After hours of hiking on snowshoes, it was nice to come to a rest stop and survey the misty world of icy solitude. There was a frozen bench across a snow field, where I spread out some supplies for a sandwich and snacks. A misty curtain hung over the lake, and the late afternoon shadows were beginning to encroach into the forest.
Silence. Cold. Ice. The stillness of the distant mountains, indifferent to the silence, the cold, and the ice.
After the short respite, it was time to move on and find the way back to the other side of the lake. It looked easy enough on the paper maps obtained earlier at the reception lobby and park entrance booth.
While standing in the middle of a pristine trail, it became clear that it wouldn't be so easy to navigate the well-marked but challenging trails, given the stormy conditions of the past few days.
I saw a lady in uniform up ahead on the trail waving her arms then came over with a stern look on her countenance.
“You can’t be on the cross-country trail with snowshoes.” She seemed quite annoyed. “We’re repairing the trails because some areas have flooded.”
“I can’t find the red trail to head back around the lake,” I told her.
Sighing, she pulled out a paper map. "The snowshoe trail is closed along this part, so you have to head back the way you came.”
But that had taken a few hours to hike, and the idea of having to turn around was not appetizing, especially with darkness looming.
“You can take these other trails here,” she said pointing at a network of trails that went north, then east, then south, then west around the lake using a circuitous route. Sounded great to me. Onward, ho!
I apologized for stepping on the cross-country tracks and tracing back along the trail, began to head north up the side of the mountain. It was late in the day, my bones ached, I was chilled, wet, and my brand new hiking boots were destroying my toes.
The first part of the trek went fairly easy, and I breathed a sigh of relief as it switched back down and headed to lower terrain.
A man and woman came panting up the trail. They looked wet and chilled with the man wearing a shirt and the woman a tanktop. He held a crumpled paper map of the trails; she carried a bottle of water. They had no backpacks or snowshoes. The man showed me his map and we compared notes. I told them that the trail back there was closed if they were thinking of going back around the lake, so they would have to go around the longer way.
The lady seemed skeptical and told her companion that they should keep going as there were alternate routes. They did not look prepared at all to be in the woods, and the shadows in the forest were deepening, but on they went.
Mountainous terrain
Splashing, sliding, speed racing down the snowy paths, I was relieved to come across a wide smooth trail only to realize that it was the dratted cross-country track that snowshoers were not supposed to use. So, it was back up the hill, sliding in the slippery wet ice. Cold breath. Knees hurting. Blistered toes were killing me on account of the new boots, I was now beginning to limp.
It's a wonder the moss was still green
The trails rose to some of the most spectacular and wonderful sights. But it was late in the day, and I had already activated freak-out or survival mode, so I did not stop to take many photographs. The light in the posted images looks brighter than it actually was on that day with the sun already hidden behind dense clouds and snowy peaks.
Quickly I realized that the network of trails was a mad maze that crisscrossed here and there, turning back on itself, so that I was very much disoriented not knowing which trail to follow. To make matters worse, all three paper maps had slightly different information, but none had what I was actually seeing in front of my eyes.
I had downloaded a copy of the Alltrails app on my Pixel 7. The app shows trails and tracks one's position on them. Knowing position in real time is essential to get one's bearings. I knew the general direction, but the trails were turning out to be fiendish as they swerved up and down the mountainside, making the goal seem farther and farther away.
In hindsight, the trails would be easy to navigate in the daytime, but for cold disoriented novices surrounded by dense snowy woods, evening falling, imposing green trees transforming into shadow sentinels of an icy realm of darkness, the task could be vexing. Thankfully, I had a headlamp, so I took this out as I studied the maps in the silence of the mountainside, and tracked position on the Alltrails app. At times, the distant movement of lights flickered through the dense dark forest in between.
Snowflakes fell on the phone as I tried to get my bearings. I looked up, and the headlamp beam illuminated the flakes that floated down from the canopy.
The paper maps of this area were deceptively simple and seemingly not up to date. But looking at the app, I realized that at least it was the right direction, so there was no other choice but to keep going. There was also the option of calling for help from emergency services, but when have you ever met a man who asked for directions?
The snow fell. Wet. Zero degrees Celsius. Damn boots were killing me. My trekking poles struck the snow. Snowshoes felt heavy and awkward after hours of hiking in less than ideal conditions.
Rising hills. Agh! Then back down. Slippery snow. Then suddenly a light flickering. Voices!
I raced through the snow, tripping over branches and came unto… a parking lot.
A couple of ladies were there with towels in their hands, looking as if they had just seen the mythical Sasquatch come out of the woods. Trying to act casual, I smiled and began to remove my snowshoes then crossed the parking lot in a dignified manner (or so it seemed to me). The place turned out to be a spa.
The road out of the area joined a main highway from where the cabin was visible further up the road.
The sense of relief was palpable, and there was a skip in my step in spite of the discomfort, thinking that I had never been so glad to see a parking lot.
Back in the cabin, I took out my phone, and the screen gave me a warning that water had entered the connection port, and the phone would shutdown. Which it did. When the screen went dark, I stared at the phone in amazement, wondering about the consequences of this happening back in the woods with all the snow falling on it. Shudder. Perhaps some forest spirit kept it dry for me. Without a functioning phone, I would’ve had no access to position information or a way to call for help. It would have been a snowshow of epic proportions. Thankfully, as that old piece of Shakespearean wisdom goes, all's well that ends well.
A Christmas miracle indeed. A very clever idea for this rugged terrain.
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