One of the most dangerous things when you're venturing out in the wild is an assumption based on false expectations. Take snowshoeing as an example. For me, this activity conjures up romantic images of fluffy pristine snowy terrain and winter bliss, not Blair Witch projects in the making. Leisure and pleasure on ice. This assumption and expectation were quickly challenged when I saw the condition of the trail leading up the side of the mountain- patches of dirt carved by currents of water that streamed down the slopes and across the trail.
Taking the snowshoes on and off was not feasible when the objective was to move at a fast pace. So, I had to make my way through the ragged trail with the contraptions attached to my feet, walking (and sometimes jumping) as if I were an explorer in an alien planet. Keep in mind that, based on online reviews, I was expecting a flat paved road around a beautiful lake. I shook my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear Axl Rose's voice screeching, "You know where you are? You're in the jungle, baby..."
The hike did start innocently enough. Just look at the nice straight terrain in the following image.
A flat track with beautiful vistas as background. There was a guard at the entrance who was in charge of selling the passes into the trails as well as providing the form to wave off any liabilities against them and take responsibility for what one is about to do. Call us if you need us, but you're entering those trails at your own risk.
That should have been a warning sign, I guess, but the beauty of the trail made me feel at ease.
The river running along was raging with turbulent brown and foamy water, as seen on the image below. I think this was one of the early points in which I began to question the infallibility of my decision-making abilities.
The guard had recommended the lake viewing point just off the trail. He marked it on a colorful paper map, which showed the network of trails, separated by snowshoeing and cross-country skiing sections. It was necessary to stay off the skiing trails because the tracks were maintained pristine for the cross-country skiers. Others had to take the mountain trails.
In two of my previous posts (here and here), I wrote about hiking up to the lake viewing point where I tested my photography gadgets. Then retracing my steps, headed in the opposite direction.
Climbing up the mountain and entering the forest immediately alerted me that this wasn't going to be a walk in the snow park like I had initially assumed. I found myself making my way through slushy snow, hopping across patches, then splashing cold water with the snowshoes, all the while my camera and phone are swinging in my pockets, and a whole lotta monkey business going on. I had planned on bringing only hiking sneakers for the trip, but at the last minute, I purchased proper winter boots that could withstand the rigors of the trail. I was glad I did. At one point I found myself crossing streams that had inundated the trails, nearly slipping in the process, my foot sank in deep water but was kept dry by the height and waterproofness of the boot. Warm temperatures and heavy rains from the last few days had made a mess of the trail and surrounding environment. Yet, even without the wet mayhem, the trail was still moderately difficult as it meandered around the mountainside.
I was taking my time as I followed the trail, stopping to take pictures of the scenes. I had a few pounds of gear on my back, and I wanted to capture a few highlights. The deeper I walked into the forest, the more difficult it became to navigate and handle my extracurricular activities. I had a couple of trekking poles that made things easier, but this meant I couldn't carry my camera gear in hand. So, I ended up mainly using my Pixel 7 phone to record images and video. This phone is not meant to be used in this extreme environment, and though it gave out on me at the end, it was instrumental not only in recording the sights but also in getting me out of a very tight spot later on.
Splash! Splash! Splash!
My pace quickened the further I trekked. My poles had small basket tips specifically made for snow. It gave me much pleasure when I encountered snowy sections of the trail and saw just how well the baskets gripped the ice and propelled me onward, the snow crunching under my snowshoes. Then further down, the patches of melted snow laid bare the brown dirt and streams of gurgling water rushed down the slope.
The trail so far was fairly straightforward. They were well marked with names like The Torture Never Stops and Comfortably Numb, which again should alert the would-be adventurer about what lies ahead. There is a mischievous humor in the naming of the trails, which takes on a new meaning when you actually find yourself in trouble, and the only way out is to take the long torturous way back or keep moving forward into the unknown.
In spite of the horrid conditions (as far as snowshoeing was concerned), the trek was actually kind of fun. The trail was much more rugged than I had anticipated but looking at the map, the lake was nearby, and this made me feel at ease. The trail split in different directions with the skiing trail leading towards the bright open lake while the snowshoeing trail veered up higher into the somber dripping darkness of the mountains and the forest. The feeble sun was obscured by clouds and beginning to make it's slow descent towards the mountains. In about an hour and a half, the forest would be completely dark.
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