The Mile-Long Winter Excursion

The winter season has a contriving way of making you feel far too big for the space in which you exist. Sub-zero temperatures encourage an extra hour under the blankets and lackluster energy seems to cripple creativity. The sun, tired from expending extra work during the chilly days, turns in at early hours, bringing on long and dark nights. The possibility of spontaneous adventure seems to be forever gone with the summer's warmth. When my legs are beat and I can't entertain the thought of dragging my snowboard up the hill, I feel lost. Often, I resort to staring out a dirty window while self-inducing my own hibernation through bottomless mugs of herbal tea and Jack Johnson on repeat. On a broader perspective, though, this is perhaps not the finest utilization of the precious and rare gift of time. This I know, but what's a girl to do? It's cold, outside, damnit!

The answer to this question came one day in December, in the little blue text message bubble on my phone. A friend, also battling seasonal insanity, inquired on my plans for the day. I delayed my response for a few minutes in hopes it would make me seem like I actually had to think about this, but eventually, I got bored with the game and responded "nothing".  What was returned to me was not a plan of action, but instead a simple supply list of things to bring and a proposed meeting time. Without question, I gulped down my tea, paused the Jack, and headed out. 

An hour or so later, I found myself knocking on a familiar door, confused but unwaveringly anxious. My knock was answered by a conspicuous smile and devious eyes. I smiled back.

"What did you bring?" he asked, a foot propped on the bumper of my greatly aged Jeep. 

"Everything you said. Snowboard, boots, snowshoes, water, backpack, hammock. What are we doing?" It must've been the tenth time I'd asked since my arrival. 

"I'm not really sure yet," he said again. "Just get your things and throw them in my car. I'm driving." 

Soon enough, we were riding the winding and icy roads of Hyalite Canyon. Still without a destination in mind, we approached the point of no vehicular continuation. After some back and forth banter, the car was turned around and eventually parked at the base of a trail. All week, Mother Nature had been combining ingredients from her avalanche recipe, so we thought it to be wiser to hang on the flats. The unavoidable realization of time wasted in the morning occurred to us, but we decided to carry out the trip anyways, he with his skins and I with my snowshoes. 

Certainty of what exactly we were looking for was nonexistent, but the distractions of what was around me held my focus. The forest hid the mountains beyond, but the beauty it offered within was replacement enough. The trees weren't dusted but loaded with dense, wet snow; their weighted branches flirting with the ground. The noon song of silence was broken by the solemn sound of our weight lifting and landing on the frozen earth. Below my line of vision, a gleam grabbed my eye, and I noticed a community of facets balancing on the white blanket of snow. I stopped moving for just a moment. The frosted crystals appeared so delicate, it was a wonder that they dually served as one of the most dangerous elements of the winter world. I peeked behind me to see if he was taking note of what I was observing and was surprised to see him bent over the ground, marveling at the same tiny treasures.

We left the trail behind after discovering a small break in the woods, which we followed for a few hundred feet. We circled, we rested, and we searched. Eventually, we reached a point of settlement. The sun was fighting to shed the smallest bit of brightness throughout the nook in the boscage, and the terrain was mostly untouched with the small exception of a few scattered rabbit tracks. He had bested my pace by at least five steps the entire way, a normality for our walks. Because of this, he had found the spot just moments before me. It was clear this was the end of our route when he tossed his pack off to the side and stripped his feet from his skis. 

Getting the hammock up was a struggle; the trees were either too far apart or too close together, and the challenge was only heightened with cold fingers. The adversity was overcome with some knots and a little effort, and in five minute's time, our sanctuary had been created. 

We only stayed for an hour or so. I tried to write, but the air was frigid and my hand mobility was limited. My slow breath was caught in the raw conditions, mimicking smoke from a fire as it danced in front of me before disappearing forever. We sat for a while, saying little and feeling everything. He relinquished his small portion of the hammock and wandered to his bag, where he retrieved his camera. I first knew him as a photographer, a collector of visual moments, but I hadn't seem him dabble in his trade for some time. His hands seemed attached, and it was as if he was developing a relationship with each sight that the camera caught. I got up to free my feet from numbness, a mistake I should have foreseen. The lens was quickly chasing me around, behind the trees and in front of the hammock bench we had made. I tried not to smile, but the day had brought out a comforting charm in me that I couldn't quite escape. 

It hadn't been long, but the cold had gotten the best of us and we were ready to depart. We gathered our things with haste, eager to be reunited with the unsteady hum of the car heater. I stopped just before parting the trees to return to our trail. A quick glance back at the now empty space which had just acted as our dwelling reminded me that the season, the weather, the time of day is no matter; an adventure can be had where there is the desire. We had chalked the trip up to a fail, a good idea to execute better on another day where we could go further and do more. But I knew a failure it was not, for it had reignited in me the hunger to go out and experience, whether it be a mile or a million away from my everyday world. 

Photos by Quinn Harper