(yet another "Chicken or the Egg?" conundrum)


I'm close now.
The track is fresh.
Afloat on three feet of soft powder,
I move ahead on these timeless tools of the winter hunt.

Elegant curves of steam-bent frames, white ash.
Toeloops and heelstraps of old bike innertube.

Yes, frames. Yes, bindings. 
But the soul of the snowshoe is babiche.

Soaked strips, laced and woven,
Set aside to dry and tighten and harden.
Coat upon coat of spar varnish,
And now you have your web, your raquette, 
To trust with all your weight
And stride across a world of bottomless white fluff.

There. I see it. 
Dark. Bedded. Ears up. 
Not a doubt now. 
Rifle up, and my aching frozen thumb slides the safety off.

Not a clear shot.
I need two more quiet steps ahead, 
And only the magic of my webbed babiche lets me take them.

The moose stands. Steps ahead, and stands again.

In a moment it is all over for another year. 
No need for silence now, I rush forward, 
On my magical babiche webbed feet. 

Babiche of -- yep, you guessed it:
Strips of moosehide.