With all the snow and cold weather we have been experiencing this winter, it brought to mind all those years when the conditions were perfect for snowshoeing. But not so perfect for the gear. Remember the old parkas, and wearing blue jeans in the cold? Long hours of one-foot-in-front-of-the-other and the scenery not changing much. Hours to do nothing but think. I’m sure there were some great ideas hatched in those hours. Send us your snowshoe memories.
(Click once, and once again on the photos to see full screen versions.)
February 7, 2011 at 7:05 am
Three stories.
My first Snowshoe run:
We were short of snow, so the entire school enbussed and we went to a provincial forest near Whitecourt where there was 6″ of the white stuff on the ground.
The first run of the year was a scramble: Everyone on the same route, but everyone alone — no teams. Staff ran assigned positions. Captains could run where they wanted to try to figure out who they wanted and didn’t want on their teams. The better captains would start at the front and drift back over the course of the day.
The distance was 15 miles. I was assigned to run #40. That meant that if I was passed by somebody, I should pass someone as soon as I could.
Lazaruk, a grade 12, warned me to be sure my lampwick was snug. We had lessons in tying snowshoes in the dining room the night before.
We set out. Staff walked in about a half mile. As kids passed us we each counted to ourselves so to slot ourselves in at the right point.
The pace was somewhat faster than I expected. While not a huge strain to keep up, there wasn’t a lot of reserve speed. Within a mile I knew that my lampwick was too tight. But if I stopped to retie it I would drop back 20 places or so. So I held on.
Time passed. Feet hurt. At the end my moccasins had two red patches over the base of the big toe where the lampwick rubbing had worn a hole in my hide.
*****
I knew I wasn’t a very good snowshoer so when Keith Bennett asked for staff volunteers to do the makeup run, I volunteered. All those kids who were sick, or who had run away before the first run, or for any other reason had missed the run were going to to do the ‘inside circuit’ starting Wednesday afternoon. The Interschool team would be doing their practice. The rest of the school, double duty.
It was 1:30 or so when we went out. Bitter cold. Snowing lightly. Out from the school, down Pick’s hill, across the flats, up Scheideman’s Ridge, down onto Greenhough’s flats, over the ice bridge. It was dark by the time we got to Don Scheideman’s place. I hadn’t a clue where I was. I stayed at the back, and made sure we didn’t leave anyone behind.
It was slow going. There was no conversation. Conversation stops at sunset it seems. We came out on the A trail, and followed a ghostly track by the underglow of the cloud deck, reflecting light from Edmonton and Spruce/Stony.
Clatter across the Genesee bridge, over the lower fields, and into the old dining room. Hot stew and biscuits waited.
I told Keith that night that I would do all the make up runs if he needed someone.
****
Years passed.
I was in Selkirk. Much colder than Edmonton. Coming in from my first run of the season I realized that my mocs were frozen solid. Boots of iron. However they were quite comfortable.
So I took my mocs off outside, leaving them tied into the snowshoes. All that winter I kept my snowshoes outside, only pulling the felt insoles out to dry them. Most comfortable season of snowshoeing I’ve ever had. From that point on, I tried to make sure my mocs would freeze into a nice shape and keep them that way for the season.
Alas, when we moved to nylon mocs it didn’t work any more.
February 10, 2011 at 10:56 am
One of my memories – the 1982 Senior Snowshoe Race.
I believe that the weather was supposed to be very warm that Saturday so we started out even earlier than normal – well before the sun came up. The route took us across the lower fields, over the Genesee Bridge and then over the fields to Krause’s cut line and then on and on and on eventually coming back to the school.
There was a concern that teams could get lost in the dark so a few volunteers were stationed at supposedly key places with a Coleman lantern to act as a winter lighthouse. Teams would aim for the light and stay on course and all would be good.
I was the staff member attached to the second place team with Marty Clark going with the first place team. The starting gun was fired at the school and all the senior teams took off running as usual. I expected this from past experience and knew that after a mile or so, the running would stop and I could finally get into a nice, reasonable pace that would bring me back home still standing upright.
We hit the lower fields and then across the bridge – still running! Surely this had to stop soon as we headed for the first light, but instead 1982 turned out to be a year of the “keeners”. I was with Mark Hutchison’s team and as captain he was determined – driven to win the senior race again. We actually could not see the first place team as we headed into the dark on the north side of the river and we kept running and running and running but never could catch up to them. The frustration was building and I was muttering many unkind words towards the captain as he pushed us forward.
Finally as the sun was coming up, we reached the first official checkpoint. The parents were clapping and yelling as we came through for juice and food proclaiming how excellent it was that we were the first place team. This was somewhat confusing since we had not passed the first place team even with all the running, but Captain Hutchison took it all in stride and accepted first place.
I wasn’t happy to be now the first place referee, but since we were now first, I was sure the running would stop and we could walk. But no – while Mark accepted first place, he was not 100% convinced so he made us run up and down the hills of Krause’s cut line to the next checkpoint. This was surely a tyrant acting as a captain who had no mercy for his teammates and especially for a much beloved staff member.
Now the question is – how did Mark Hutchison in second place move into first place without passing another team?
February 14, 2011 at 10:17 am
When I remember snowshoeing, for some odd reason the first two images I have are of Mark Sullivan pretending to be Ted Nugent with his scarf tied around his head and a makeshift “tree branch guitar” (although that image faded quickly after about half an hour) and of Joeseph Lee on what was (I think) his first ever snowshoe run. Poor Joe, frostbite on both cheeks and both earlobes, try as we might we couldn’t keep him covered up but did keep him moving all the way back to the dining room.
We all dropped our snowshoes, and tucked in to what was in our minds the best food ever while Joe, you gotta love em, with snowshoes and parka still on headed right through the dining room, down the hall and into the sauna where he stood in a slight state of shock for awhile, snowshoes still on by the way. He fired off a few expletives about the “fun” winter activity and then I’m pretty sure he slept for about 12 hrs.
August 3, 2011 at 7:08 am
I no longer worked at the school but came out for all the outdoor stuff. One time there was a kid, who we will refer to as The Kid, so save him embarrassment. For those of you trying to figure this out, he was only there for Grade 9.
It was the 4th run of the season, or perhaps the long practice.. Our route: A trail, Krause’s cutline, Mewassin Power Line, Ice Bridge, Old J trail back to the school. The Kid was a bit pudgy. Hell, he was a butterball. And snowshoeing didn’t come easy to him.
I used every trick I could to encourage him. And while not fast, we were moving steadily.
Then, in crossing a fence somewhere north of the Ice Bridge, he pulled a muscle in his groin, and fell shrieking. We untangled him from fence, and got him moving, but now slow became turtle speed.
Greenhoughs had ploughed windrows in their field, in preparation to hauling pig manure. Or maybe they just wanted to catch drifting snow. So every 20 feet there was a 3 foot ridge of snow. Each was accompanied by whines and moans as The Kid clambered over them.
Picks flats was done in silence. In an hour and a half.
Coming up Picks hill was even slower. All of us were stiff and sore from the museum pace.
At last, we were on the upper fields. The Kid realizes where he is. He speeds up, walking at a normal pace. We, however, have crystalized to our plodding pace, and speeding up is painful.
A whiff of hot french fry grease wafts through the night. The kid breaks into a run, down the hill.
I break into a run and catch up to him, shoulder check him off into the deep snow. “We travel as a team. We have been going your pace for 4 hours. You can go our pace for 10 minutes. And you better hope that I am never with you again this season.”
* * *
The final race.
I was assigned to run last place. Or actually I wasn’t, but as often happens running the A trail in the dark, teams get sucked off the main route by some skidoo trail, and by the time we were starting the A trail the third place team I was with crossing the bridge was now the last team at the start of Krause’s cutline.
It was a pretty good team. Slow jog down the hills, steady work up the hills. Only about 2 hills in we caught up with the 4th team, moving quite a bit slower. At the top of the hill we passed. The referee running 4th place was a new staff member. So in the interests of having some experience at the end, I told him that I would remain with the last team.
Then I realized that it was the team with The Kid. I reminded him of my promise. I told him that my goal was to make sure that his team either not last, or that he was going to have the most miserable run of his life.
Two hills later the team I had been with was over the hill and now 3rd place.. But there was another team visible. I pointed out to the kid, that if he could walk just a bit faster his team would pass the team in front, and he would no longer have me nagging him.
Over remainder of Krause’s cutline, I encouraged him to speed up. Longer strides, jog the downhills. We cut the distance down to about 100 yards by the time we came out on the road. “Captain, here’s your chance.”
The captain got them going. Jog a pole, walk a pole. We came into the checkstop barely a team length behind them.
The Kid goes up to the race marshall. “I can’t go on!” and created a scene. The race marshall had a heart made of flint, and was deaf to his pleas. But it still took 3 minutes to get him going. We were now 250 yards behind.
Three miles to the next check stop on the Mewassin Power Line. Again we slowly caught up with the next team. The Kid was moving fairly well. I told him this. And I pointed out that ‘not last’ was a worthy goal.
The next checkpoint was a repeat. Tears. Protestations of inability. The race marshall got him moving again, but it took longer. Team 4 was no longer in sight.
We reached the S. Trail normally a beautiful walk overlooking Wabamum creek. The Kid was in turtle mode. We threated him with “The Scarf”. It made no difference. Once we got off the rim, and down on the river flats,
On the flats we set up the scarf. Tied his own around his waist. Tied two lampwicks end to end, and tied them to the scarf. Tied a scarf to the end of the lampwick in a loop that could be worn over a shoulder.
For the next two miles to the Ice bridge, we took turns at the front tugging him along. It was like going up a middling steep hill.
We came in to the Ice Bridge. The Kid ran into a parent’s arms. A parent he didn’t know, crying, “Don’t let them take me away.” The parent looked uncomfortable as if being hugged by a very large slug.
The Captain’s mom was looking on. I later found out that at his first performance she’d been shocked, but seeing that hie could move normally, and would get to the next stop in only a minute or so longer than the next faster team, she began to see his actions for the sham they were.
We fed him, juiced him, untied the scarf. “You know where you are. Can you do it on your own? Nods thorugh the tears.
We started across the Ice Bridge. Half way across he collapsed, “Leave me here to die” he wailed. Two of us got him to his feet, retied the scarf, and continued on.
We scarfed him to lunch.
I advised the Captain. “Watch him. He may do a runner.”
Surprisingly he didn’t run.
The afternoon circuit was much shorter. New J, down to the gun range, north across Chizmadia’s Flats, up to Greenhough’s Heights, down to Greenhoughs, Old J back to the school. It was about half the length of the morning chunk.
We started slowly, to ease into the pace. Didn’t help. We were scarfing “The Kid” by the time we got off the school property.
The afternoon eased into twilight with periodic collapses, “I can’t go on” At one point the guy at the front refused to stop, and The Kid was dragged along the trail for 30 feet or so like a large bag of potatoes.
We ended up in the following marching order.
One guy on the front end of the scarf.
One guy on either side of the Kid. Their purpose: Don’t let him fall down.
One guy breaking trail in front of these two so that they wouldn’t have to try to keep him upright while breaking trail too.
The remaining team members walked behind. Every 5 minutes we changed positions.
We reached Cemetary Road. Usual histrionics at the checkstop there. For two miles we were on the road. This was a relief of a sort. Started down the road, turned and went toward the gun range.
Sun set as we came down the hill.
By the time we regained Greenhough’s heights, the temperature had dropped 10 degrees. It was a perfectly clear night. All of us were soggy from the work scarfing The Kid. Now we were getting cold.
We carried on.
Down the hill to Greenhoughs. The Kid tried to climb into the school truck. (An orange and brown crew cab at that point.) I told Mr. Davis, who was some concerned, “Just help us get some food and juice into him, and then go. Once he has no audience we can get him moving again.”
Mr. D. took me at my word,, shoved a full sandwich and a cup of juice into Kings hands, got into the truck, and left us there under the feeble glow of the yard light.
Up the hill, past the junkyard, back along new J. At Nesjen’s road the school van was there. Lot of numb toes. Mandatory sock change. I think I was colder after the sock change from standing around.
The last two miles in. Unscarfed him in the upper field, and put the stuff away. The Kid was going to do the last bit on his own. He plodded down the hill. He plodded along the driveway. He plodded up to the dining room door.
He came through the door. His mom, who had arrived about the time we had left the Nesgen Road checkstop, gave him a big hug.
“I did it Mom! I did it! All by myself!”
Another day’s work well done.