While some people truly hate winter, there’s something about a snowstorm that brings out the kid in me. It makes me want to go out and play.
So, when last Sunday’s storm brought double-digit snowfall, I knew I had to take advantage of it. When my shift ended at 2 p.m. the next day, I headed home, threw on some snow gear, packed a snack and headed for the hills of Heath.
I’ve been camping at my family’s woodlot for longer than I can remember, yet I’d never really explored it in the snow. So I decided to change that.
I parked at the end of the driveway, had a long draw off my Thermos of coffee, and left the car.
The driveway is separated from the neighboring field by a wire fence, which stands knee-high. Looking ahead, I see that some of its posts barely protrude from the deep snow.
The wind was biting. I hurried to strap on my snowshoes and get my freezing fingers into my gloves. I began my walk, sinking into the snow knee-high in the drifts, but I’d expected that to be the case in such powdery snow. Once I was in the forest proper, the snow wouldn’t be quite as deep.
At the trailhead halfway up the driveway, there’s an old one-room schoolhouse that my dad moved to the land in the ’70s. Somehow, after all these winters, it’s still standing, unlike some of the smaller structures on the property that were built since. Most of these still stand, built by the Miracle Cadet Corp., a New York City keep-the-kids-off-the-streets group that used to spend whole summers there, and still comes for a couple weeks each year.
Once I reached the schoolhouse, I decided to head for the woods, away from the sharp wind and snow-drifts. The going was a little easier, though I still sank into the snow quite a bit. I made my way to what we call “First Camp” at the top of the hill, and snapped a few pictures before traipsing across the untouched snow.
It was eerily quiet. I’d been there alone plenty of times, but that day there didn’t even appear to be any animal tracks through camp. The old cabins looked quite abandoned, boarded up and covered in snow. The same went for the ancient green bus that’s been there since I was a child.
From here, it was on to Third Camp. Even in the summer sun, it’s hard to find one’s way to the undeveloped and rarely used tent site. As I hiked, a few buried branches reminded me that I needed to watch my step. Catch one on the tip of my snowshoe and I’d likely go down face-first, or fall to the side and twist an ankle.
I gradually made my way to the camp, stopping a few times to rest. Though I’d strayed from the snow-covered trail, it seemed my sense of direction was still somewhat intact.
From here, it was on to Second Camp, at the bottom of the hill. The trail there from Third Camp is equally hard to find on a good day, and I lost my bearings before too far. I knew it was west, toward the afternoon sun, so I headed that way.
Then, to the south, a trail appeared. I made my way there, and saw that it was merely a gap in the trees. The trail still eluded me. As I zig-zagged in my effort to find it, I spied a fresh set of snowshoe tracks.
I stopped and debated my next move. Follow my tracks back, or keep going.
I knew I couldn’t get too lost. I could still make out the stone wall that separated my land from the lot to the north. Hike too far west, and I’d run into the neighbor’s logging road or the clear-cut from a few years ago. Going south would bring me back across my property and familiar territory. And go too far east and I’d end up in the field behind the house where my father grew up.
As I pondered, I began to cool off. I had started to sweat, and a long-enough break could chill me to the bone. So, I decided to trace my footsteps back to First Camp. It wasn’t from fear of getting lost — the property is only 17 acres — but out of concern of wearing myself out as I wandered the woods.
The going was much easier as I backtracked, having already packed the snow down.
Then, as my car came into sight, it happened. I fell, in slow motion. As I toppled to my right, I crossed my left foot behind me, held my camera high and managed to land gracefully on my rear end. The snowshoes made it tough to get my feet back under me, but I did it, blew a little snow from my camera and made my way back to my Jeep, and another long draw from my thermos of hot coffee.
I checked my hiking app. I’d only gone ¾ of a mile, with my slow pace through the deep snow and my short breaks, I’d only gone .76 mph., but I felt like I had had a good workout. Driving home, I thought of dinner and dreamed of warmer days at the camp.
David Rainville is a former
reporter and editor for The Recorder, who now works as a machinist. He enjoys hiking, kayaking, biking, and finding new ways to explore the outdoors. You can reach him at daverain82@gmail.com.