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Bargain Bond
They sat atop their canvas tote, cherry red frame wrapped in licorice black decking. The silver rivets stood out like
pearls scattered on black volcanic sand. I lifted them and marveled at how they felt lighter than a pair of hiking
boots. Underneath, the aluminum cleat smiled with a fresh edge. No scratches, frays, not even a water stain or smudge
of dirt. They were perfect. I frisked them down for a price sticker, but found none.
The seller, a fit gent in shorts and flip-flops, saw me fondling his wares and walked over.
"How much for the snowshoes?" I asked.
"Aw," he answered, rubbing his jaw. "I'll take ten bucks for them."
I froze my poker face securely in place and tired not to fumble my wallet in my haste to pull out the bills. I hadn't
priced snowshoes before, but I knew enough to recognize this was a steal. Once he'd taken my money and I had my
purchase snuggly clutched to my breast, I asked, "So why are you getting rid of them?"
The seller grimaced slightly. "Never got around to using them that much," he said. "I hope you get more use out of
them than I did."
"Thanks," I said and turned to go, but not before I saw the seller's mouth curve into a little smile. Now there are
as many ways to read a smile as there are ways to describe snow. The seller might have been happy to have ten bucks
in his pocket. Perhaps he was satisfied to have cleaned out one more spot in his cluttered garage. But I've come to
know that his smile was all about relief. He was rid of his cursed snowshoes.
The snowshoes are cursed. Oh, it's not a diabolical curse, the kind that has their wearer become hopelessly lost or
uncontrollably goose step into a glacial crevasse. But they are cursed, none the less. I know this because they talk
to me.
I first heard my snowshoes about a month after I'd stored them away in my own garage. I was digging around for a
screwdriver and unearthed the black tote. It had been covered by empty terracotta pots and was dusted with potting
soil. Hey, I heard, you forget about me? I pretended not to hear it and nervously buried it deeper with a coiled
extension cord.
Winter came and I got out skiing several times, took the kids sledding, even braved an ice rink, but I never got
around to my snowshoes. It was nearing spring by the time I brushed up against that black tote. Remember me? I added
another layer of clutter.
Neglected sports gear has a way of dredging up guilt better than a Catholic sermon. That grass-stained childhood
baseball sounds like a whining dog longing for a walk. A deflated volleyball resonates with a nagging "what have you
done for me lately?" My snowshoes sounded like the lonely uncle I'd stopped sending Christmas cards. All sports gear
is born with a simple singular purpose: to play. If this purpose is left unrealized, they moan to their owners with
the ache of broken promises. It makes for one hell of a guilt trip.
Snow came early this year to the high country. I unearthed the black tote, tossed it on the front seat, and drove
straight into the mountains. The temperature dropped as I swerved up the switchbacks. I pulled out at an overlook to
scout ahead. There, a couple rises due west, I could spy snow-frosted pine. Closer I spotted some patches of thin
snow just uphill from where I parked.
I snatched the tote and bolted for the woods. That first-of-the-season snow was whiter than Eric Clapton reggae. I
knelt at a wafer-thin patch and pulled out the snowshoes. I settled them on their home turf, their native ground. Not
enough depth to exhibit their floating ability, but they looked good. I swore an oath on the spot to give them a good
run this winter. Traverses, step-kicks, and trudges. I heard no complaints. The September wind combed through the
pines. It sounded a lot like a satisfying sigh of relief.
JEFF OSGOOD writes from his home on the Front Range. Share superb snowshoeing spots at jeffosgood.com.
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