Sometimes living within a few thousand feet of the snow line is hard. It'd been snowing in the mountains for a week and we hadn't had a taste of more than hail. Hail isn't snow.
We left Amy and Clara snuggled up and warm and Treen was passed out on her bed after services on Mailbox. Lilly and Henry were ready to go long before I had all our gear in the truck and if they could have they probably would have left me behind.
At 2,000 feet we started to see patches along the road.
By 2,500 feet we could see snow on the trees.
At 3,000 feet the PCT trailhead was covered in an inch or two.
Other boots had already packed the trail, but the kids didn't care. They wanted to wear their fancy "Juniors" they'd gotten in July. (Seriously, what could be more cruel than snowshoes in July?) But in the dirt? And over the rocks?
Over time, I've come to appreciate the sound of crampons on rock because it holds so much promise. After all, if you're going to endure that sound it must be because there's glorious snow just around the corner, right?
Well, not if you're five. Not even if you're seven. We made it only about a mile until we decided we'd rather have hot chocolate in the car than look for a mythical patch of deep snow at such a low elevation.
They wore their snowshoes all the way back to the car even though the little snow that was there was already melting away. I can't recall the last time I had to knock mud off snowshoes before putting them in the truck.
Our first outing of the season was a success. As a bonus, I now know the snowshoes provide excellent traction in the duff. Always learning. That's us.
