My keys clink against the frame as I lock the front door. I make a mental check that I have packed everything we need for our relaxing weekend away in the mountains of North Idaho. I step off the front porch and head to the already idling truck. My wife Heidi’s smiling face peers out from the passenger window. Tanto, our dog, is overjoyed as well and is peering anxiously from the rear passenger window. He knows we are outbound for a weekend of adventure. In fact, we are all excited to forget about our day-to-day stresses and spend the weekend at a friend’s cabin along the upper reaches of the St. Joe River. We plan on unwinding, sitting by the fire, playing board games, and of course, snowshoeing.
Avery is a quiet town, normally. During the winter months, it’s as close as it gets to a ghost town. There are roughly 25 people who live there year-round, and they are rarely seen during the coldest months of the year. This makes for a perfect weekend getaway. Why travel long distances when stunningly beautiful places with no people are right in our own backyard?
After a relatively easy drive down to Avery (this drive can be absolutely treacherous during winter months), we arrive just before dark. As predicted, the town is empty, and we set the first tracks up the hill to the cabin in the fresh snow. I park the truck out front and let the dog out to frolic happily in the snow while we unload our weekend supplies and gear into the cabin — a rustic and beautifully maintained log cabin built by the Forest Service in the 1930’s.
I drop my bags in the front room and immediately begin building a fire while Heidi muses about the cabin unpacking our belongings and settling in. I glance out the front window and am greeted by the hilarious sight of our dog leaping about in the deep snow trying to catch snowflakes from the air. As the fire builds in the wood stove, it gives off a comforting glow and warmth that the makes the cabin feel even more inviting than it already is. It is the perfect setting; a beautiful cabin built on a hill above a tiny little town nestled deep in the snow-laden mountains. There isn’t a soul around, and it feels like this warm little spot is the center of the universe. There is nowhere else I’d rather be.
I quickly head back out to the truck as darkness envelops the valley. Tanto, covered in snow, joyously greets me as I make my way down the walkway to where the truck is parked. He bounds around me as I grab the last couple of items out of the truck. I grab both pairs of snowshoes and poles and bring them up to the porch. I set them against the log wall next to the door, ready to be strapped to our feet first thing the following morning. Tanto and I headed inside to the rapidly warming cabin to find Heidi cooking dinner.
We ate dinner in front of the fire while Tanto stretched out, warming his belly with the heat radiating from the woodstove. After dinner, Heidi and I played a couple of board games and relaxed on the couch in the front room, talking about where our adventures might take us the following day. We were going back and forth on whether we wanted to snowshoe up Dunn Peak Road to try to get a nice elevated view of town or trek our way up the North Fork of the St. Joe and check out the ice-filled tunnels on Moon Pass. After a couple of relaxing hours, the warmth of the room began to put us to sleep and we decided to turn in for the night.
The following morning, we awoke at first light. The fire had died and set a chill throughout the cabin. I got up and built a new fire and then looked out the front window to see that it had snowed several inches. I almost couldn’t contain my excitement. Not only were we going to get to go snowshoeing, but we would get to set tracks down on a perfectly clean, snow-covered slate.
After breakfast, we packed up the necessary gear we would need for the day: water, lunch, extra base layers, extra gloves, hand warmers, steel wool and a stainless steel whisk. (More on the latter in a bit). We threw everything we needed into our backpacks, grabbed the snowshoes on the porch and tossed everything in the truck and headed out.
We did not have to go far, and once we stopped the truck at the end of the plow line, Tanto could barely contain his excitement. He whimpered excitedly and pranced back and forth in the back of the truck as he impatiently waited for me to open his door. Heidi and I got a good laugh at his spastic antics and how it just might be possible that he likes the cold and snow more than I do. Doubtful.
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We eagerly grab the gear we had loaded into the truck and carefully pack it into our backpacks. I grab the snowshoes, both pairs built like tanks without the weight, and designed for mountaineering, and toss them on the ground. I do a last-minute check to ensure we have everything, lock up the truck and put the keys in my backpack.
With our snowshoes and backpacks on, we grab our trekking poles and start up the snow-covered trail. The large stainless steel teeth that line the bottom of our snowshoes easily pierce through the top layer of the snow and crunch into the firm layer of ice below. The amount of confidence-inspiring traction provided is incredible. We can easily climb up a nearly vertical incline without losing our footing.
As we trek our way up the snowed-in road along the North Fork of the St. Joe, we can’t help but be in absolute awe of our surroundings. The spruce and fir trees are heavily laden with snow; ice lines the rocky shoreline of the fast-flowing river, its brilliant glacial-turquoise waters running over rocks and around large ice chunks adds a pleasing sound to our adventure. Above us, huge cliffs and monoliths jut out from the low-hanging clouds in the valley. The multi-colored rocks that make up the Northern Bitterroot Mountains add a stunning contrast to the white world around us.
After 3 miles, we finally arrive at one of the famous Old Milwaukee Railroad tunnels that make up the stunning area known as Moon Pass. We have trekked all this way, not only for the incredible scenery, but also for the huge icicles that fill the tunnels during winter. We are planning on experimenting with steel wool that has been lit on fire and long exposure photography. Kind of a fire and ice contrast of two different worlds.
After a quick break and a small lunch, we unpacked the camera gear and steel wool kit.
Heidi positioned herself in the middle of the tunnel near a big icicle hanging from the ceiling, lit the steel wool on fire and began swinging it around in circles in front of her.
Meanwhile I started the camera on a 15-second exposure to capture the motion of the sparks flying through the air and bouncing off the walls and ice. We experimented with different exposure times and compositions for at least an hour-and-a-half before we noticed it was starting to get late.
When we finally emerged from the tunnel, it had started snowing heavily again. We strapped on our snowshoes, grabbed our trekking poles and began plodding our way through the snow back to the truck. Tanto bounded his way through the snow alongside our path, somehow never tiring despite running virtually non-stop all day.
As the light continued to fade and we made progress back down the road, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to all of the other epic adventures these snowshoes had taken me. The rugged backcountry terrain of Steven’s Peak too many times to count, weekday evening mini excursions to the top of the Fernan Saddle, Tubb’s Hill, North Idaho College Beach, Q’melin Park, and huge days in the Selkirk Mountains. Snowshoeing has allowed me to see many places with beauty so incredibly intense that it has left me speechless. The varied terrain that snowshoes can navigate is incredible: steep inclines, just short of vertical in waist-deep snow, gentle inclines on groomed forest service roads, and everything in between.
As we finally approached the truck, everyone was feeling the miles we had put in. While Heidi and I had snowshoed about 6 miles, Tanto had bounded at least 12. If I could get into his head, I am sure he was already dreaming of being passed out in front of the warm fire back at the cabin. And I was thinking the exact same thing. We unstrapped the snowshoes, knocked the excess snow off of them, and tossed them into the truck.
Tanto had already jumped up to his spot in the backseat. Loaded up, we made the short drive back. When we arrived at the cabin, we wasted no time getting inside. Utterly exhausted and completely satisfied with our adventure, we happily collapsed in the front of the fire. N
Story & Photography By Chris Celentano
As Featured In: 2019 Winter/Spring SPO Edition
