By Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

When I got home from snowshoeing today with my dogs (I'm a dog-care provider), I jotted down notes while the images were fresh on my mind. But, as I sat to type my reflections, I put my notes aside so I could just ooze my observations and insights.

I'd carried my FLIP video camera with me to take videos of my three canine hiking companions, but found myself drawn to images other than the dogs. Over and over again I tried to capture my snowshoe tracks in the foot-deep snow next to the established, packed-down trail I'd made over the last two days. I tried so hard to capture the sparkles in the snow. I need to ask a photographer with experience how an amateur can do that.

I remember that initially I resisted snowshoeing, thinking that it would be too slow and too boring, plodding along wearing awkward contraptions on my feet. I was a downhiller. I liked speed. I loved the views from the tops of mountains out over the countryside. How could plodding along ever compare?

I was wrong. Snowshoeing has become a passion. Last winter when I had just gotten home from major surgery, I put on my snowshoes and walked with ease on packed trails. My surgeon was aghast and forbade me to do any more snowshoeing until my next checkup. So I sat indoors viewing old movies in a recliner for two weeks, waiting anxious and depressed for the go-ahead to get out to my beautiful trails and snow.

Plodding along with no views from mountaintops and no speed grounds me. I find myself in a place of peace. When I step off the packed-down trails to virgin snow, I stop to breathe in the stillness and calm. No longer do I have to hear the scrape and clang of my snowshoes. The quiet enthralls me.

I pause and turn around to catch the sun's warmth and rays. I look up to the brilliant blue sky and pull out my FLIP video to capture its blueness against the evergreens, scanning towards the dead treetops that the herons have long abandoned and the swamp plants and dead tree trunks rising from the drifts of snow.

I continue on across the swamp, packing down a trail for the dogs and me to use. Which way next? Should I continue on around the swamp and head back? Should I cut to shore by the rusty car and head onto the snowmobile-packed trails? Why not climb up the hill and connect with a non-trail that will lead me over shrubs, logs and drifts to the established trail?

I used to trek that self-made trail a few years ago during a snowy, cold winter. Why not do it again? After all, wasn't I celebrating freedom, health and vigor? Wasn't I cherishing what New England offers?

So I ended up in a steep gully in 12 inches of fresh, unpacked snow. I had to work my way around, following instinct and memory of how I used to get through this area. I knew I had to climb over a few downed trees and stay to the right of a pool of water that never froze no matter how cold the winter.

The dogs were bewildered as I switched course a few times to get around or over obstacles. They looked to me for guidance in unfamiliar territory. I knew what I was doing. They didn't. As we approached a packed trail, all three galloped ahead with glee, glad they could prance and play without sinking.

My 10-year-old Golden limped along on three legs. I pulled ice off of her feet and spritzed her four paws with cooking spray to keep the snow and ice buildup from getting worse. She happily trotted away when I was done. I felt thankful that a little first aid solved the problem.

As I got to a trail junction that I hadn't been to in more than a year, I longed to get out onto the ice of a wonderful pond and enjoy the sun and packed snowmobile trails. But there's always a risk that a dog will fall through thin ice and need to be rescued. A rope might save a person, but a dog can't grab a rope to be pulled to safety. I ignored my urge to get down onto the ice.

I gave the dogs a rest from deep snow and stuck to the packed trail for a while. But we needed to get back home, and I preferred to stay off the trails for the trip back. So, I turned off the trodden trail and headed to the swamp area again. The dogs chose to trot alongside on the packed-down path, while I enjoyed my peaceful, quiet steps in new snow. I tried to film the beauty of prints in the snow, and again, to capture the magic of the snow sparkles.

Photo credit: Dogs running in snow, by Meg Downey Hardy