Assateague Island National Seashore is famous for its wild ponies, and photographer Pat McKay is intrigued by these free spirits. But something else lured him to the island this past week—a record-setting snowstorm. A nor’easter dropped a foot of the white stuff over much of the Delmarva Peninsula, and Pat thought that a snow-covered beach would be something well worth seeing. But things didn’t turn out quite the way he expected. Here’s what greeted him on his arrival:

Beautiful, isn’t it? But where’s the snow? Not where’d you’d expect to find it, as it turns out. But why not let Pat tell the story in his own words:

I had initially thought that it might be interesting to get a couple of shots of the beach with the waves lapping the snow-covered sand, but as I crossed the dune-line, all that I could see in any given direction was just clear sandy beach. Where did all of the snow go? It could not have been washed away since much of the beach lies far beyond the reach of high tide. When I stepped off the boardwalk to make my way down to the ocean, the mystery was suddenly solved as I sunk almost to my knees in buried snow. The high winds that accompanied the nor’easter apparently covered the snow with a layer of sand.

What a surprise! Who’d have thought that snowshoes would come in handy on a trip to the beach? Not me, at any rate. And not Pat, either.

Of course, no journey to Assateague Island would be complete without paying a visit to the ponies. Here are three of Pat’s photos of these magnificent animals:

Want a closer look? Just right-click on any picture to open an enlargement in a new window.

Thanks, Pat, for inviting us along on your latest photo shoot. Next time, though, we’ll bring out snowshoes!

 
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Between trips, my getaway pack lives on a shelf right next to my desk. I don’t empty it when I come back from a jaunt or a paddle, so it always holds the Ten Essentials, along with extra clothing suited to the season (a head net in summer, for example; mittens and a balaclava in winter). Then, any time I see a chance to make my escape, all I have to do is stow my camera kit, fill a water bottle, shoulder the pack, and head for the door. I don’t lose any time looking around for critical items, and I can be sure that nothing important has been forgotten. I’m ready for anything.

Or am I?

A month ago I was more than an hour down a little‑used trail along The River when I got an urge for a hot cup of coffee. Until recently, I’d have shrugged off this sort of craving, at least on a short outing, but my new Java Press is so light and compact that it now has a permanent berth in my getaway pack. Just in case. So I didn’t hesitate. I picked a sheltered spot to serve as my kitchen, dug the little Trangia burner out of my pack, dipped a small pot into The River’s icy flow, and assembled the Press. My mouth watered in anticipation.

Only one step remained. I extracted a strike‑anywhere match from my brass match safe, screwed the gasketed top down, and gave the match a quick flick along the ‘safe’s knurled side. But nothing happened. The match didn’t burst into flame with the usual sulfurous reek. It didn’t even fizzle. It just left a greasy black streak on the match safe. That was all. Thinking I’d simply used too light a touch, I scraped the head of the match against the ‘safe again. Still nothing. Hmm… I tried striking the match on a rough slab of riverbank gneiss next. Ditto.

OK, I thought. I’ve got a dud match. No big deal. There are plenty more where that one came from. So I opened the ‘safe and pulled out another match. But it, too, failed to light. I tried another. No go. And another. And…

Not a single match flared up into flame. Well, I said to myself, that’s one for the record‑book. I wasn’t about to give up, though, and I fished a butane lighter from the bowels of my pack. I spun the wheel on the striker. It threw off plenty of sparks. But no flame appeared. I checked the lighter’s translucent reservoir. It was full. I spun the striker again. Sparks aplenty, but nothing else. And again. No joy. Then I woke to the obvious. It was a chilly day—well below freezing, in fact. No problem, I thought. And I warmed the lighter in my armpit. Then I tried it once more.

Nothing.

I was beginning to feel a little like that hapless man in Jack London’s famous short story. Of course, all I faced was a small disappointment. A lost opportunity for a cup of coffee. My life didn’t hang in the balance. But then the freezing mist riding the back of the strengthening breeze forcibly reminded me of the fine line that divides annoyance from catastrophe once you leave home and hearth behind. Colin Fletcher, who probably forgot more about backcountry travel than most of us will ever know, was fond of quoting a Persian proverb to the effect that “Fortune is infatuated with the efficient.” That being the case, I figured I had only myself to blame if Fortune turned her back on me.

So I decided there and then that something had to be done. And this meant looking beyond the Ten Essentials…Read more…

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So you found a pair snowshoes under the tree, did you? Wonderful! Snowshoes make walking through the winter woods almost as straightforward as taking a stroll in a city park. And even if you’re retracing your steps along familiar summer trails, you’ll be surprised at how different things look—and at how much more you can see. Not only are all the leaves off the trees, but the snow faithfully records the comings and goings of every sort of wild creature from mouse to moose. There’s an aesthetic treat in store for you, too, particularly if you’re a photographer. The low sun and long shadows highlight the grain of the landscape like nothing else can.

Is that all? Not quite. If you made too many trips to the groaning board over the holiday—and if the bathroom scale is doing a little groaning of its own on that account—you’ll be happy to hear that walking on snowshoes can give jogging a run for its money in the calorie stakes. That’s a good thing, of course, but it serves as a reminder that snowshoeing isn’t just a walk in the park. It’s strenuous exercise. And the winter woods can be a bad place to get into trouble. So here are a few tips to make your first few snowshoe treks easier:

Adjust Your Bindings Before You Step Out  For maximum ease, do this inside, out of the weather. (But if your shoes have traction claws—and most aluminum-framed ‘shoes do—stay off polished wood floors and vinyl tile.) Take the boots you’ll be using and fit them into the snowshoe bindings, adjusting the straps to hold the boots snugly. Most ‘shoes are symmetrical, but you’ll want to make sure the binding buckles are on the outside, where they won’t become entangled and trip you up. Some shoes are marked R and L; others aren’t. But you can easily decide which is which, anyway.

Once you’ve completed the trial fitting, remove your boots, put them on your feet, and step into the ‘shoes. Now cinch up the bindings and take a few steps on a carpeted floor. Don’t spraddle your legs as you walk. Keep your stride as normal as possible. Do your boots stay put? Do the shoes go where you point them? Good! You’re ready to venture out of doors.

Emulate the Onion  If you’ve ever peeled an onion, you know all about layering, and what works for onions also works for winter walkers. Snowshoeing is sweaty work—it’s as strenuous as jogging, remember?—but sweat-soaked clothes offer only cold comfort. So dress like an onion, in layers. Peel off layers as you heat up. Then put them back on when you stop to rest or snap a photo. Materials matter, too. Stick to fleece, polyester batting, and wool. Leave your cotton jeans and tees in the closet. And be sure to bring a rucksack so you’ll have a place to park the layers you shed, along with…

A Little Something to Eat and Drink  Winter air is cold and dry, and you’ll probably find yourself panting on the hills. That frosty breath you see streaming out of your mouth is water leaving your body. So you’ll need to drink now and then to keep thirst at bay. You’ll need fuel for you engine, too. Sugary drinks combine fluid and fuel in one, though plain water is OK, too. (Pack bottles upside down to keep the caps ice-free for as long as possible. But first make sure the caps don’t leak!) Want a treat on the trail? Then bring along some hot cocoa or sweet tea in a thermos. Snacks can be whatever you like, though you’ll want to avoid anything that freezes hard. I like homemade Hundred-Mile Bars, but the range of choices is just about endless. (A hint: If you’re worried that your favorite trail food will get too chewy in the chill air, just carry it in an inside pocket.)

Walk Before You Run  Yes, you can run on most snowhoes, even long traditional ‘shoes like Ojibwas. But it’s a good idea to learn to walk first. And while it’s easier than learning to ski, walking on snowshoes takes a little practice. Choose a level field with no more than a foot or so of new snow on the ground for your first outing, and use a ski pole for balance. (I use two. Large baskets beat small baskets. Keep your wrists out of the straps, too, at least at first.) Now walk. As normally as possible. Don’t spraddle your legs. Lift each shoe in turn—just high enough to clear the snow, and no higher!—easing it past the opposite leg with an inch or so to spare. (Now you know why it’s important to keep the bindings’ buckles on the outside!) Soon you’ll be gliding along. Then it’s time to look for a gentle slope to conquer. You’re on your way.

Don’t Fall for This  Every now and then, a powder-filled hollow forms under the lower branches of a conifer. Walk too close to the trunk of such a tree, and you may find yourself floundering in a chilly pit-trap, while your startled companions stare down at you. Moreover, once you’re in the trap, it can be surprisingly difficult getting out. The moral of the story? There are two, really: (1) Don’t walk alone in winter. And (2) approach conifers with caution after any heavy snowfall, using your ski-pole to probe ahead of you. Your pole can also be used to sound ice to see if it will bear your weight, but ice crossings are always dangerous. A tumble into a spruce hole will usually leave you winded and cold, but no worse for wear. But breaking through the ice on a remote beaver pond can leave you dead. ‘Nuff said, I’m sure.

Happily, the only misadventure you’re likely to suffer is a simple tumble, caused—more likely than not—by inadvertently treading on one shoe with the other and tripping yourself up. Unless the snow is really deep powder, self-rescue in these situations is easy. Simply plant the points of your ski poles near your body, then climb the poles hand-over-hand until you’ve pulled yourself back upright. But don’t be fooled. Snowshoeing may be easy, but it’s also strenuous, and it makes unexpected demands on thighs, butt, and hips. So unless you snowshoe year-round…

You’re Sure to Discover New Muscles  Even the Hudson Bay Company’s hard-bitten “servants” suffered aches and pains after the first snowshoe treks of each season. Christened mal de raquette, this “snowshoe sickness” was a classic type of overuse injury. How do you avoid falling victim? The recipe is about what you’d expect. Take it easy at first. Build up gradually before undertaking longer walks and steeper climbs. And if prevention fails? I treat mild soreness with massage, coupled with a hot bath and a wee dram. Your favorite remedy may be different, of course. (Hot baths aren’t part of the RICE protocol for treating overuse injury, after all. But they work for me.) One thing is certain, however: Anything more than slight, short-lived discomfort warrants a professional consultation ASAP. Tendinitis is no joke.

Want to Know More?  Sure you do! Begin with one of Farwell’s “off-season” articles for Paddling.net, “Exploring the Frozen World.” Then hit the local library. After that? Go snowshoeing. Winter won’t last forever, you know.

 
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