snow is deep and the wind blows strongly across the wetlands. Following the footprints, I reinforce the snowshoe track we are building together.

We’ve had several days of below freezing temperatures with lows in the single digits. The saltwater tributaries to the Bay are beginning to ice up.

I turn around and begin making my way back. It’s getting late and the weak sun is smothered by the overcast. My stride quickens with each step and this third pass through the broken-in trail allows me to walk without sinking in.

I pass out of the frozen wetlands and back to the Greenway.

My neighbors roll their eyes at the possibility of another snowfall next weekend, but I secretly am glad to “make hay while the shines” and get in some snowy hikes without the necessity of travel.