Big Bad Boots

I little while ago, back when I bought my snowshoes, I was lamenting that I did not have and could not currently afford nice insulated boots.  I spent a bunch of time on the Internet and at EMS and a few other places looking at all the usual good brands I consider for outdoor gear.  My searches were fruitless - they were, quite frankly, bloody expensive.

Then I went to Marshalls one afternoon.  I stumbled upon the most absurd pair of boots that were so obnoxiously over the top that I stopped and gazed longingly at them.  I love boots.  Big, fluffy, silly boots.  In fact, I love anything fluffy.  These boots were were deliciously fluffy.

They had one pair left, they were in my size, and they cost less than half what all the other insulated boots I'd looked at cost.  I tried them on.  They fit perfectly.  I read the box.  I hadn't heard of the brand before - Lafuma - but they sounded like real outdoors gear, based on the description.  They were waterproof and insulated and supposedly had specially engineered soles.  

But really, I bought them simply because I loved them hopelessly.

Gaiters?  Who the heck needs gaiters?  Not me anymore!

The first couple of times I wore them I thought I understood why they were on clearance at Marshalls, as they kind of chewed up my ankles.  But I've now officially broken them in and they're amazingly comfortable.  The very best thing about them?  They're SO WARM.  My poor pathetic Raynaud's ridden toes stay completely warm and normally colored snuggled inside my ridiculous boots, even in sub-zero temperatures.  Let's face it - my whole calves stay warm.  The traction on them is outstanding, and they're comfortable enough for very long walks.

The next best thing about them, after their warmth?  The hilarious up-and-down looks I get from people when I wear them in public.  They seem to make an impression on people, for better or for worse.  Women, in particular, will gaze at my feet for a minute, then steal furtive "who the heck is wearing those" glances up at my face.  It sometimes takes all I've got not to burst out laughing.

Mind you, the down side to them is that they take about 10 minutes to lace up, especially with a cat or two hanging off those long laces as I whip them back and forth.

A few days ago my husband shouted to me that Simon had somehow gotten off his leash, and could I please help him run around outside to try to find the dog?  I flew out of my chair by the fire and over to my boots.  I started lacing.  I continued lacing.  I laced as fast as I possibly could.  I kept lacing.  By the time I got my boots on and made it out the back door, my husband was irritably walking up the back walkway with both dogs trotting next to him on their leashes.  He asked, what on earth had taken me so long?  All I could do was look eloquently down at my ridiculous boots.

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Brief Snowshoe Review

It had been another packed holiday weekend, with my father-in-law visiting from South Carolina, a family wedding to attend, and all sorts of other attendant chaos.  It was actually a wonderful four-day weekend, but too packed to find time outdoors.  Thus, by the time I woke up on Sunday morning I was positively itching to steal a few minutes for snowshoe testing before the rest of the day's plans began in earnest.

I got up at the crack of dawn and in -7 wind chill, with my bleary-eyed husband groggily asking what on earth I was doing up at that hour.  I donned layer upon layer and bravely ventured forth.  Here's what my high tech snow measure read:

It was 17" of the fluffiest snow conceivable.  The streets hadn't really been plowed,

so I just wore the snowshoes as I goose stepped, wobbled, shuffled and occasionally flailed my way to the trailhead for the Erie Canal path.

Getting used to walking in snowshoes can't be particularly pretty, although had there been anyone else out I am certain I would have provided him or her with a few moments of high comedy.

When I got to the trailhead, I was pleased to find no snowmobiles had beaten me out.  I generally figure the first hours of weak, pale, winter morning light are my best bet for avoiding the motorized vehicles that seem to be always driven by night owls.  Only trouble was, I hadn't reckoned on how the trailhead might look without a trail having been broken by some of those motorized vehicles:

Yoikes.  That horizontal beam that can just be seen over the snow is about 6 1/2 feet high, and is a gate intended to prevent cars from driving down the path.  I stood still and gawked for a beat, and then clumped right on up and over that massive mound.  My descent down the back side of the pile was a graceless slither, a split, and a bump.  But the reward was quite lovely and Narnia-esque:

I trekked about for perhaps an hour snapping pictures, some of which I'll share in another post.  I got good and frozen, and took a general measure of my gear thusly:

• It cannot be best to evaluate one's snowshoes in this kind of absurdly fluffy snow.  They don't do a whole lot of good, aside from beating down the snow around where you're about to step, and preventing you from sinking in to the hip in that big old mound of snow at the trailhead.  This jury is still out on the effectiveness of my MSR's in keeping me from disappearing up to my neck at an inopportune moment.  I believe tails are going to be very necessary.  Further updates shall undoubtedly follow once I find some varied conditions.

• Likewise, this jury is still out on the bindings.  Once I get the infernal things on they are perfect in every way - completely secure and comfortable.  But getting the little metal tooth into the little hole in the plastic in the first place is a talent that thus far eludes me.  I will be an exceedingly happy camper if I can learn to master the art of fastening the bindings without removing my mittens.  Brrr.  

• I need insulated boots.  At least I do when it's only 9 degrees out with wicked, whipping winds.  So much for trying to save money on them - wool socks and hiking boots can only do so much.

• Thank goodness for the person who first thought of snowshoeing with poles.  Once I develop the knack of walking in snowshoes so I no longer repeatedly step on the left shoe with the right one I will undoubtedly need them less, but Miss Grace here is going to be eternally reliant on poles to some degree in order to remain continuously upright.

• Equally thank goodness for the person who invented gaiters.  Love them, love them, love them.

• My new Auclair mittens rock.  I picked them up at Wear On Earth in Potsdam, NY last time I was up there.  (Great store, by the way).  I grabbed them because I've never been satisfied with the Scott skiing mittens I had for extremely cold weather like Sunday's.  The Scotts had glove fingers inside the mittens.  Query: what is the purpose?  If one cannot separate one's fingers because they are all stuffed inside a mitten, what's the point of having them separated inside the mitten by glove fingers?  All those things did for me was allow any individual finger to get icy, and prevent me from warming it back up by sharing heat with the other fingers.  Not sure why I bought them.  Maybe it's just me and my Raynaud's that makes them impractical.  Regardless, the Auclair mittens are honkin' warm, waterproof, fuzzy inside, and windproof.  They're also blindingly reflective.  They're probably too warm to be good for weather above about 19 degrees, but perfect for the wicked days like Sunday.

• Contact lenses rock.  That may seem like an odd observation in a commentary on outdoors gear, but if I had been wearing my glasses I would have been in serious need of windshield wipers.  Now if only I can find some kind of snow and rain repelling spell for the camera lens...

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Alpaca deliciousness

One of my birthday gifts:

Woot!

I have already mentioned my perpetually freezing Raynaud's fingers, and my not infrequent use of my dogs' armpits as hand warmers (see #4 here).  My Dad decided this might mean I could use a good pair of mittens.  He was right.  He usually is.

He picked these fuzzies up from friends who run an alpaca farm somewhere near Lowville.  They are incredibly soft.  The coolest thing about them, though?  Check out the guts:

The one on the right is inside out.  All those little nubbinses of lovely soft alpaca fluff make them so cozy I actually hate to take them off.  I'm not sure how one knits mittens with all those little loops inside.  Okay, frankly, I'm not quite sure how one knits anything.  I can do a lot of crafty things, but knitting and crocheting are most definitely not among my talents.  But to whomever it is who figured out how to make these, well done!

And Dad, thanks.  They shall be much worn and much loved.

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Dead Fingers and Toes

I whine a whole lot on this blog about how much I hate cold weather.  One of the reasons I hate cold is that my fingers and toes are extremely sensitive to cold - moreso than most people's.  I have Raynaud's (pronounced "Ray-Nodes") Disease, which isn't as serious as it may sound, but it's SERIOUSLY ANNOYING.

Whenever my extremities (hands, feet, nose) get cold, they start going completely numb in random spots.  They turn a disgusting translucent sort of white, and eventually a lovely shade of purplish blue.  Once they start warming up they turn an amazing livid shade of orange.  If they stay blue long enough, it hurts like hell to warm them up again.

I didn't plan ahead long enough for this blog post, so all I have are photos of a very mild white phase to show off.  Spot the two white finger tips:

I need to try to capture the blue and orange phases with the camera.  It's much more dramatic.  It's not consistent which spots turn what color when - each time is different.  It's extra special when I have all three colors going at once.  I'm like that weird creature who keeps changing the color of his spots in the children's book "Put Me in the Zoo" by Robert Lopshire. 

My husband refers affectionately to my fingers and toes in the white and blue phases as being "dead," based on their resemblance to a corpse.  His term of endearment has stuck, largely because he's right.  They're creepily corpselike.

I first encountered Raynaud's when I was in college - my junior year abroad at Oxford, to be precise.  One of my friends kept experiencing the weird color changes and finally got the diagnosis of Raynaud's.  If there's one thing the British don't do like the Americans it's heating buildings, and I suspect the perpetually frigid indoor temperatures are what caused Melanie's Raynaud's to be so apparent that year.  My personal experience with Raynaud's didn't start until several years later, for no apparent reason.

From what little research I have done, I have been able to gather that scientists don't know much more about the mechanisms of Raynaud's than I do.  They know the weird discolorations and numbness are caused by vasospasms, meaning the blood vessels contract and restrict blood flow.  It's far more common in women than in men, and is most often seen in women "of child bearing years".  It's often linked with other diseases, particularly autoimmune diseases and hypothyroidism.  It also has been linked to repetitive stress injuries, smoking, certain drugs, and chemical exposures. 

But what is it?  Is it autoimmune itself?  Why do the blood vessels restrict - where are the neurological commands to restrict coming from and why?  No answers yet.  I shall try to refrain from grumbling about the lack of effort that seems to be spent on researching diseases that affect women more than men.  Oops - too late.  I guess I already did.  :)

Thankfully, it's not terrifically serious for most people.  The "treatment" for me is to warm up the extremities before the lack of blood flow has had time to do any damage, which typically is not hard.  I spend extra money on super warm socks and mittens and boots, and tend to carry pocket hand warmers with me all winter, and whenever we're hiking, just in case. 

However, I admit to having twisted nightmarish fears about not warming my hands or feet up in time.  I worked for a while in my past as a Federal Court law clerk handling prisoner cases, including a few claims by prisoners related to Raynaud's.  The folks making the claims were heavy smokers and in ill health, but the vivid descriptions of ulcers that wouldn't heal, gangrene, and amputations stayed with me.  Vividly.

On that cheerful note, I think I'm running a little low on hand warmers.  Time to stock up!

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