How Cold is Too Cold? Why Everyone Needs to Try Winter Hiking
Rebecca Sperry
In May of 2015 I stepped foot on my first solo hike up a tiny mountain in Alton, New Hampshire. The trail was crowded with people, so I definitely wasn’t alone, but it was the first time that I ever attempted anything this bold solo. By the time I reached the top, I was hooked. To say that this event was life-altering would be an understatement. That summer, I set out on a half dozen additional solo ventures, hiked three 4000’ers, and was officially bitten by the hiking bug. But when the weather transitioned to fall, I hung up my hiking boots, and took a seat on the sidelines while the rest of the hiking community in New Hampshire hit the trails all winter long.
I distinctly remember a conversation with both my mom and my husband that fall that went something like this, “I’m never going to hike in winter. That’s just not safe. That’s where I draw the line.” By September of 2016, I was looking for winter hiking gear and purchasing my first pair of microspikes.
This winter will be my fifth season hiking and although I will always prefer summer to the shorter days and frigid temperatures here in New Hampshire, there is something to be said for stepping foot on an unbroken trail after a good foot of fresh powder falls. The woods are quieter in winter. It’s like everything and everyone is asleep (except for the snowshoe hares). A heaviness sets over the forest floor, and even the trees settle down for a four month nap. All you hear is the sound of your snowshoes or microspikes gliding over the snow, a gentle thump, screek, woosh, as you step slowly up the trail. The air feels crisper, cleaner, easier to breathe, and every time you exhale, the condensation freezes to your lashes, and the tiny hairs on your cheeks, coating them in a fine white frost.
It’s absolutely magical. A trail that you’ve hiked dozens of times before takes on a whole new feel in the winter. The snow clings to the sides of the trees or gathers in large piles on the bowing branches of the pine, spruce, and fir. Every now and then, you hear the whoosh, thud, as the branches give out, sending a mass of snow onto the ground. It lands on top of the four, five, seven, ten feet of snowpack that has fallen throughout the winter, maring the perfectly smooth surface where trillions of snowflakes carpet the forest floor.
Everything slows down in the winter, including the hiker. Your pack gets heavier, as you lug an extra 5 pounds of weight up the trail. Your steps get slower and more strategic, either because you are balancing on a three foot monorail of hard packed snow, or because you are the one breaking trail, creating that monorail. You’re forced to take it all in, to calculate your steps with more precision, and every decision you make must be weighed against the possibly dangerous outcome. If you press forward, continue on the trek into the forest, will you have enough supplies in your pack to keep you warm if an emergency arises and you’re forced to spend the night in the woods? Are the temperatures too cold for safe travel? How cold is too cold? This is one of the most personal questions I’ve had to ask myself in the half dozen years that I’ve been hiking and I’ve finally settled on a number.
Negative fifteen, with the wind chills, is where I draw the line. I’ve learned over the last few years that around zero degrees your lashes will begin to freeze, and that if you keep your water bottle upside down in your pack, the lid won’t freeze closed. Winter hiking has taught me how to pay close attention to my body, the importance of proper fueling and hydration, and how fragile life really is. Winter hiking is beautiful, brutal, and I recommend everyone try it. Where do you draw the line? How cold is too cold? When was the last time you stepped foot onto an unbroken trail and left your mark on that pristine, white carpet? Winter is here. It’s time to embrace the cold.
