February 24, 2018, Front Range, Colorado

Front Range, Colorado
February 25th, 2018
Day 37 - Snowshoes. Where for art thou snowshoes?

When I got back to my truck after my third lap there were at least a half dozen cars in the lot. A half dozen more than when I started at 7 am. I took off my pack and threw it into the bed, ready to beat it on out of there for the two hour drive home...that's when I noticed my snowshoes were missing.

My whippet flopped against the bed of the truck, held in loosely by the straps on my pack, right where my shoes should have also been. I felt an instant of panic, anxiety welling up inside of me, my heart racing for a flash. What about my car keys?

Then I put it in perspective and calmed down. No, just the snowshoes were missing, the keys zipped snuggly in their pocket on the top of the pack.

I momentarily thought about leaving them.

They were at least 15 years old, hundreds of days behind them and weren't the crampons almost worn flat anyway? But I couldn't, wouldn't do that. The idea of garbage left behind in the forest - even totally usable garbage for the next person to find - left me with an uneasy feeling. No, I couldn't do that. Anyway, I didn't have a pressing return time - I had mumbled something about "shortly after lunch" when discussing the plans for return time the night before - and didn't the girls say they had no plans until later tonight? I could surely squeeze out another run and look for them.

But geez, climbing the mountain with no snowshoes? That could get downright horrible. Merciless. Obnoxious. And it would be the third climb of the morning, I was tired, not truly done in, but I was ready to leave. And after all, I was out of coffee.

But these were my snowshoes, and I thought I knew where I had lost them, banging the pack against a particularly close set of trees where the whippet snagged. But I wasn't really sure.

It couldn't be that bad, could it?

***

Nearing the top of the uptrack the snow began to no longer really support my weight. Lower down, when I had broke trail in the morning, I was the lead uptrack and I had chosen the left branch for my runs. After the third run, there was a right hand option taking folks into the north side trees, so the last couple hundred vertical were my tracks and a couple other skiers who had followed me, not the superhighway near the base which very nearly acted like a sidewalk for my snowshoe-less feet.

I was loath to bump into anyone and get the usual questions/comments - all day really not just without snowshoes - what the heck was I doing postholing up the trail? Sanctimonious skiers and split boarders who would inform me that the uptrack was only for skiers. "Well," I would say, "when I broke trail this morning I didn't see you around to ask, but as you've come up behind me, don't you know this uptrack is only for snowshoes?"

I had not been in a mood to play nice, I had broken trail and would only be kind if they approached with a smile and a "howdy!" - which I found quite often at this area - there were quite a few snowshoers and I fit right in.

But now I had no excuse, and I, too, hated postholing. Who doesn't?

I charged up the mountain as fast as the trail would let me, but I had to be careful, only the perfect balance on the track would yield stable snow, right or left of the trail, and I was up to my knees. It got worse as I neared the very top, the less traveled left branch barely allowing me a step without a posthole. So I improvised and very nearly crawled, using the board in front of me as a third leg. It worked surprisingly well.

So for the last couple hundred vertical feet I was left to three point stool climbing, head down, holding my board across the uptrack, lift and place three feet ahead and then bring my two feet to near the board, balancing most of my weight on the horizontal board in front of me, letting only my boots sink in a couple inches in the fresh uptrack, then quickly move the board again three feet ahead before I sank. It worked like a charm, and with my view only of the snow right in front of me, I forgot how long this was taking me, and my mind wondered as it tends to do in the delirium of the climb.

And I saw no one the whole way.

I very nearly reached the above tree line bench, but decided I would forgo that torture. After all, I think the 1 degree fahrenheit temperature and the 40 mph winds were what caused my mishap in the first place. I must have not cinched down the shoes and whippet well enough in my angst to get below tree line and out of the -20 degree F wind chill. Certainly I wouldn't have lost them near the top anyway, it must have been down in the trees when I whacked the pack. But I wasn't exactly sure, so crossed into my line as high as was prudent.

I followed my last run down into the trees, once again enjoying the foot and a half deep pow - a little grabby because of the cold, but once gaining speed, exquisite pow, even if there was one track already leading the way! My first three runs, of course, I was first down each line, and there is nothing like having the mountain to yourself with no one creeping up behind you.

Half way down the run, as my track danced between two large trees, I saw them. Laying 5 feet apart and right in the pow trench. Yippee! As suspected, I must have hit a branch on one of the trees as I raced past, and it was just enough to jar the shoes out of my loose pack.

I took no chances on the rest of the run but clutched the shoes to my chest like a new born baby, and delivered them safely to the waiting bed of my truck.