Not yet the winter of my life

“There’ll be no more skiing around here,” my girlfriend spoke of her recent aversion to any physical activity that might inflict physical pain. “Not by me, anyway!”

Kristie alluded to the fact that her husband, who had mountain biked over treacherous ground on their Utah vacation last summer, continues to recreationally risk life and limb. Men who were born in 1950 are about as willing as is Mick Jagger to admit the limitations of age.

I heartily concurred with her swearing off of the slopes. I’d suffered a broken ankle two years ago while walking my dogs (their fault), and ever since have avoided any sport more active than walking alone, and we both shared arthritic aches and pains that naturally accompany—ahem—a little later than middle age. Last winter, I’d ceremonially and permanently hung up my downhill skis. Instead, thinking I’d taken things down a notch in the danger department, I dabbled in cross country and fell head first in love with the sport and head back (twice) onto the snow so hard that I nearly suffered a concussion and another broken ankle. The invulnerability of youth has therefore evaporated and in its place is my new standard: Just not worth it.

Yet neither one of us want winter to serve as a reminder that we are nearing “the winter of our lives.” We continued to ruminate—as in what to do in a chilly climate in order to stay fit and deter the aging process besides watching the same aerobic DVD over and over again without yawning and reaching for another cup of coffee and a box of chocolates. Such videos had been our mantra for far too many years. Decades ago we’d given birth and after changing the first diaper were right back to bouncing around to Jane Fonda’s gyrations. Aerobic exercise and its ensuing video venue was, after all, the invention of our generation—and a stellar cultural achievement at that. So now what’s a boomer to do during winter if not some punishing, heart pumping routine that is oh-so-cleverly disguised as dance?

I am undaunted when it comes to getting out of doors. I strap on my Yak-Traks and hit the dirt (now blanketed in snow) roads out here where I live in the Ninemile valley. Breathing fresh air and ogling deer and elk are definite perks to my fitness purpose, and much preferred to the alternative of yanking on Lycra and driving thirty miles to Missoula for an exercise class. I dutifully perform my Mari Windsor Pilates tape and relish the stretching, but ah...there is nothing quite like stepping out the back door clad in snow clothes, face mask, and mittens that house four hand warmers (the solution to Renault’s syndrome that deprives me of all feeling in my fingers) into the bracing January air. Not to mention, my intrepid trek means a long hot bath awaits upon my return—if I can feel the faucet with my fingers to turn it on.

But where is the boast in admitting that no, I don’t ski, and no, I don’t cross country ski—I walk; it sounds so “old.” I love my daily constitutional—don’t misunderstand me—but after three years on the same route I’ve reached the point where I can track every neighbor’s footprints in either dirt or snow. I feel like I live in one of those English countryside towns of literature when I can determine by shoe sole who has turned up whose driveway to call. I beckon to each dog by name as it dashes out of the woods to greet me. I venture to say that if a pine tree has lost a cone in some breeze between yesterday and today, I notice, and when I can blindly walk my way home in a whiteout, it just might be time for a little variety.

Then I happened upon an article in a magazine about snowshoeing. “If you can walk, you can snowshoe,” the accompanying advertisement reassured. No sooner had I gleaned the details online than I was confidently whipping out my credit card and ordering a pair of REI’s MSR Denali Evo Ascents during the end of season sale last year. This was my winter to go for it.

We’ve so far enjoyed an authentic Montana winter; one December afternoon our driveway was buried under fourteen inches of powder. It was time. I strapped on the platforms, grabbed the poles, and headed out the sliding glass door onto a blanket of untouched perfection. After making a few adjustments to my natural stride, I was underway, scaling hills and maneuvering around pine trees on our forested property. Areas impassable during dry seasons due to fallen logs, rocks, and holes were transformed—I could step assuredly! No doubt to the casual observer I appeared altogether athletic.

In ten minutes my heart was beating like a hammer and I was breathing harder than I had when I visited my daughter’s Zumba class. I desperately peeled off layers of clothing, in 10-degree temperatures, no less. Wow—has Jane Fonda ever tried this?

Now I can brag, “I snowshoe!” when boomers my age and older are ruing their latest ski trip while propped on crutches and wearing a boot cast. Today, when the winter storm warning is issued and my husband groans in anticipation of his workout once again being behind the arms of a snow-blower, I am jubilant, slithering into sleek Under Armour ski pants while tearing open with my teeth another hand warmer pack from the cut-rate Costco carton of them.

Best of all, I am walking and not clumsily attempting some graceful parallel turn. Moving swiftly, dressed in a top layer of down, and hiding gray hair under a trendy cap—I might look, and will still feel, thirty.