Â
In my late-20s, I moved from San Francisco into a ski-lease cabin on the North Shore of Lake Tahoe with just my yellow lab, Hannah. I’d left the comfort of roommates and city life for a quieter existence that better-suited my inner mountain girl (who had yet to fully emerge from my Southern California upbringing and post-college urbanite self). I—we—lived alone most of the time, though there was no telling when one or more of 16 lease-mates might drive up from the city to stay a night or two (or more). It was December. I was a loner. And I was suffering from acute tendonitis in both of my feet and ankles, as well as a mild case of PTSD from an adventure race gone bad (long story).
As my achy lower legs started to heal, I craved the thing that always made me feel better about everything: running. But I couldn’t figure out where and how to get into the rhythm I so desperately needed. The roads were icy and not well maintained. My only options for running on pavement were to hoof it along the busy, two-lane highway around the lake, or string together uninspiring loops around small neighborhoods.
Read more: 5 Cold-Weather Trail Running Tips
On top of that, it was an El Niño year, and the local trails became buried under feet of snow. With running outdoors seemingly off the table, I succumbed and ran on a gym treadmill once or twice. That’s all it took for me to decide I was not cut out to be a hamster all winter long. Then I had an epiphany: snowshoes made specifically for running.
I discovered the existence of running snowshoes while lingering in the local outdoor shop, a place I’d go when I either needed something or felt lonely, which was often. I’d talk with the shop guys and look at all the winter outdoor gear, which, besides the snowboards (I’d been riding for a few years), was fairly foreign to me. I’d occasionally rent Nordic skis for adventures with Hannah, but I didn’t know how to skate or classic ski and really, I just wanted to be able to run. I spotted a pair of small-looking snowshoes with tapered tails on the wall and asked the guy behind the counter about them. He explained that they were made for running, and that you wear regular running shoes with them, not boots. My eyes widened and my head spun with possibilities.
This was a long time ago, so I don’t remember if I bought those snowshoes on the spot. But I vividly remember my first time running on snowy trails with snowshoes underfoot. When I put those things on my feet and ran with my dog on wide, snow-covered trails that had been packed down by snowmobiles, or on fresh, snowy singletrack routes through the woods, I fell in love—I fell in love with winter, winter sports, and with the mountains.
Related: A Head-to-Toe Guide to Dressing for Winter Trail Runs
On my first Christmas in Tahoe, I walked across the street and put on my enablers (my term of endearment for snowshoes). I started running in soft, fresh, deep snow and Hannah jumped around like an ecstatic bunny. With every stride I kicked snow on my butt and laughed at my dog before connecting to a more well-used trail system where I could really get into my running groove. We returned to the cabin happy, tired, and at peace, ready to enjoy the day with the ski lease roommates who’d decided to spend Christmas in Tahoe.
All winter long, I ran on those snowshoes. I ran where I wanted, whenever I wanted—I could go anywhere covered in snow, which was anywhere besides the highway and neighborhood roads. Most often, I’d head to a trailhead nearby and venture into the woods. I found a few routes I loved, a mix of untracked or barely tracked trails and packed-down fire roads. There was the time Hannah and I had a scary—but exhilarating—stare-down with a gorgeous coyote in a snowstorm. And there was the time I stopped in a meadow when the snow fell lightly, not another soul in sight. My dog stood still with me, and I marveled at the utter silence It was an amazing moment I still haven’t forgotten.
Snowshoe running was good for my healing body as well as my spirit. The greater surface area of the snowshoes dispersed the impact of every step, giving my still-healing tendons a lower-impact workout. The soft ground underfoot also helped. I got to run without pounding, sweat without hurting.
Snowshoe running saved me that winter and nursed me back to health. By the time the snow melted, I could run without pain on the dirt trails. I got back into adventure racing and volleyball, my other passion. I made some friends and found a boyfriend. That first winter in Tahoe convinced me to stay for two more years. I raced on snowshoes the following winter, a new endeavor that led to me joining a snowshoe racing team (long live Team Atlas) and a community of like-minded people.
Decades later, I live happily in Colorado and have a stack of snowshoes in my shed. I’ve since learned to Nordic ski, which draws me more often than snowshoeing. But if I lived in a mountain town like North Lake Tahoe, with trails that are buried under snow for months,, I’d put those snowshoes on my feet and fall in love with snowshoe running all over again.
The post This Obscure Piece of Gear Made Me (a SoCal Gal) Fall in Love with Winter appeared first on Outside Online.
 Snow Sports, Running, Snowshoes, Winter runningÂ
