I’ve realized that hiking in winter requires a certain level of willpower. I’m not really talking about the kind people mean when they talk about diets or going to the gym. I’m talking about the willpower to wear fewer clothes.
Now obviously you have to wear some clothes. I mean, unless naked hiking is your thing, but I go for the public parks, even though they’re usually deserted so I have to wear clothes. But I have to wear less clothes than you might think.
I’ve found that the amount of clothes and thickness/warmth of the clothes you wear when hiking in winter is a very delicate balance. And you have to have the willpower to be able to tell yourself that even though your face feels like it’s freezing off when you first start your walk, it will not feel like that 15 or 20 minutes from now.
Basically, hiking in winter is an exercise in gritting your teeth and holding onto the memory of your last walk where you were stripping off layers to try to avoid sweating and making yourself colder. It’s continually telling yourself “this too, shall pass” and trusting it to be true. Or, in Broadway orphan terms, it’s an exercise in reminding yourself that the sun will come out tomorrow.
In my case, the actual sun didn’t come out tomorrow. It actually came out the other day. Which is a bit of a miracle of its own, considering my region rivals the Pacific Northwest for cloudy days. But that day it felt extra special because it happened while it was snowing. I was trudging along, glad I’d learned that ear warmers could keep my ears warm without my head getting overly warm and making the rest of me sweat, when I realized things weren’t quite so dark or gray. The sun had come out and I practically felt myself stretching toward it like one of the many trees I’d come to so appreciate.
In a lot of ways, it was almost like I had two different hikes that day. One I’d started in the gray sky and one with the now true radiant sun shining down on everything. The white ground didn’t look stark against the gray brown tree trunks anymore, now it practically dazzled in the sunlight. The snow covered tree branches sparkled now as they lifted their arms to the sun too. And looking up at the now nearly blinding sky, I could notice something else about the still falling snow: the snowflakes in the sky glittered as they fell like cold, watery bits of confetti.
I felt like I could almost pretend that the woods were having a quiet little party full of serene joy. And I was grateful that I had been welcomed into the party even as I punctured the quiet with my boots clomping through the ground, crunchy with cold.
I had been debating going for my hike that day. The gloomy weather had me in a gloomy mood and the bitter wind hitting my face first thing almost seemed like a sign to me to turn back around, go home, and burrow under some blankets. Or at the very least, go back to my car and grab that scarf I had peeled off, knowing it would probably be too much once I got moving.
My stomach gurgled and I burped up the bag of almonds I had horked down way too fast before getting onto the trail. I laughed at myself, slightly relieved no one was around for my flatulence but still feeling a little like my gas had ruined the magic of the glitter party. But as a cloud passed partly over the sun again, I thought, maybe not. Like gas, everything in its time.
Laura Bird 