Any foot-wanderer in our area draws from a catalog of winter walking. Even the least-dancerly among us can downshift from stride to shuffle, or tap the brakes to sidle over our ever-various forms of snow and ice. A recent two-inch coating of dry snow atop old crust and its near relative, ice, reminded me of this.

I set out at workday’s end into the rising pleasure of a later twilight — more than 2 minutes added light per day! — and, as I often do, I went to board the trail that winds down to our Town Common. After a day spun with words, the company of trees seems just right; whatever conversations pass between us are slow and untaxing.

After crunching along our street’s salt residue (some writing on our salt-habit soon, I promised myself), I stepped onto the small rise to the trail and promptly slid back to the base. Upright, but mildly chastened, I looked at the streak of gray ice. I’d been distracted from reading the frozen slope before me by whatever little marimba band was playing in my head. I know better.

As I returned home for my microspikes, I thought over a lifetime’s training with snow and ice. Most of it has been experiential, a byproduct of getting around in our winters. And some has included formal training.

Some years ago, as part of my ongoing affection for angled land, I took a weekend-long winter workshop with the Appalachian Mountain Club in Pinkham Notch. Day one saw a group of us climbing onto the open swath of an old landslide in Crawford Notch. There, we would learn the rudiments of crampon and ice axe use.

The old slide — now a white expanse — was moderately steep, somewhere just under 30 degrees (a slope setting that draws immediate attention from the snow-wary and avalanche-alert). After some work on ice axe handling and self-arrest, we were considering crampons.

We’d strapped or clicked into our crampons, and already I was growing fond of both the purchase and added height my spikes gave me. I was working my way upslope on a diagonal, using my newly-learned “French technique” and heading for a small bulge where the hill steepened a bit. I wanted to experiment with grip and angle, see if my crampons would hold as I eased over the bump. Two other neophytes trailed me at intervals of a few steps.

At the bulge, I emphasized my steps, pressing hard to make sure I dug in. One more step would bring me over the top; I stomped down. A sound like the swish of a broom sweeping a wooden floor caught my ear; I heard cursing and looked down to its source. There, twenty yards below me were three tangled people and a pile of snow. Their spiked feet waved tentatively as they sought to free themselves. A clean swath of missing snow led from me to them.

I’d triggered a small snow-slide, and it had taken three people down as quickly and quietly as a routine cleaning of a room. Our instructors huddled quickly and, looking up at the yards of unbroken snow above, decided to relocate our practice to a milder slope.

Before we left, I stepped down into the new absence below me and looked at the layered snow. Some eighteen inches down I saw a thin layer of sugary snow, what appeared to be a grainy flour. It was clear this loose concoction had let my snow slide. It was also clear that even a microslide had the power to take the standing where they didn’t want to go.

It may seem far afield from our Town Common, but my lessons from Crawford Notch and elsewhere bear on my Commons’ and other snow-walking every day. Over time, I’ve learned to read snow and ice’s surfaces, and read and test also for what may lie beneath. As I read, I adjust. My stride varies; my readings of incline and traction are ongoing; the many types of frozen footing have me strapping or clicking on differing footgear. Each piece of gear also spawns different ways of walking.

And, of course, I watch my fellow pedestrians as they manage our winter’s bounty. I’m sure I’m not alone in identifying someone newly arrived from Away-warm by their long-striding confidence that traction and gravity in Maine are just like everywhere else. We know they’re not.

Sandy Stott is a Brunswick resident, chair of the town’s Conservation Commission, and a member of Brunswick Topsham Land Trust’s Board of Directors. He writes for a variety of publications. He may be reached at fsandystott@gmail.com

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