The second time I wore snowshoes was as successful as the first. But only because I took them off.
I hiked five miles up a snowy road, down a hill through a clear-cut then came to a stream. The only way across was to climb onto a giant fallen tree and walk across it. I couldn’t climb onto the tree with my snowshoes on, so I took them off, strapped them to my pack and walked across the fallen tree. On the other side of the stream, I jumped down from the tree.
And fell through the crusty snow up to my armpits, my arms winged out to my sides the only things stopping me from falling further. I kicked my feet down, but couldn’t get solid footing. I tried to grab the snow with my gloved hands and pull myself out of the hole, but I couldn’t get a hold of anything. The snow was too slick and icy on top.
So what did I do?
I took off my pack, slid it in front of me on the icy snow then grabbed a hold of it and wiggled my way out of the hole. Then I stood up.
And promptly fell through the snow up to my armpits again.
And again...
and again.
