It was at the end of the first day of my return to winter sports--a day I had spent skiing on powder, into which I mostly disappeared rather than fell as I descended a mountain in Colorado. Safely back at my hotel in Mount Crested Butte, I spotted a sign-up for a snowshoe tour. No one, it occurred to me, falls on snowshoes.
I'd even had some experience. But the snowshoes I had floundered through the Quebec countryside in as a child were heavy contraptions. As I set out the following morning with two young companions and an attentive guide, I...
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