Moving Outside My Comfort Zone

Tonight I did something I've never done before. I traveled on snowshoes through the woods with a group called the “Snow Zombies.” The area in which I live has some amazing mountain bike and hiking trails in the woods that wind around some old mine pit lakes. Even in the winter the mountain bikes are out with their abnormally fat tires and winter-geared riders.

The snowshoeing group grooms the trails for the bikes. They call the grooming process a “stomp.” They literally stomp down the snow so the trail is more suitable for bikers. The cool part is they snowshoe at night, when bikes are not typically out.

Joining this group for their “stomp” was definitely outside my comfort zone. I did not know any of them and I had no idea what to expect. First of all, I’m not terribly comfortable around people I don’t know. Secondly, I like to know what to expect. I’m a planner, an organizer of life, making sure that what I expect to happen is going to happen. Well, all I knew tonight when I arrived was I needed to be dressed for cold weather, have snowshoes and a headlamp, and be ready to stomp.

When I arrived I was feeling pretty proud of myself. I was expanding my horizon, treading on new territory. I walked around the parking lot across from Portsmouth Mine Lake, looking for others with snowshoes. A weekend winter event had bikers out tonight, too. I had my snow shoes. I was ready to go make riding better for the bikers.

After the “stompers” got together, about a dozen or more on snowshoes, we headed out to the trail. I felt confident that it would be a great excursion. Single file we slid onto the trail and into the woods. There were headlamps in front of me and headlamps behind; I fell somewhere in the middle.

The stomp went on steadily and I soon realized that this was a serious excursion, not my usual hour in the woods shoeing and pausing, shoeing and pausing. Resting did not seem to be part of the program here. We had a job to do and so it went on in a serious “stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp” as the rhythmic trek of the snowshoers continued.

It didn't take long for pride to diminish in the realization that my own, solitaire snowshoe outings were rather, well, lazy. These people in front of me on the path were downright relentless in their untiring packing down of snow.

After about 30 minutes of steady stomping, I wondered if anyone else in the group was suffering as I was. Perhaps they, too, were keeping up simply because there was no other choice than to go on or sit down in the middle of the woods on a dark, cold, winter night. Then what? Freeze.

I kept on, and the stomping continued.  I found myself reminiscing about how my father pulled me on a toboggan behind his snowmobile when I was a child. I was a nice thought.

After nearly an hour of winding through the trees – up hill, down hill – I began to numb, mechanically trudging on through the woods, certain there was no end to the stomp and allowing myself no room to wonder how long we had been on the journey. I had no idea we were a mere five minutes from being done.

Suddenly, the group ahead stopped and waited for everyone else to catch up. Headlamps were shut off and eyes were turned heavenward. The vast number of stars across a canvass of black was awesome. Breathing in the cold night air, I wondered if I had ever seen anything so lovely. At the end of the trail, I stooped to loosen my snowshoes. We had stomped the trail. Our work was done.

Back in the parking lot I said goodbye to the leader of the group, Liz. She leaned into my car and gave me a hug.

“What do I have to do to become a Snow Zombie?”  I asked.

“You are a Snow Zombie,” she replied.

I can’t wait for my next stomp.

Encouragement: Do something that is outside your comfort zone. Perhaps you will be pleasantly surprised.