After a late December snowstorm, it seemed like we were going to have a much-needed “normal” winter in the Northwoods. Owners and employees of businesses I visit as part of my long-standing commitment to “shop local” had on a happy face as winter sports enthusiasts flocked to northern Oconto County.
Sadly, as I write this, we are back in the exasperating ice-sleet-rain weather pattern of the past two years. Elation has turned to disillusionment as high hopes for a snowy winter evaporated in record time.
Snow. Other than moving it around so we can get around, I love snow. It’s beautiful when it falls, tenderly covering the woods with a pristine white blanket that insulates and protects the landscape.
Plus, when it slowly melts in spring, it provides the run-off essential to the vitality of our waterways.
Unlike people who flee south in winter, I’ve always enjoyed being outdoors in cold weather. My not science-based theory is that, like the food in my fridge, I keep better in the cold. I do draw the line at 10 degrees above zero though. Anything below that keeps me warm and cozy inside unless I absolutely have to go somewhere. Sunburn or frost burn both produce the same results.
One activity I used to enjoy during winter was snowshoeing. I’d never strapped on a pair of snowshoes until Jon introduced me to the sport when we bought Otter Run in 1993. Sometimes when we came up on weekends, the half-mile private road to our cottage wasn’t plowed. Then, we would park the pickup, load our gear onto a sled, and snowshoe to the cabin. It was hard work, but lots of fun.
After we retired here in 2002, we would go midnight snowshoeing in our woods when the moonlight lit the way. I miss it, but we don’t venture out anymore. It’s not just because we haven’t had enough snow the past two years to even bother. It’s not due to the fact we are both getting on in years and less able to participate in such a strenuous activity. The key reason we stopped going is the fear of falling.
As I am fond of saying, “fall” is the four-letter F-word for old people. If you do the first, you could be the second. Since Labor Day, we have attended funerals for folks who were younger than us and in relatively good health. Their downward spiral and subsequent passage to the next life began with a nasty fall.
I mention all this because a text message I got this morning brought to mind an incident from a few years ago. The text said: “This winter when you are hiking, snowshoeing, or cross-country skiing, remember to look for clues that animals are moving around just below your feet.”
Right. The day began with Jon suggesting we go snowshoeing. It was a lovely winter afternoon with 12 inches of fresh snow. We strapped on our shoes and headed out for another Otter Run adventure. As always, we agreed to stay together, just in case. As usual, my erstwhile husband was lollygagging along while I was working it. He seemed to be enjoying himself and not at all concerned that I was outpacing him. When the distance between us was beyond what I considered safe, I slowed down. Suddenly, I felt something move beneath my right shoe.
In the split second it took for that to register in my brain, whatever it was flew out of the snow with a loud whoosh. I saw it was a ruffed grouse who took my invading its space and ruining its snooze as a personal attack. The bird’s response was an exit so dramatic that a startled me couldn’t keep my balance. I did a clumsy faceplant into a 3-foot snowdrift, getting a free fresh snow facial.
As I was floundering around, my trail mate caught up to me, beating his personal record for moving from one place to another. We decided only my pride was injured, and he helped me into the proper upright position. I appreciated that because you really can get stuck in a snowbank.
What I didn’t appreciate was his comment that I looked like a walking snow cone. Even worse was his admonition to be careful. Am I the only one who thinks it’s ridiculous for someone to tell you to be careful after the mishap has already occurred?
That said, I’m thankful I wasn’t hurt, and we were able to continue our winter wonderland adventure. I realize every day is a blessing, as is being able to share with you this memory as I sit sipping coffee in front of the fire. Be safe, be well, be happy.
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
