I have just come in from digging your classic American hole.

As we all know, the Crow cannot grow vegetables. The Crow flunked both zucchini and radishes. They are vegetables, therefore they will not grow in Crow's garden. Last year and the year before, I fooled some tomatoes into thinking they were flowers by virtue of sticking them in a giant flowerpot sunk to its waist in the flowerbed. Tomatoes never were too long on brains, so the ruse worked.

Vegetables are foodstuffs. On this matter, we must surely agree. One would not refer to a fir tree as a vegetable, nor to your grandmother's rhododendron in such a wise, and surely even nasturtiums (although edible) are never referred to as being of the vegetable persuasion. A gourd is not edible. No matter how long you cook them, gourds remain as inedible as the day you picked them off the vine.

I have tried to grow gourds before, but they had apparently been keeping company with some vegetables and had heard rumors about Crow's garden. Rather than go against the trend, they simply did in Rome as Romans do and refused...flatly...to grow.

Given this history, you would wonder why the Crow would spend $1.49 on a package of mixed gourd seeds. It's because of global warming.

You see, I have the idea that I might be able to convince these rather decorative plants ("plants," mind you...not vegetables) that they have sufficient warmth and nutrients to be quite comfortable until maturity with their feet in the hole with which I began this tale. Yes, I will have to add more dirt to the hole because at present, it qualifies more as a pit than a plot of land, but the mole has been rather busy of late and I have no dearth of dirt. I just wish the little bugger would sift the rocks out, but never mind. He's doing the best he can with limited equipment.

Thus, the next phase is to build a gourd tower. I wish to provide well for my tenants. But that's a project for another day. Presently, I am content to admire in all its hopeful promise the hole where once stood a ragamuffin, wretchedly unlovely rose.

It had been too long, and evidence of that was all too apparent when I took the ancient Sherpa snowshoes down from their hook and the bindings shattered into one-inch long segments. I sighed heavily. At least I hadn't dressed for the occasion yet, but my good intentions were perforce shelved at that singular moment of product mortality. Realistically, I suppose thirty years was a reasonable life expectancy, especially considering the abuses they'd endured in my years as a ranger. Nevertheless, my old friends had untimely given up the ghost and now what was I to do?

Despite my unenviable status as a senior citizen, having a piece of outdoor equipment out of commission was more than I could bear. A quick check of my favorite outfitters and a careful analysis of the product reviews inclined me toward Cabela's, but budget was also to be considered. Was I really prepared to shell out a substantial sum on something I might use no more than three or four times a season over a limited number of years? I needed some factor to tip the scale. The solution was simple: with a new Cabela's retail store a mere hour and a half from home, I'd let late-season availability determine my course of action. I called. They had three pair of 21" Alaskan Outfitters in stock.

The Alaskan Outfitter is based on the original Sherpa design with an aluminum frame and neoprene deck. Not much new in the technology there, but bindings were another story. The Sherpas laced by means of a single continuous webbing strap which went from hook to hook, around the ankle once and through a toothed gripper. Given the action of walking, it was not uncommon for them to require frequent retightening and often, the boots would slide at an angle on the decking so that the shoes were no longer parallel to one another, resulting in a bird-walking step of toes pointing together. The cross-straps on the Alaskan Outfitters, however, are a heavy, wide, hard plastic which fastens down with ratchet action along teeth, similar to those ridged white plastic ties which can only be removed by cutting. The ratchet buckles are a positive-action snap-tight manufacture which distributes the load evenly across the boot at toe and instep. There is no danger of overtightening as there was with the webbing because the buckle will not fully close if you've tried to cinch it down too snugly. The buckles also have a quick release: snap up the tab, and the strap slips readily free of the ratchet.

Now all this technical stuff is well and good in its place on the market shelf, but what the shoes needed was a field trial. Possibly half my snowshoeing has been in the line of work and therefore subject to memories of heavy packs, inclement weather, and the necessity to arrive at my duty station in a timely manner. Going out for the day with only the winter survival essentials in a rucksack seemed almost frivolous, as well it should. I woke to four inches of new powder in the yard and a forecast only vaguely threatening, optimum conditions for evaluation. Time to have some fun!

The Westside Road of Mt. Rainier National Park has long been a favorite with cross-country skiers and snowshoers, albeit frequently at odds with one another over who is destroying the other's track. Gated near the Park's Nisqually entrance, it affords a wide path for almost four miles until it reaches Fish Creek. There, conditions may limit further travel for the average hiker who does not care to risk crossing an icy stream on a footlog or tenuous snowbridge. In summer months, the gate is open, but vehicular access terminates at Dry Creek, a quarter mile short of the Fish Creek footbridge, and here Mt. Wow rises immediately to the west beside the road as an impressive jumble of boulders and outcrops, a stunning massif. Looking east, one sees the meadows of Mt. Ararat (named for a pile of timbers early explorers claimed were the remains of Noah's ark) sloping down to Tahoma Creek. This small valley has suffered a series of floods and mudflows in recent years, the potential for a major lahar justifying Park Service's decision to close the road at this point.

As I said, it had been too long, and I wondered if a trek up the Westside Road might be more than I could handle. The morning was crisp and what few weekend tracks there were had pretty much filled in with the night's snowfall. Occasionally beneath an overhanging branch the surface was glazed with hard ice, but for the most part, walking was casual, almost as if I was in boots on a dirt trail. A bit short of halfway, I was checked up short by a massive bull elk who eyed me for what I was, an intruder in his domain. There was no question of who owned the right-of-way; I spoke gently and continuously to him to let him know that I was no threat and after a period of minutes, he turned and bounded up the road, leaving great deep hoofprints. Finally, he turned and went down the embankment into forest, passing almost silently out of sight among the trees.

The night's snowfall was dry and fluffy. I scuffed along through it with clouds of spindrift rising at my toes and came to a subtle personal landmark rather sooner than I'd expected. How far was it to the nurse stump marking the trailless approach to Lake Allen? I questioned my memory, because it seemed I had arrived at it in near-record time. Here I made the first observation regarding the new snowshoes: they were easier to walk in than the old Sherpas, perhaps due to a one-inch difference in the width of the deck. This might not be critical to a six-foot man, but I am a full twelve inches shorter. The turnup at the toe is also more pronounced, so there was less "shovelling" with the tips and no significant accumulation of snow on the deck.

Now while I had been holding conversation with the elk, the two gentlemen who were allowing me to break trail for them had caught up and taken the lead when we started out again, laughingly saying it was their turn. I've done most of my snowshoeing alone and having a freshly trodden path was utterly delightful. Again, I came to the next landmark surprisingly soon, and not far behind my companions who had just settled in for a break at Dry Creek. After a snack and a photography session, the three of us set out again. When we reached Fish Creek a quarter mile further on, we all agreed that it was too dangerous to attempt to cross on the footlog since it had no handrail and was piled deep with snow which might conceal a layer of ice.

In the relative warmth of afternoon (still somewhat shy of 32°), snow tumbled from branches as I made my way back to the car, thoroughly pleased with the performance of the new snowshoes. Ten days later, I was out again, this time for a hike (as opposed to a walk on a snow-covered road). The second field trial was as successful as the first, but that's another story.