I went snow camping for the first time ever this weekend. It feels so very natural to be in a place covered in snow and evergreens. Trees with gray naked branches reach out over the white landscape. The sun shines brightly and reflects off the ground.
Wearing sunglasses, a heavy wool hat (hand-knit apparently by a woman in Nepal), enough layers to make an onion jealous, and snowshoes, I see the world as a giant playground. The snowshoes have sharp teeth that dig into the snow and let you climb almost vertically up onto mountaintops where the landscape opens up for your viewing pleasure. You can go wherever you want, as long as you're willing to carry your pack there.
At dinner time, snow was our construction material. We dug out benches and a table. I had a wonderful idea to dig out a chef-hole as well. So, just like customers at one of those fancy Japanese restaurants, we sat and watched as our chefs made our dinner right in front of us. A waiter stood on top of the table and handed us our food. It was delicious. We had hot chocolate for dessert.
Of course, it was sometimes quite cold. My feet were cold the whole first night, and by morning my toes were numb. I put my mittens up them, wrapped them in my scarves and spent half an hour wiggling them with my hands and worrying about hypothermia. And then they warmed up again. Our leader told me a true thing, though. It's that the most unpleasant part of the experience was worrying about the unknown. I wouldn't have minded the cold so much if I knew that I could make it all right again.
I returned home a woodland creature. I hadn't taken my hat off for days, and my hair was some sort of post-modern . . . creation. I was grateful for a hot shower and stepped gingerly around my pack to avoid contamination. But today I felt a deep sort of well-being that came directly from the sort of healthy, happy lifestyle that can be had in the snow.
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