Snow Changes Everything
Snow changes everything. It’s something eerie, something beautiful. A crystal dream descends like a whisper and swallows all the trails, cracks, roots, and green. The world becomes black and white, except for a single neon jacket. Inside that jacket is what the law calls a man, what many call a kid. He’s been trudging for miles through this thick, hanging powder. It’s still dumping over his head and his tracks like a broken salt shaker in a cheap diner. If it weren’t so cold, maybe he’d stop for a moment and take a seat in this solitary valley. But that would mean a loss of heat and, far worse, a loss of light. So he keeps the pace, utterly amazed that those fields, those forests, those mountains ever knew a summer day.     Â
That kid, that man, is me. This winter, Southeast Alaska shattered the historical record of accumulative snowfall, originally set in 1964-65. Part of me can’t help but think that maybe it’s my welcome back to Alaska, that maybe it’s snowing enough for several winters to make up for all of the years I missed growing up here. Whether or not that’s the case, I smirk at the generous blanket of fresh white adventure.
I’ve noted several differences between snow trekking and hiking during warmer seasons. Hiking in the snow demands much more energy from each step, particularly in thicker powder. Snowshoes help, are even necessary in many cases, but one still sinks a good ways when the pile is viciously deep. Often, cross country skis perform better. Again, this varies widely depending on the terrain, and the snow’s depth and condition. Maintaining a stable body temperature is an immediate concern. Excessive body heat leads to sweat, which leads to hypothermia, effectively nullifying any extra layers one is wearing. Starting a fire can be extremely difficult as much of the wood is soaked, frozen, or buried too deep to locate. Special equipment such as zero and subzero sleeping bags as well as a number of smaller devices can drastically alter the outcome of an outing should complications arise.Â
The greatest perk of winter is probably that all of the mosquitoes and flies take a leave of absence until spring. Of course, considering how many layers one must don, I suppose no mosquito alive could penetrate a vein even if they decided to linger. Maybe even better, all of the lakes and streams turn to glass, opening new roads to previously unexplored territories. Some paths become blocked, several trails impassible. Everything becomes interesting.                            Seth Griffin
