Snowshoeing and resilience: Lessons from the deep woods
The quiet winter pursuit requires adaptability, finding balance, and staying grounded
A few winters ago, on a solo snowshoe deep in the woods of an unmaintained provincial park, I heard a crack beneath my feet. Sharp and decisive, it rang out like a gunshot across the marsh.
There was a moment of stillness before a jolt of awareness kicked in. My left leg had broken through the surface and my foot was submerged in frigid water.
Instinct took over. I tried to yank my leg upward, but the snowshoes made that impossible. Panic surged, my heart lurched, but then reflexes kicked in. Weight back, poles planted, toe dipped. Slow, deliberate movements. I pulled myself free.
Snowshoeing requires this kind of quiet calculus, a careful negotiation of angles and weight distribution and an ability to adjust, step by step, to shifting terrain. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how this winter pursuit mirrors the careful navigation the world now requires.
In politics, the economy, the climate; the ice beneath us is thin, and the fractures are everywhere. History shows us how easily a crack becomes a chasm, how the familiar can suddenly give way. What once felt solid no longer holds. The only certainty now is that there is no standing still.
