Snowshoeing and resilience: Lessons from the deep woods | Canada Voices

A few winters ago, on a solo snowshoe deep in the woods of an unmaintained provincial park, I heard a crack beneath my feet. Sharp and decisive, it rang out like a gunshot across the marsh.

There was a moment of stillness before a jolt of awareness kicked in. My left leg had broken through the surface and my foot was submerged in frigid water.

Instinct took over. I tried to yank my leg upward, but the snowshoes made that impossible. Panic surged, my heart lurched, but then reflexes kicked in. Weight back, poles planted, toe dipped. Slow, deliberate movements. I pulled myself free.

Snowshoeing requires this kind of quiet calculus, a careful negotiation of angles and weight distribution and an ability to adjust, step by step, to shifting terrain. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how this winter pursuit mirrors the careful navigation the world now requires.

In politics, the economy, the climate; the ice beneath us is thin, and the fractures are everywhere. History shows us how easily a crack becomes a chasm, how the familiar can suddenly give way. What once felt solid no longer holds. The only certainty now is that there is no standing still.

On that sunny day in the dead of winter – clear sky, big sun, no wind – I made my way to a nearby granite rock face, up and out of the marsh, where I could catch the full warmth of the sun. I peeled off my wool sock, wrung it out a few times and draped it over a sunlit branch. My bare foot rested on my other leg, absorbing what little heat the day offered. After a short break, I continued, moving carefully and deliberately.

A lesson learned, not just about that stretch of land, where thick reeds and hidden pockets of water made the ice perilous, but about my own reaction. Snowshoeing doesn’t require specialized training or perfect conditions – only a willingness to keep going. This was a reminder: Action matters more than alarm.

The first people to move through deep snow learned this lesson centuries ago. Snowshoes, used by Indigenous peoples for thousands of years, were designed to prevent this kind of misstep: to keep the traveller above the surface and allow movement over uncertain terrain. Snowshoes reflected an understanding of the land as something to work with, not against.

French fur traders, floundering in deep snow with rigid boots, quickly adopted this technology, which had been adapted and perfected over time. The bearpaw, the beavertail, the Ojibwa-style frame, to name a few. Each variation was designed for specific landscapes and types of snow.

Over time, what began as a tool for survival, crafted by those who understood the land best, was repurposed to fit the ambitions of those who sought to conquer it.

The first time I strapped on snowshoes, my feet felt too wide, my steps unsure. I awkwardly shifted my weight, trying to find my balance. Then, from somewhere behind me, came a burst of chaotic laughter, loud and maniacal.

A flash of red and black caught my eye. A pileated woodpecker pushed off from a tree, wings rising and falling in slow, deliberate beats, its laughter trailing behind.

I turned back to the snow-covered trail, wondering if the squirrels were watching, too.

Clumsily, I moved forward, clipping the toe of my snowshoes on fallen trees, snapping twigs skyward, unearthing loose rocks. But after a while, something changed. The awkwardness gave way to a rhythm. I settled in.

Snowshoeing, at its core, is an exercise in microadjustments. It forces you to be present, to engage with the terrain as it is, not as you wish it to be.

But snowshoeing wasn’t always about presence. It was, at times, about performance. By the mid-19th century, snowshoeing had become “a national identifier representing Canada, Canadians and Canadian-ness,” writes Gillian Poulter in an essay from Contesting Bodies and Nation in Canadian History.

Around that time, some of the earliest snowshoe clubs in Canada began to form, including the Montreal Snow Shoe Club, established in 1840. It’s recognized as the first club of its kind in North America.

The club held weekly tramps with members outfitted in what the book describes as a “distinctively Canadian look.” But just as the act of snowshoeing had been repurposed and redefined, so too had the attire. “Moccasins and leggings were Aboriginal, the woven sash was a French-Canadian ceinture fléchée, the tuque was a French liberty cap, and the blanket coat resembled typical habitant winter clothing cut from the blanket cloth associated with the North West fur trade,” writes Poulter.

The club held torchlit processions on Mount Royal. Poulter writes that reaching the summit “symbolized their conquest of the mountain. … It put them in a commanding position – visually and strategically in possession of the city, its environs and its peoples.”

Snowshoeing became less about movement and more about mythmaking. The deeper I move into the woods, the more I think about this tendency, how meaning is reshaped by those who claim it. Who gets to belong? And on whose terms?

I have snowshoed in heavy powder and thin, patchy snow. Some years, I trudge through deep drifts. Other years, I scrape over ice-crusted fields and exposed roots. Sometimes alone, sometimes as a shared trek. Snowshoeing offers that duality, of both solitude and community.

These days, snow conditions are variable. Scientists tracking winter conditions in Canada have recorded a steady decline in snow cover over the past 50 years, yet the popularity of snowshoeing has soared. Statistics Canada ranks it as the country’s second most popular snow-centric activity, behind only tobogganing, but the shift is visible beyond the data. Trails that once felt empty now show fresh tracks daily. Social media is flooded with posts of parka-clad figures moving through quiet woods. More people seem drawn to the stillness, seeking a moment of reflection, an antidote to the noise. Its appeal is easy to understand: accessible, affordable, unhurried.

The French writer and explorer Louis-Armand de Lom d’Arce, Baron de Lahontan, once observed that “To survive the Canadian winter, one needs a body of brass, eyes of glass and blood made of brandy.”

I submit that one only needs a pair of snowshoes. It is a sport of resilience, of making do with what’s available.

In the woods, I think about the animals I move past, sometimes feeling twinges of jealousy about their late winter slumber. I wonder what torpor feels like, to slow down to a state that’s not quite total hibernation, but close. Chipmunks, squirrels, black bears, they don’t fight against the cold, they don’t rush, they conserve strength for when conditions change. It’s a strategic pause.

Snowshoeing offers something similar. Bundled up, moving forward, insulated deep in the woods; no notifications, no scrolling, no headlines screaming of imminent collapse.

Here, the answer is simple. One step at a time. Keep moving. Adjust as needed. Eventually, you’ll make your way to a patch of sunlight, a stretch of blue sky, a woodpecker drumming in the trees.

For a moment, everything slows. Then the gloves come off, the phone comes back out and the world rushes in. Still, there’s something to be learned from the pause.