So yeah, I went snowshoeing with a broken hand. But don't worry, we didn't go far. In fact, we stayed really, really close to home and only drove about four miles to the trailhead. Or rather, where the trailhead was if we could get to it, but it was still blocked by snow. We parked on the side of the road and hoofed it up to the trail.
The biggest problem with the whole hand thing is the family was overly concerned for my well being. That and I could only use one trekking pole. If you'd hiked with me you'd know I love my trekking poles and hardly do any significant work without them.
Tink scampered up the trail like it was nothing, but the boy and I fought blowdowns and sloppy snow. We put on snowshoes, took them off, and put them back on again. Nothing like the sound of steel cleats on rocks. It's wonderful. Truly.
After about 2,000 feet of climbing I could feel my hand swelling inside the cast. Not because it was broken, duh, but because it was just hanging by my side. (I'd learned the lesson to keep an idle hand elevated when I climbed South Sister, but apparently it didn't stick. Neither did the idea of not breaking my hand. I'm a slow learner.)
Tink enjoyed the laid back outing and found something under the snow. She just about tunneled all the way to bedrock in her quest to catch whatever it was. The boy became reacquainted with steep snow and the wonder of heel lifts and we headed down.
It's fair to say it was a good adventure for an old, broken guy like me. If I don't get out of the house often enough I get cranky. The only real downside was the beginning of... the smell. After just a few days, the cast was not super fresh. Imagine after three weeks.
Just imagine.
