Slipsliding Away on Dog Mountain

The stereotype of a French-accented fur trapper named Jacques, sporting a red plaid jacket, trudging feverishly through the snow on footwear resembling tennis rackets was my vision of snowshoeing.

The whole notion has a pioneering quality about it – even a romantic sentiment. With Christmas a few weeks away, it seemed like an appropriate time to try it out.

So it was with some amusement that we were introduced to modern-day snowshoes – slick looking, light-weight contraptions with rubber straps that adjust comfortably over one’s hiking boots with metal cleats on the underside acting as temporary anchors in the snow.

Arriving at the top of Mount Seymour with adjustments made to our footwear, all that was left to do was walk to the Dog Mountain Trail.

The first thing I learned about snowshoeing was putting trust into action.

The trails had been blanketed in snow but after a week of freezing temperatures and no fresh snow, the ground was icy. This was no flat, wide trail – it was undulating, winding and quite narrow in parts.

My snowshoeing technique needed immediate honing. This meant trusting that the cleats on the underside of the snowshoe would hold me in place as I made my way forward.

Once in stride we found ourselves taking the time to look and enjoy the natural environment around us. It was snowing very lightly and amazingly quiet.

After a kilometre we reached First Lake, frozen over, but with the tell-tale signs of other snowshoers and hikers.

Eventually we reached the rocky summit of Dog Mountain. Despite the wintry day, the view over the North Shore mountains and the City below was breathtaking - Stanley Park, Lions Gate Bridge and Point Grey clearly visible.

The buildings of the downtown core looking amazingly static. It was as though the city was devoid of people, and just a series of concrete statues.

The reality we knew was that down there in the metropolis it would be a cacophony of humanity in search of that perfect gift. Parking lots would be full to overflowing, people walking the streets with a glazed look on their faces. The joy of Christmas.

Up here on Dog Mountain the air was fresh, the vista below us a reminder of the world we had temporarily left behind.

Eating our lunch at 10:00 a.m. we greeted other snowshoers and their dogs and began the return trip. For some reason my trust of metal cleats had temporarily left my consciousness. I fell a few times on the downhill portions of the trail. Our leader reminded me to stand tall and look forward. I did, and eventually we returned to the ski hill and the parking lot.

With aching joints from the day’s activities I will admit to a slight mal de raquette – but oh the pure joy of being out there.

Jacques would have been proud.