CR and I went to Black Forest to snowshoe today. Fox Run is a small, pretty park on the southern end of the forest; lots of Ponderosa pines and very hilly trails (he used Fox Run to do some of his training for Pikes Peak). We take the dogs there a lot in the summer. Once the snows come, it gets too icy for proper hiking. After Thursday’s blizzard, we rushed out to get to the snow before it all disintegrated to icy and clumps.
I love snowshoeing. Snow hiking. We were on the trials by 9, and there was hardly anyone else about, and the only marks on the snow were made by a pair of cross country skiers. Turquoise sky, a foot or so of snow, and fifty degrees. CR chatted and dashed hither and yon, turned exuberant as always by snow or altitude. I labored along, shedding layer after layer, grunting, "Uh, huh," and "yeah, that’s a great idea" as I huffed and puffed up the hill. Unlike some elite atheletes I know, he’s always encouraging and cheery, and always refers to me as "athletic," which makes me stand straighter and happier. He was born to that high elite of athletes, natural runners, while I was not, and that’s okay. I am becoming more comfortable and cheered by the idea of being an exuberant amateur in love with the outdoors. That’s good, too.