Cloud walk

On the trail near Northport.

It’s the crunch you hear first.  Not the northern winds, nor the duck’s call from the nearby river.

It’s the crunch … the crisp plunge of the foot atop snow, descending maybe an inch, the action made loud by the broad and long snowshoe clasped to your heavy boot.

We are snowshoers now.  We approached the status with some trepidation.  After all, when lower-Midwest flatlanders move significantly north – to the land of tall pines, deep snows and occasional sentences that end in “eh?” – you embrace new with caution.

If only to avoid embarrassment.

We got 'shoes for Christmas!

And so we ventured out, quietly, along a path we knew would be our own. And tried our new snowshoes.

We left the dogs at home to avoid distraction.  And we joined the Boardman River Trail at its southern point along Keystone Road.

It’s a wondrous trail, exhibiting the push-pull tension of nature vs. development.  On the left, as you head north, the Boardman’s rapids sing their song – raucous, swift, steady.

On the right, soft echoes of cars move fast along Keystone, heading downtown or south to the retail development of Chum’s Corners.

On this day, the river wins.  And the amazing thing:  The snowshoes seemed to work.

Our tracks along Esch Beach.

It was a clumsy effort at first. I imagined strapping on tennis racquets and doing a bow-legged duck-walk, so I was prepared for awkwardness.  But that lasted mere minutes, and soon we were moving up and down hill, across bridge, even over ice, with the confidence of veterans.

Snowshoeing, for those who’ve not done it, seems more glamorous and even dangerous than it actually is.  That is, especially if the snow is not too deep and the path ahead of you is packed down by those who came before.

We’ve all seen the scene in the movies … the distant snowshoer-hero on a vast Siberian plain, treading atop multiple feet of snow, arched headlong against the white winds.

It can be like that, but not here.  Here, there are amazing snowshoe trails that parallel cross-country ski trails, and they bend and curve and move up and down amid thick groves of pine and oak. 

Ice balls along Esch.

Since our start along the Boardman, we’ve gone north – explored the trails of forest and dunes along Cathead Bay, near Northport.  We’ve headed east – trekked the thickly wooded Sand Lakes Quiet Area below Williamsburg.  And traveled west – to our favorite Esch Beach along Lake Michigan, where we marveled at the massive ice shelf that not only obscured the beach and first 50 feet of water, but left incredible ice balls the size of musk melons and cantaloupes lying thickly, up and down the shore, as far as the eye could see.

We were especially brave that day.  You see, snowshoes have metal cleats underneath that deeply grip the snow.  That’s how you get traction.  A four-wheel-drive for the foot.  Equipped with those and sturdy poles, you can go virtually anywhere.

And so we ventured onto the ice shelf, eager to reach the top.  We could hear Michigan’s waves slapping the ice wall, but we wanted to see it.  We weren’t alone … a few other hardy souls had the same idea.

Cindy admires the beach view.

I mentioned brave, because word soon came from the park ranger that it was dangerous to be on the shelf … there was water underneath, after all.  (I suspect he thought us stupid, not brave.)  And so we clambered back to the safety of the beach’s hills.

We eventually drove up to Empire Beach where, interestingly, the shelf was not nearly as daunting and the waves crested mightily, sending water shooting skyward.  Here's a short video on my Facebook page.

I can’t say that snowshoeing is without its hazards.  When you fall, especially in very thick snow, it can be an extreme challenge to right yourself.  Up here, the snow can be too thick and pliable to push yourself up from the ground; your center of gravity often is far ahead or behind the shoes, making your legs useless in simply standing up.  

Sun casts shadows atop Empire's waves.

In the end, you must rely on your poles and upper body strength, or a helping hand.

But those mishaps are infrequent, and so we march on, learning more as we go.  

For instance, there are certain courtesies to the trail … especially that the snowshoer never walks atop the skiers’  groomed paths.  Folks can get snippy about that.

But what you mainly notice is the sheer joy that snowshoers and skiers alike share in being outdoors. The friendly greetings along the narrow trails.  The smiles framed by beet-red faces and thick headgear.

Especially now, as nearly each day brings a new layer of white – flocking the trees, rounding the edges of every outcropping into a frozen softness, turning the hills and valleys into thick, undulating clouds. 

We walk those clouds.  We’re snowshoers now.  It feels good.