The Story of my Snowshoes

I acquired two pairs of snowshoes - one men's, one women's - in a divorce. Not my divorce. An ex-coworkers divorce. She wanted to purge her new life of anything that reminded her of old life, including said snowshoes, still in the box.

Now that I think about it, that was three or four years ago.

My dad and I finally decided to take them out of their boxes and give them a go on New Year's Eve. Mom joined along with a rental pair.

We quickly - like two minutes into the hike - discovered that our brand new snowshoes were pieces of poo. The straps kept slipping off of our toes and our heals, and when we tugged on the straps to tighten them, the (I don't know the technical term for this...) parts of the shoes where the straps were laced through started to rip. Dad made it about half an hour before strapping his snowshoes to his backpack. I lasted maybe 15 minutes more. Luckily we were at the top of Millcreek Canyon, on the road, where the snow was hard packed. Or I would have been one whiney girl.

At least it was beautiful. And we had wine and hershey kisses. Here are a few pictures.