The Solitude, Thrill & Grounding of Snow
Winter in Sierra offers moments of solitude, snow, and adventure as I explore both familiar and new trails. Our snowshoeing group's first outing is to scenic Manzanita Lake, five hours from the Bay Area. We pass through the humid bay air as we cross the bustling suburbs of Berkeley, Alamo, and others along Highway 80. After crossing the California Delta, where the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers converge before emptying into the Pacific, the landscape shifts northward to vast almond farms that extend for miles in every direction.
We wind along the Sacramento River on Interstate 5, California's lifeline, visibly flowing with winter moisture. As the drive continues upward, almonds give way to olives, ponderosa pines dot the volcanic earth's upheaval, and smoking chimneys finally greet our arrival. Nestled among lava domes, Manzanita Lake reflects both the brewing past and the majestic present during warmer months.
In the fading winter, a fragile sheet of ice and a dusting of snow conceal this mirror. The heavy cold blanket drapes over the lake like a loving companion, with the pinprick silence broken by the cracking ice revealing its subtle presence. My snowshoeing team and I enjoy taking long walks along the shores, shedding our adult personas, and playing like children once more.
We stay overnight at a familiar Airbnb in Mineral, the same house we’ve used for years. Our routine kicks in: we light the wood stove, prepare a delicious dinner, and unload our trekking equipment from the car. In the morning, we spring into action with a flurry of activity.
We enjoy toast with protein and ginger-infused black tea, then pack our lunch—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, fruits, and hot water. After one last gear check, we head to the south entrance of Lassen National Park.
Snowshoeing is solitude on steroids; there is no one around you, and the landscape's hum is in a deep trance. The path is in oblivion; each step leaves a new footprint, even when someone is leading the way. My previous trips on this route have given me some advantage in reducing unnecessary switchbacks, avoiding invisible ponds, and optimizing incline gain. The forest and neighboring peaks make it hard to see the true grandeur of Mt. Brokeoff, a tall summit overlooking a sea of cinder cones and lakes scattered across the landscape, just a short distance from Mt. Lassen, and, if the clouds clear, a surreal faceoff with the towering Mt. Shasta.
Over the years, my friends have relied on me during these adventures. While it may seem counterintuitive, I often go against what maps or previous footprints indicate to ensure the team finds a safe and feasible route. Conditions are constantly changing with every turn and elevation—requiring me to stay alert and adapt to deeper snow and steeper slopes, especially when avalanche risk is high. We stay focused, maintain momentum, and remain vigilant for signs of fatigue in each other.
The last hundred meters or so to the peak are very tough and unpredictable. Stubborn ice, slippery rocky surfaces, and sudden gusts of wind appear without warning; a fall here is unforgiving. To stay secure, we must drill into the ice with metal spikes—and even then, the solid ice offers no grip. We go around the slope by creating an elliptical path to gain a few more steps in elevation. We focus intensely on each step; it’s only when we notice the crevices along the ridgeline that we become aware of our surroundings.
A few planted steps on the exposed rocks, and the rhythm of our breath carries us to the peak. The views challenge the imagination, immersing us in the sublime, leaving the wondering beholder speechless. The play of endless lava eruptions and the shimmer of snowflakes on Mt. Lassen's eyes—reflected in the icy lake I imagined during yesterday’s walk—are now beside me. Our conversations, both real and unreal, continue. During the pause of volcanic activity, we pretend to listen to the sulfur bubbles, snap photos to expand our perspective, and enjoy our hard-earned lunches and signature cups of black tea.
Descending is often more difficult than it appears. Gravity accelerates our pace, and our muscles have to work against friction. On the return journey, we choose a safer route, steering clear of the rocky, icy terrain we encountered on the ascent. I allow my adventurous side to indulge in moments of speed, sliding, and sometimes falling on the mountain slopes when possible. The white layers seem surreal; this snow's craftsmanship is intricate and vast, with flaky dunes covering the landscape.. Self-reflection becomes so commonplace in this meditative solitude that even an anxious mind finds serenity amid the graceful impressions left in the snow.
I believe our journeys reveal our authentic voices and true intentions, no matter who we are or where we're going. The soft sound of snowshoe wings fluttering in the thin air is rejuvenating for my soul.
I eagerly anticipate this seasonal time of exploration, renewal, and grounding each winter. The deep awareness we develop when we take responsibility for our path is an unparalleled experience; I invite you to explore the uncharted mist, let go of your burdens, and embrace the excitement of your challenges.