107. One Step After Another

February 2016:

On this Super Bowl Sunday, there are fewer clouds in the sky than shoppers in the produce aisle at Fred Meyer. So while the rest of America overdoses on bad beer and worse finger foods, my buddy Jeff and I head for Mount Hood—where I’ll try snowshoeing for the first time.

It’s not that I’ve ever held a grudge against snowshoeing or winter sports more broadly. Rather, I’ve always seen myself as a warm-weather outdoor enthusiast—a hiker who plans a “hangover hike” with friends on New Year’s Day and who patiently awaits “false spring” every February, but who otherwise spends his winter indoors.

So when Jeff suggested a snowshoe trip, I jumped at the chance to try something new. I figured that it’d be a mostly flat hike, just on snow, and saw little to worry about in the trail’s 200-foot descent en route to Trillium Lake. And if Mount Hood made an appearance once we left the forest and arrived at the reservoir’s southern shore, all the better.

That’s unbridled, unearned, and uninformed optimism is all that’s on my mind when we arrive at the Trillium Lake trailhead shortly before kickoff. My sanctimonious, anti-Super Bowl stance feels a little less earned when we search for parking among seemingly hundreds of cars and SUVs. Dozens of couples and families mingle about the parking lot, snowshoes slung over their backs and cross-country skis in their arms like battle axes.

We sit on a concrete barrier just beyond the gate to don our gear; the thick plastic bindings of the red-and-black snowshoes wrap around and over my brown hiking boots. I zip a paper-thin jacket over two shirts, sling a pack full of water and dried fruit over my back, and take a few steps down the slope that eventually levels out near Trillium Lake. This is the first time I can recall playing in the snow anywhere but in front of my childhood home; I wonder how different the forest will look, and how new it will feel, under a never-ending blanket of snow.

And yet: After only five minutes, still within view of the parking lot, I don’t just wonder how I’ll complete this outing; I ponder whether I’ll make it back to the car at all.

I shed my jacket and a T-shirt like the layers are on fire, take a desperate swig of water, and wipe the beads of sweat that pour down my forehead with the vigor and speed of a bank robbery’s getaway driver. I expected to stay warm in ski pants and moisture-wicking layers, but I sweat to a degree that would undoubtedly worry my doctor; am I really that out of shape? Why didn’t I realize that trudging through snow with tennis rackets strapped to my feet would be this excruciating? And if the initial descent is this difficult, how hellish will the 200-foot climb be on our way back?

Every bow-legged step is an intentional, deliberate exercise in remaining upright; I concentrate on every agonizing step with the intensity of a high-school student taking the SATs. If my feet remain too close together, the metal-and-plastic snowshoes entangle and send me tumbling; yet if my legs spread too far apart, my inner thigh muscles stretch in unnatural ways. The last time I felt this unsteady, I’d just celebrated the Seahawks’ Super Bowl win by polishing off a few shots of Fireball and several IPAs. This time, my only excuse is naivety. “One small step for Matt,” I think to myself. “One giant, lumbering, awkward leap for mankind.”

Even so, focusing on each individual step—one foot in front of the other, I tell myself—gets me out of my head and forces me to pay attention to the surrounding forest. I love how the snowshoe’s metal claws sink into and hook the snow with a rhythmic crunch. Laughing toddlers, pulled along in sleds by saintly parents, break up the otherwise silent grind with gleeful cackles. Occasionally, melting snow tumbles from regal firs and lands along the trail with a dull “thud”.

We level out after a few merciful minutes, but only momentarily. The next hill, no steeper than a Skee-Ball table and no longer than a driveway, leaves me gasping for water and reaching for an already sweat-drenched towel. My legs are total rubber; it’s a sensation I don't normally feel until several miles into (and a thousand feet up) a hike in the Columbia River Gorge. Every anthill sends sweat streaming down my face like Ramona Falls.

I take frequent water breaks and chat with passing cross-country skiers. Some swear it’s easier than snowshoeing, while others insist it’s a far harder activity. I decide that I’ll never find out for myself, since I’m still not entirely sure I’ll survive this ordeal. And if I do make it out alive, I resolve to revel in future snowfall the way God intended: inside, with a warm drink in my hand, a blanket in my lap, and the heat turned up to 72º.

After what feels like hours, we spot 20 or so cross-country skiers and snowshoers taking photos in a clearing up ahead. A few minutes later, we arrive at Trillium Lake.

Today, Trillium Lake hides under a sheet of snow and ice—but that’s not why we’re here today.

We turn our attention beyond the lakeshore. There, Mount Hood doesn't just dwarf Trillium Lake and the Douglas-fir forest at its base; Oregon's tallest peak subsumes the horizon like a tidal wave. The snow-covered peak climbs to more than 11,000 feet and shimmers against a neon-blue backdrop. The forest below deferentially cascades away, splayed in all directions like a Christmas Tree skirt. I feel like I could snowshoe across the icy lake and start climbing Mount Hood a few moments later—if I had the energy, of course.

Back in Portland, Mount Hood plays hide-and-seek with its many admirers. Especially this time of year, it may remain hidden behind cloud cover for hours or days at a time. And when it makes that rare appearance, Hood might only occasionally appear between downtown skyscrapers or during quick glances in rush-hour traffic.

That’s why we cherish that view wherever (and whenever) we have it; we know days or weeks may pass before we’ll see Mount Hood again. Maybe that’s why, no matter how long we linger today, it won’t be enough.

We share a few bites of dried mango, drink a little water, and continue our trek after a 10-minute respite. Jeff jokes about me tripping over my own feet, but those next few steps are the easiest all day.

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