The first time I wore snowshoes, I was working at night, in the dark, with “Not So Much.” We hiked up a snowy mountain road, Not So Much a good nine to ten minutes ahead of me. I chased after him for hours, occasionally catching him, but only because he’d stopped to hoot for owls.
When we finally got to the top of our route, Not So Much said, “It’s all downhill from here.”
"So soon?" I huffed and puffed, too tired to take another step, but knew I had to somehow make it back to the truck.
“Let’s take a shortcut." He cracked a knowing smile.
Little did I know, taking a shortcut meant hiking straight down the mountainside, through brush and trees. Usually, not so bad. But when your feet are three times wider and longer than normal, you tend to get them caught up on a lot of stuff. And then you tend to face plant. In the snow. A lot.
After tangling myself in a bush for what felt like the thousandth time, I screamed, “I hate snowshoes!”
I can’t say it was the first time I’d seen Not So Much laugh--after all, it was dark and he was far ahead of me--but it was the first time I’d heard him.
