Longing to be outdoors today, I strapped on the only remaining pair of snowshoes we have that are whole. I took off at a very slow pace into the woods, testing the snow. The snowshoes are too small for both me and the deep snow we have, but they seemed to be doing the trick. I coasted across the top of the snow, sinking just a few inches with each step.
Just shy of the woodlot, my luck gave out. My right foot fell through waist-deep snow, leaving me stuck – the snowshoe buried in the snow, my foot attached to it. I couldn’t pull my foot out, so I awkwardly dug down into the snow to release my boot from the bindings. One snowshoe on, one off, waist deep in snow, I floundered like a fish out of water.
A little panicked over my predicament, I pulled off the second snowshoe and attempted to do a high-step march back in the direction of the house. After just a few stumbling steps, I abandoned walking and struggled to get the snowshoes back on again while overwhelmed by snow. Holding into a tree, I hefted myself back up on top of the snow and very carefully followed my tracks back home.
Once back to the house, out of breath and shaky, I abandoned the cursed snowshoes in the mudroom. I gulped down a gallon of water and collapsed onto the sofa where I vowed to remain until spring arrives.