Traverse City Record-Eagle

Dee Blair: The View From Sunnybank

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January 2, 2011

The View From Sunnybank: Bigfoot bumpkins

By Dee Blair, Local columnist ----

It's odd, flying to Phoenix in December. Though Arizona has a stark sort of beauty, everything there was parched, including some older permanent residents, who looked as desiccated as their desperate lawns. Moisturizers and bottled water were everyone's constant companions.

The daytime temperature hovered around 74, amazing Arizonians. Normally, Phoenix is 15 degrees cooler now.

After our friend's splendid wedding we flew home to snowy Traverse City. Joe and I needed an outdoor adventure to more fully appreciate our winter wonderland.

"Let's try something different," said I. "How about snowshoeing?" Years ago my downhill and cross-country skiing was frequently plagued by ski-tangle. Any topographical anomaly encouraged them to mount each other: down I'd go. Rising again was comically difficult. Mile-long, pencil-thin skis refused to be reasonable. I'd flail around, graceful as a walrus on a dance floor. Joe, realizing I wasn't behind him, would ski back, hunting for pole-sign under six feet of powder. After three spectacularly dumb wipeouts in the Rocky Mountains, high, I dumped downhill skiing for the cross-country sort. But those (even longer) skis proved just as irritating.

This time I'd acquit myself well. I mean, what can happen to a reasonably nimble person wearing little tennis racket-type thingies? Besides, I already knew how to walk.

So off we went to rent some at the Timber Ridge lodge, about 20 minutes southeast of Traverse City.

The clerk brought out two pairs, surprised at my surprise. These plastic fatties looked weird. Bristling with teeth underneath, and sprouting buckles and straps topside, they were strongly reminiscent of steroidal Bigfoot feet. Intrigued, I strapped them on over my own sturdy boots. If ducks could flatfoot-walk, then so could I.

We set off through a snowy forest deep and crisp and even. Initially I lurched along, legs spread out as though I were 2 years old with a load in my pants. Eventually though, I found my stride, and began looking around the spectacular woodland with pleasure. The trail was wide. There was no wind; conditions were perfect. Wow. I could love this.

Crunch, crunch. Lovely iPod music filled my head. Half a mile later, I glanced back. Huh. Where was Joe? I listened. Nothing. Backtracking, I grinned. Was it possible I'd find him down?

Two turns later there he was, lying on his back, chuckling. "I tried to back up — unwise." Oh. That hazard hadn't occurred to me. Scrunching over to him I extended my mittened hand to pull him up, then reversed without thinking, to gain leverage. Idiot! With a squawk I fell backward. There we were, two prone stuffed sausages, flailing in a snow bank. Struggling to sit up I managed to unbuckle my plastic feet, pull Joe up, re-buckle up — and, stupidly back up again! to avoid the snowy depressions we'd made. Naturally, down I went. Joe, reliving the Rockies, fell against a five-inch tree trunk, laughing; snow dropped from its branches onto my face. Sputtering, I rolled onto my side, noting glumly that history was gleefully repeating itself. The footgear was just shorter.

On the bright side, only the forest observed two backward bumpkins. Small comfort.

But now we'd become disoriented. Sooner or later, surely, the trail would lead us home.

Whew. We were hot. Friends had warned against overdressing, even in 19-degree weather. This sport works up a sweat.

The trail did eventually lead back. By then we'd decided to snowshoe again, soon. Timber Ridge was beautiful.

Joe's tried to get me to reconsider skiing, but I'm resistant to wearing anything skinnier — and longer — than I am. Fatter pseudo-feet, however, may have a bright future.

Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Her new book, "The View from Sunnybank," a collection of her columns, is available at Horizon Books, Amazon.com and at www.deeblair.com. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.

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