The Modern Voyageur...
December was my tenth winter in Minnesota. I landed in Minneapolis on Dec. 21, 1995 with two duffle bags, a backpack, a pair of Sorel boots and an extreme cold weather field jacket (you know, the kind with the furry snorkel zip hood that they wear at the North Pole...). Immediately, I was amazed that, being smack dab in the downtown area of a major city, how quiet things seemed to move around me. Granted, there was a good amount of snow on the ground. The winter of '95 as I understand it, was a good cold one with plenty of snow, and even a couple of ice storms that made the trees look like crystal chandaliers in the crisp early morning.
Growing up in Texas, winter was regarded as something of an annoyance. It never really gets extremely cold, and only freezes once a year or so. When this happens, everything turns chaotic, with scores of people mobbing grocery and hardware stores in search of enough food to last the next three months, generators, skids of water, gloves and mittens, 350,000 BTU propane heaters and batteries by the case. You name it, they're buying it. After the frigid doom finally passed, which took no more than three or four days for the mercury to push past the point of freezing, folks would begin emerging from their houses and rejoining the world. It always seemed like no matter how strong (or weak) the storm actually was, that particular meteorological event was hailed as the worst anyone had seen in at least a decade.
Surviving in the winter in this region is, for the most part, a highly refined and complicated science if you spend any amount of time outdoors in a recreational capacity. Fortunately, I've managed to cull together a decent amount of winter gear to allow me to enjoy the outdors in winter. I found that if you shop properly, you can outfit yourself rather easily and with a modest amount of ching.
I'm not saying I look like Nanook of the North when I'm snowshoeing through the woods. I haven't gone that far. Yet. I will admit that some small part of me would really like to. I think I was a voyageur in a past life. Perhaps that's why I was so drawn to this place. I can picture myself plowing a trail through the woods wearing thick wool under a canvas tunic, Ojibwe snowshoes and a red toque. Ezra-Jean Pierre or something like that. It's something I experienced a century or more ago, and I'm just reliving it. Only now, I'm able to do it with aluminum, GPS, polypropelene and Gore-Tex. Quite a far cry from portaging huge bundles of pelts, and four person birchbark canoes over miles of trail between the lakes. Bugs and swamp, natives and some really rugged terrain in the summer, and steeling against bitter cold in winter. We still "do" it like the Voyageurs did, we just do it with the help of technology.
Winter here, however, is something to behold. Spending so much time outside during winter really gives me the opportunity to see and experience things in a completely new light. If you get a good one with lots of snow (by the way, I LOVE snow.), there's an endless supply of things to do. You just have to be able to brave the accompanying cold. Every big snowfall we get here...ones that gove us over a foot are best, I gear up and grab my snowshoes and head for Leif Ericson park, down by the Lake. The main part of the park is a huge bowl sloping toward the Lake, which means it generally gets dumped on during a good snowstorm. I strap into my shoes and tromp around in the fresh powder for while. Then, I'll make my way to the slope with the deepest snow, and begin carving out my name in the middle part of the slope. I like the idea of writing my name in the snow in huge letters. I equate it to building sandcastles on the beach.
There are also very heavy Buddhist overtones to my activities those nights. The prints in the snow are there only for a moment, and then they get covered over by more snow, wind, other people's tracks...time...Impermanence. The idea that nothing lasts forever. Winter comes and covers us in white and cold and solitude, but then winter ends and we come out again. It makes me appreciate things just a little more being able to experience winter as a way of life rather than just a season.
Growing up in Texas, winter was regarded as something of an annoyance. It never really gets extremely cold, and only freezes once a year or so. When this happens, everything turns chaotic, with scores of people mobbing grocery and hardware stores in search of enough food to last the next three months, generators, skids of water, gloves and mittens, 350,000 BTU propane heaters and batteries by the case. You name it, they're buying it. After the frigid doom finally passed, which took no more than three or four days for the mercury to push past the point of freezing, folks would begin emerging from their houses and rejoining the world. It always seemed like no matter how strong (or weak) the storm actually was, that particular meteorological event was hailed as the worst anyone had seen in at least a decade.
Surviving in the winter in this region is, for the most part, a highly refined and complicated science if you spend any amount of time outdoors in a recreational capacity. Fortunately, I've managed to cull together a decent amount of winter gear to allow me to enjoy the outdors in winter. I found that if you shop properly, you can outfit yourself rather easily and with a modest amount of ching.
I'm not saying I look like Nanook of the North when I'm snowshoeing through the woods. I haven't gone that far. Yet. I will admit that some small part of me would really like to. I think I was a voyageur in a past life. Perhaps that's why I was so drawn to this place. I can picture myself plowing a trail through the woods wearing thick wool under a canvas tunic, Ojibwe snowshoes and a red toque. Ezra-Jean Pierre or something like that. It's something I experienced a century or more ago, and I'm just reliving it. Only now, I'm able to do it with aluminum, GPS, polypropelene and Gore-Tex. Quite a far cry from portaging huge bundles of pelts, and four person birchbark canoes over miles of trail between the lakes. Bugs and swamp, natives and some really rugged terrain in the summer, and steeling against bitter cold in winter. We still "do" it like the Voyageurs did, we just do it with the help of technology.
Winter here, however, is something to behold. Spending so much time outside during winter really gives me the opportunity to see and experience things in a completely new light. If you get a good one with lots of snow (by the way, I LOVE snow.), there's an endless supply of things to do. You just have to be able to brave the accompanying cold. Every big snowfall we get here...ones that gove us over a foot are best, I gear up and grab my snowshoes and head for Leif Ericson park, down by the Lake. The main part of the park is a huge bowl sloping toward the Lake, which means it generally gets dumped on during a good snowstorm. I strap into my shoes and tromp around in the fresh powder for while. Then, I'll make my way to the slope with the deepest snow, and begin carving out my name in the middle part of the slope. I like the idea of writing my name in the snow in huge letters. I equate it to building sandcastles on the beach.
There are also very heavy Buddhist overtones to my activities those nights. The prints in the snow are there only for a moment, and then they get covered over by more snow, wind, other people's tracks...time...Impermanence. The idea that nothing lasts forever. Winter comes and covers us in white and cold and solitude, but then winter ends and we come out again. It makes me appreciate things just a little more being able to experience winter as a way of life rather than just a season.
posted by in.dog.neato at 5:24 PM
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