The traditional style, wood-framed Canadian snowshoes hung on a hook in the garage, since a 1997 predator hunt in the Cedarville area of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. However, a hankering to reacquaint myself with some favorite hunting grounds and the wildlife within had gotten the best of me.
Bear Paw Snowshoes
I’ve always considered the contraptions to be items of necessity and never donned them unless all other modes of mobility had become useless. The time had come.
The first thing I noticed on the same hook were the new rubber bindings that my brother in-law had given me a few years ago. I recalled how he claimed that the improved bindings were superior to the leather models, which were problematic to buckle up and to keep adjusted properly – especially after they got wet.
The old leather strap-and-buckle harnesses were still attached, however, so I dismantled them to make way for the new. Since I didn’t know the proper way to mount them, a quick lesson from YouTube gave me the confidence to proceed. The video also explained the proper method to weather-proof them with spar varnish and to check them for wear. It also advised to take along a small repair kit in the event of failure.
I just wanted to take a short walk of a mile or so and couldn’t be bothered with slow-drying varnish at the moment, and also ignored the repair-kit advice. What could go wrong?
I followed a snowmobile trail that kept me shuffling across the snow cover in relative ease. It wasn’t long before some leg muscles were talking back to me but I kept poking along, while doing my best to put mind over matter.
A lightweight .22 caliber rimfire rifle was slung over a shoulder in case I spotted a rabbit or squirrel. As I skirted a woods line, sure enough, a lively red squirrel scampered across the snow cover less than 25 yards away – probably as startled as I was. A quick reaction to ready a shot evolved into a struggle to maintain my balance on the awkward wooden anchors that were well below the snow’s surface. I could hear that squirrel giggling, as it displayed its nimbleness and disappeared in mere seconds. I quickly learned that nothing happens fast on snowshoes, unless getting tangled up counts.
I slid merrily along until the right snowshoe suddenly became partially detached and totally unworkable. Operating with one snowshoe is like one-handed clapping; it doesn’t work. As luck would have it, I was not far from one of my hunting shacks, where I might be able to warm up enough from the single-digit temperature to use my fingers for a repair – that is, if I could scavenge some cord for the job.
Fortunately, I was able to find some string and make a temporary repair – and, temporary became the operative word. On a mission to get straight back to safety, the weak repair failed. I managed to get it tied well enough to end the excursion without further incident and have learned the importance of reliable gear in the process.
I satisfied my desire to explore the winter wonderland and that’s enough of that for a while.
