Dusting Off the Snowshoes

          “They’re predicting 4 to 7 inches of snow tonight in Asheville,” I said to Art before we went to bed last night. 

          “Well, you know that probably won’t happen,” he replied skeptically.  And most of the time it doesn’t.  After all, we live in the South where we don’t often get snowstorms that no one is prepared for anyway.

          When I looked out the front door this morning to the street covered in 5 or 6 inches of undisturbed snow, I announced, “This time they got it right.”

          “Beautiful…and so peaceful,” I thought,  “and so reminiscent of our Vermont winters.” 

          Snowy mornings call for a breakfast of pancakes and real maple syrup, which I quickly put together.  Years of living through Vermont winters got us outdoors first thing after breakfast to begin shoveling the 25 steps leading up to the front door our mountain house. That was only for starters.  The three large decks, the roof and the turn around by the cars would come next until the snow plow came up our steep driveway to finish off the rest. Sometimes this took a most of a day.  But in Biltmore Lake, where we live now, that’s all taken care of by a snow removal crew - right up to the two steps to our front door. ( We no longer live on a mountain.)  It was finished by 9:30 a.m. today. Still, the urge to be outdoors when the snow is untouched is instinctual as much as habit.   

We hunt for our snow gear – waterproof snow-pants. wind-breaker, fleece hats and mittens, and our L.L. Bean snow boots that have been stored in the garage. We have it all and yet it’s a scramble to find where it’s been all these many months since our last snowfall.  Art has already found the bags with our snowshoes that I hid under the guest room beds (no basement in this house for that kind of storage).  Today I’m happy Art insisted we keep the snowshoes when we made the decision to move North Carolina.  The truth is we’ve probably used them only 3 or 4 times in five years but each time, snowshoeing has been a connection to our past and a real joy.   

We bundle up and head out the door, but first have to jog our memories as to how to get the snowshoes on.  “Do you remember how these go?”  “Is there a left and a right?”  Art wants to know.  We struggle a bit but then it comes back.  We are ready as we set off, poles in hand, across our front lawn down to the path that runs alongside our townhouse to the lake.  The snow is deep enough and light.  Perfect for snow walking.  Once we cross Lake Drive we are on our way on 2.2 mile trail around the perimeter of Biltmore Lake.

There is not a soul out although there are footprints most likely from neighbors out walking dogs earlier.  Only an occasional truck goes along Lake Drive.  It is quiet, pristine, and we have it all to ourselves.  The surprise is that we can still snowshoe easily.

 “Isn’t this great?  I feel so strong and physically fit.”  Art sounds surprised and definitely pleased.

“Must be all those trips to the gym, “I reply. I notice how energized I feel.

We can still do this, I think to myself with relief.

The snow is heavy on the trees and the lake is rippling in the gentle wind.  Then we see patches of blue sky as the clouds disappear.  It’s as if Mother Nature just finished the last brush stroke of a newly painted picture before us – the lake, the trees, and Mt. Pisgah and the Pisgah National Forest in the distance.  Spectacular.

“It’s clearing up!” I exclaim.  The snow showers have stopped and the snow sparkles in the sunshine.  We are part of the picture and no one else out to interrupt the scene before us.

“Remember the time you were cross country skiing with your, Dad, in Goshen and you got lost?”  Art says to me.

“Were you there? “ I ask.  “That was years and years ago.”

“Sure, I was there with your Mother waiting for you to come back to the lodge.”  Art is warming up to reminiscing…

“I haven’t thought about that for years,” I say.  “That was a real adventure,” I say as I try and remember my parents when they were young enough to cross country ski with us.

“Remember snowshoeing up at Gt. Hawk around the pond?” continues Art.

“Yeah, but it was so much deeper than this and hard work!”  I reply.

By the time we get back to our house the skies are brilliant blue in what we used to call the perfect Vermont ski day.  Only we are in North Carolina now, another world.  But for a few hours we can remember, enjoy the beauty around us, and be grateful we can still embrace the adventure of a good snow walk when the opportunity comes along.