The tool need not be new, or heirloom, or trendy. It need only be right for the job.
And the job must be a real one. Not an excuse to use the tool. In this case, the tool is snowshoes, and the job is hunting supper.
Legs burning, steam pumping, heart working at a healthy-feeling pace beneath the layers of synthetics and wool that I constantly revise to avoid sweat and retain warmth. Ash and babiche snowshoes bound to my boots with cotton lampwick, finally adjusted just right. Old .22 balancing in my right hand with the familiarity of years. The familiarity of its sights and trigger have been tuned up with a week of daily practice.
For once the snow matches the shoes perfectly: a thick, soft crust above a foot of sugar-snow that would have us postholing two of every three steps, except for these modified bear paws. Or a pair of magnesium USGI surplus. Or a set of Iverson Michigans. With these we are taking swift country-devouring steps, over deadfalls and brush tangles, and in fact traveling easier than if we were wearing upland boots and there were no snow at all.
We find this walking to be an unexpected but welcome pleasure, just like the flush in our cheeks in the ten-degree air. Pleasure in needing a tool for its purpose and having it. We are not snowshoeing just to snowshoe, shooting just to shoot, exercising just to exercise, recreating just to recreate. We are hunting varying hares along the brushy spruce-swamp edges in eighteen inches of crusty snow, with .22s and snowshoes, and on this day, it could not be done any other way.
We walk five abreast, looking hard for black eyes and black ear-tips or for the motion of a darting kicked-up rabbit, and though we cut a hundred sets of tracks in the inch of last night’s powder, we only find three hares. We have them in four shots. They otherwise hold tight in the hard-crusted snow caves beneath deadfalls and brushpiles. They, too, have snowshoes, and the right tools.
As it turns out, three is plenty.
A sublime supper then, seasoned by exertion and no small amount of triumph. Legs and backstraps and hearts, cooked stovetop with onions and garlic–and some potatoes to avoid starvation. Just right. Afterward we file outside to escape the heat of the kitchen and stand amid a cold falling snow and listen to a barred owl calling from the same spruce swamp edge and we wish her success. After all, her job is the same, her tools right, if more refined than ours.
Author’s note: This work (aside from the cooking) was done on Federal public land within the Superior National Forest. No fees, no gates, no permission slip, no State Park sticker, no crowds.