The poet might wax that spring in Maine is like no other. And given the excess of mud and the stubborn refusal of winter to take a hike (pun forcefully intended) that signal the start of the season here, said poet would be right. I do the seasonal affective disorder thing during these long winters, so when the calendar says “Spring!” I foolishly expect to take the protective tips off my trekking poles and start plotting sloppy day hikes in the woods.
But the emperor has no snowshoes. And my favorite woodsy paths still have a fair amount of snow on them. And it keeps snowing. Snow showers yesterday. 1-3″ on deck for tomorrow. I generally consider three inches to be an insignificant amount of snowfall, unless it’s the end of March and I’m waiting to get onto a tree-lined trail wearing a backpack. Then that tiny snowfall blossoms from slight inconvenience to full-blown aggravation.
Many, MANY have said, “Just get snowshoes!” or “Buy some good winter hiking boots!” And the few who don’t really know me have asked, “Have you tried cross-country skiing?” But this recovering marathoner is stubbornly addicted to lightweight and nimble footwear. Maybe I’ll make the change someday. Or maybe I’ll continue my personal quest to move to a warmer climate where those sorts of footwear/additions would be looked upon as unnecessary for the majority of the year.
Yeah. Unnecessary. I like that better.