It’s impossible to call this final installment of our three-part look at the pageantry and splendor that is Carnaval de Quebec the most divine or fabu or even simply the best, what with the groovy ice castles and death-defying snow rafting and sexy snowman mascots that filled the previous reports. That said, Part III contains booze. Lots and lots of booze. And this booze is called…

• Caribou

And I’m not really sure what caribou is made of, because my hosts couldn’t really tell me. I suppose this could be due to the language barrier – or maybe they honestly didn’t know – but I got the feeling they were afraid to tell me. I know it’s part port wine, and I think the rest is basically the strongest alcohol you can lay your hands on that won’t cause blindness. Oh, and a bit of maple syrup. And maybe caribou blood. It seems the drink got its start back in colonial times when hunters used to drink it to keep warm. It’s a deep claret color, so I guess that’s how the rumor about the blood got started. If it is a rumor…caribou is one of those “that’ll put hair on your chest, kid” kind of beverages, except it’s really good. Which makes it even more dangerous because what tends to happen is one minute you’re saying “Hey, this isn’t so bad, I’ll have another” and the next you’re dancing on the ice palace stage to over-amplified French Canadian disco wearing nothing but a tuque, snow pants and a purple sparkle bra.

• Night Parade

One of Carnaval’s most popular events, the Night Parade is populated not by Shriners on bikes and politicians waving from cars but instead a seemingly endless procession of things so strange and wondrous I began to question who dosed my caribou. Hordes of masked firedancers, two-story tall clown puppets and one phantasmagorical float after another passed before my widened eyes, each more mind-blowing than the next. But as soon as I saw it bouncing down the street, I knew all that was a mere prelude to the funkiest, most get-downingest float in the whole entire history of floats: The Disco Float.

• Ice Hotel

My overnight stay at the Hotel de Glace will receive its own special report in Go Pink Boots’s State College Magazine column, but until then I will say that even though I was reclined on a bed made of ice it was surprisingly warm snuggled up in my sleeping bag. In fact, the night’s only discomfort came from too much caribou at the Ice Disco. I’d been warned to not, under any circumstances, get out of my sleeping bag once I’d gotten into it, lest all my body heat be lost and I turn into a giant, tuque-wearing popsicle. Four shots of caribou doesn’t seem like a lot of liquid when you’re drinking it, but it’s another story an hour later or so – hence the somewhat concerned expression on my face at right…

• Zipline

I’d ziplined before, but flying down a 500-foot long cable though air hovering around 10 degrees Fahrenheit, over the well-wrapped heads of happy multitudes as slightly sinister carnival music drones on without end in the background was another thing entirely. Especially since that harness was giving me a wedgie so heinous its like has not been seen since Bill and Ted gave Death a Melvin, thus enabling them to escape his cold-fingered clutches.

COMING NEXT: The Nordic Spa Isn’t For Sissies

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And thus, having worked up a head of steam that’s so unstoppable it’s unstoppable like Denzel-Washington-slumming-it-in-a-thriller-that’s-actually-fairly-decent-despite-being-set-in-Pennsylvania-and-not-using-the-real-names-of-any-towns-here, we continue on with our rundown of all the bestest moments from this year’s fabulously festive Carnaval de Quebec:

• Snow Rafting

I never thought I’d led a sheltered life but perhaps I have because before Carnaval I’d never heard of the roaring insanity that is snow rafting. Snow rafting is pretty much what it sounds like: a bunch of warmly dressed people out on a brisk winter’s day all clamber into a raft that looks very much like the kind used in water and careen completely out of control down a steep, snow-covered slope a zillion miles an hour. Now, at Winter Carnival they have the regular snow raft and then they have the TORNADO ICE SLIDE, a diabolical contraption that is, in fact, exactly like a regular snow raft except that it is round. And because it is round, when it plummets downhill it does so while going around in a circle. And that’s when all the screaming and flailing and maybe even peeing a little in your pants happens.

• Snowshoeing

It only makes sense that folks from Quebec are inveterate snowshoers, seeing as how the city’s pretty much the winter fun capital of civilization. Plus, before handy motorized vehicles like snowplows and snowmobiles and snowcats got invented, snowshoes were one of the only ways to get around for 99.9% of the year in Quebec. Ok, I kid. City residents used ice skates, too. Anyhoo, as far as I’m concerned snowshoeing is a good time no matter where you do it. But in Quebec City it’s even better, because you can tromp around panting like a wounded water buffalo (at least if you snowshoe like me) in the Plains of Abraham, a glorious urban park that offers a 2.4 mile long (roundtrip) trail specifically for the sport. You can even opt for a guided tour, which I really recommend because you get to wear old-fashioned wooden snowshoes and your guide, who is dressed all old-timey, tells you all about the history of winter sports in Quebec City. And even if he’s so adorable that you’re so distracted you don’t really remember a word he says…well, you can always look everything up on Wikipedia.

• Canoe Race Qualifiers

Think holding a canoe race in a gigantic, frozen river is nutty? The Winter Carnival Canoe Race qualifier is even stranger (if less extreme) than the race itself. For one, it’s not held someplace you would expect, like, oh, on water. It’s held on the street – specifically Rue St-Joseph in downtown Quebec City. Yep, a bunch of guys in sleek little lycra suits push canoes down a snowy avenue and only the best make into the actual race. I guess. The announcers spoke French, which actually just added to the fun. But while I giggled a bit at the doings, when I checked out the actual race two days later, I GOT it…

• Canoe Race

…because, you see, the Canoe Race starting line is in a little harbor, and it’s solid ice there. So the racers have to push their vessels over this frigid, heaving nightmare – like they did on the snowy street in the qualifier – before they get to open water. Once there, they cross the mighty St. Lawrence, through a ridiculously strong current filled with wee ice bergs that might not give a cruise ship pause but which looked to me like they were fully capable of taking down a measly old canoe. Finally, in a show of courage and determination that makes comic book heroes seem gutless (yes, even Batman), the racers cross the river back to the harbor. Where, instead of grabbing hot toddies and heading for the nearest whirlpool, they turn around and do it all again. And instead of yelling at them to get their fool asses back on solid ground before, for God’s sake, someone gets killed, the thousands lined up along the harbor cheer them on. You gotta love Canada.

COMING NEXT:
More from Winter Carnival, including Pink Boots flying through the air with the greatest of ease (if not much grace), and the Night Parade’s most get downingiest, funky-with-a-capital-F float.

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Until I hit up Carnaval de Quebec, my experience with carnivals had been limited to the kind with tilt-a-whirls and blue cotton candy and creepy guys with more tattoos than teeth. But I’d done some research, had heard that Winter Carnival would feature night parades and ziplines and snow rafting and castles made of ice and even a snowman mascot named Bonhomme who boasts a deep, masculine voice and strange, compelling charisma. (Ok, I hadn’t heard that last part about Bonhomme, I experienced it – but more on that later.)

And yet I was totally unprepared for just how spectacular Quebec City’s Winter Carnival would be. I think, in part, the unfamiliarity of the events made everything especially enticing to me. (You ever seen a horde of lunatics racing canoes across a frozen river filled with more ice than sweet tea served in Texas on a hot summer day? Until Carnaval I hadn’t.) But the festival was also made more special because it was held in a most foreign land; if the rest of Canada seems like more or less like the U.S., only more…northern…Quebec, with its French-first language preferences and 400-year old walled city is delightfully exotic. And it didn’t hurt that Quebecers are friendly and fun.

And here’s the most surprising thing of all: the frigid weather only increased the shindig’s appeal. Look, I dig weirdness. And there’s something a bit demented about thousands of people actually choosing to go out in temperatures hovering just a bit above zero, the wind blowing so strong and damp you figure any minute you’re gonna see penguins toddling down the sidewalk alongside of you. But what else are residents of Quebec City gonna do? Hide inside until spring? Not this lot. They bundle up in layers and layers and still more layers and go outside and embrace the cold. They glorify it and celebrate it and they – along with anyone else in the vicinity – have a damn good time doing it.

As a result, there is a WHOLE lot to love about Carnaval de Quebec. Here, in no particular order are the things I dug the most:

• Bonhomme

Carnaval’s ambassador since the celebration’s modern era began in 1955, Bonhomme is a six-and-a-half foot tall snowman with a festive red cap, gigantic grin and the throaty baritone of an alpha male. He’s also a superstar in Quebec. I mean A. Super. Star. When he shows up kids start screaming and women faint and men follow him around like puppy dogs after a juicy bone. There is even a whole page on the Carnaval’s website devoted to the list of sites and events Bonhomme can be found, and he gets around. Happily, one of the places he made an appearance was the Hilton, where I was staying. And it was there I encountered Bonhomme’s undeniable magnetism. He’s really just more or less a French-Canadian variant on Frosty, but one hug from the big guy and I was hooked. As one of the hotel’s marketing women said to me, “There is something about Bonhomme…he is special…I am drawn to him.” I’m no furry, but I couldn’t agree more.

• Ice Castle

Bonhomme is said to live in the Ice Castle built for Carnaval each year across from Parliament and I gotta say he knows how to throw a party. Every Friday and Saturday night at the Castle, a DJ spins techno while lights of all shades pulsing in time to the music shine through the ice. It’s a surreal scene, with little tiny kids and old, old folks and everybody in between all bundled up and grooving to the music in what’s gotta be the world’s coldest, coolest rave. And that’s before the fire dancers come out. Once the four masked girls with the long flaming whips strut out onto the stage set up in front of the castle and start dancing and swinging those things around, the whole scene really starts to get funky. Of all the gazillion wonderful sights and sounds and experiences of Carnaval, this was one of my favorites…even though I never got to dance with Bonhomme.

COMING NEXT:
More from Winter Carnival, including chaos on the snow rafting course and men in lycra pushing canoes down the street.

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I had myself fooled. I’ve been walking every day possible, hard, since early fall. I hike and snowshoe whenever I can. Ok, maybe I’m not lifting weights like I had been, or should be, but still…I’ve felt strong. Well, stronger. At least strong for a girl whose idea of the ideal exercise is lifting a glassful of dirty martini. And then I went skiing in New Mexico.

Skiing, I discovered to my chagrin, is not as easy as it looks. It takes fine balance, steely thighs and a certain daredevil disposition. I had the last, believed I had the middle, and acknowledged I was quite lacking in the first. But New Mexico’s mountains, as stunning as any I’ve ever seen, bested me again and again. Maybe it was the altitude – at least 8,600 feet at every base I visited – perhaps it was the rude discovery that what looks slow from the sidelines feels fast when you’re the one doing it, but I quickly turned into a sniveling, spineless mass of exhausted muscle and fear-filled flesh.

Here’s a peek at how it went down:

• Angel Fire Resort
  The first ski area I visited, Angel Fire is staffed by souls of sunny disposition who are as adept at teaching as they are at doing. They had me on Headin’ Home, an epically long, magnificently gorgeous Green on my second day. (They are also patient beyond compare, even when a student zipping up a parka takes roughly 2 ½ days.)

• Ski Santa Fe
  I’d had a few lessons by the time I hit the fresh, fluffy powder at Ski Santa Fe, located just 16 miles from the historic town from which it gets its name. I felt confident enough to tackle this Green, though I quickly chickened out faster than a cow at an all-beef barbeque. Try to make big turns on this pitch, even if it is an itty-bitty baby one? I don’t think so…

• Taos Ski Valley
  Taos, with its incredibly steep, Alpine-like slopes, offers some of the gnarliest skiing on the planet. I thus elected to spend the day on the bunny hills with the three-year olds. Think I’m kidding? Check out the passengers on the magic carpet to the left.

• Red River Ski Area
  I’d been skiing for almost a week by the time I gave Red River a whirl. I was tired, sore and grumpy. And despite the pleas of my instructor, I refused to leave the bunny hill. She kept suggesting a blue, I kept suggesting a no. She insisted I was ready for a tougher slope. I insisted I was ready for a whiskey. But even with the world’s funkiest ski town beckoning me from below, I nonetheless managed a few last runs.

I’ve been home less than a week, but have since found myself pining now for those big, beautiful mountains. Not just for their exquisite profile – or the panoramic views from their sky-grazing summits of the valleys below – but for the unparalleled opportunity for serious skiing they present. Somehow, despite the aching muscles and sunburned nose, the tender feet and chapped lips, I’ve fallen under this deeply frustrating, utterly fabulous sport’s spell. And I can’t help but think that my beloved Pennsylvania peaks aren’t going to live up to those that so bewitched me in New Mexico. Once you go big you just can’t go back.

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I adore good hotels. It’s a contradiction, I guess, or a conundrum. Because as much as I love posh and luxe, I also dig low-down and grubby. I’ve written about my strong affinity for dive bars, and of course there’s little I treasure more than getting out into nature and getting all dirty and sweaty doing stuff like hiking. I dare say the day will even come when I go camping. When I actually spend at least one whole night and possibly even more than that in a tent. With no bathroom in the vicinity. No running water. Or, God help me, toilet. I find the thought alarming but also oddly entrancing. Kind of like biting down on tin foil. You know it’ll be unpleasant, yet you feel compelled to do it.

There’s nothing remotely unpleasant about staying in a good hotel. There’s no push and pull of, yes, I’ll be at one with nature and it’ll be beautiful and special and maybe even enlightening, BUT I’ll also be relieving myself in the woods where there is poison ivy and oak and probably even…ticks. Now, staying in a hotel, no matter how good, no matter how high the thread count on the sheets and deep the soaking tub in the 100 percent marble bathroom is not typically enlightening. But there are no ticks. That’s a fine trade-off, as far as I’m concerned.

Take The Lodge at Turning Stone Resort, for example. Situated on Oneida Nation land in Central New York, it’s one of the finest hotels in which I’ve stayed – Conde Nast Johansens named it “Most Excellent Resort” in the United States and Canada in 2007. And despite sounding a bit like an award Bill and Ted might bestow (Bill S. Preston, Esq.: “Ted, this is the most EXCELLENT resort in the United States and Canada.” Ted Theodore Logan: “Whoa.”), when a joint gets that kind of acclaim from the mack daddy of travel journalism it’s usually an indication of some pretty dang fine digs.

The Lodge didn’t disappoint. Every room is a suite and offers a bed sumptuous enough I thought it would take a hotel employee setting it on fire to get me out of it in the morning. There was a long balcony running the length of living room and bedroom that looked out on the frosty beauty of the snow-encrusted golf course, and, yes, a bathtub Shaquille O’Neal could have fit in with room to spare. I loved, loved with my whole heart that suite, but as yummy as it was I was happy to leave it when the time came to head to Ska:na.

Ska:na is Turning Stone’s ridiculously pampering spa. It’s as gorgeous as only the best spas in the world are, and features all the de rigueur amenities: saunas and steam rooms, soaking tubs and relaxation lounges and even an Italianate mineral pool so palatial you keep expecting Julius Caesar to drop by any minute for a dip. And yet it’s all a prelude to the main event: the treatment. Because once you get into that private chamber and one of Ska:na’s cordial, skilled therapists get their hands on you, you’ll wonder what in the world you did to deserve such bliss.

I know I did. I was so relaxed, so utterly and completely unwound during my Tekutiye:nas Healing Poultice Massage that I briefly wondered if I’d been hit with a tranquilizer dart. And then I fell asleep. But before I did, I experienced the exquisite pleasure of my masseuse lighly kneading my tired, stiff body with a steamed lemongrass poultice. And then she moved on to massaging my muscles more deeply, using oils fragrant with the essence of juniper, lavender, rosemary and fennel. It went on for 80 minutes, though I was conscious for less than half of it. I keep dozing off, waking vaguely embarrassed when my light snores brought me back from dreamland. At least I didn’t drool. I don’t think I did, anyway.

So, in retrospect, I’m thinking…camping schamping. All that poison ivy and oak and ticks can wait until I make at least one more trip back to Turning Stone. I mean, who said you can’t reach enlightment from pampering? I didn’t. And I’m not going to…not until I’ve investigated more. A lot more.

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And now, for the undeniably thrilling conclusion of our year-end wrap up! Chock full of state parks and snowshoeing, hot air balloons and horses and the Appalachian Trail and even one lonely mid-air hangover, it’s proof that even the athletically-challenged can, through diligence and with a SWANKY pair of hiking boots, ramp up their game. A little. Without further adieu then, here – in descending chronological order – are…

The Rest Of Go Pink Boots’s Top Ten Bestest Adventures of 2010

• Temecula Valley, California
  Of all my adventures last year, this one may have been the most ill-advised. Not that it was inherently dangerous, but because it came on the tail end of a 10-day long jaunt that included two conventions, a drive across Pennsylvania and back, a duo of press trips and a multi-layover filled flight from Pittsburgh to Orange County. I’d have been feeling pretty wrung out even if I hadn’t spent 12 hours the previous day sucking down wine in a vineyard-hopping orgy of food and booze that would’ve put a Roman emperor to shame. But I had. And yet here I was, in Temecula Valley, SoCal’s magnificent wine country, dragging my hungover, exhausted and not altogether sunshiney-dispositioned ass into a basket tethered to a balloon. It wasn’t even dawn yet. I’d slept all of about three hours. There was, I figured, a better than even chance I’d vomit all over everyone within three feet of me. Instead, after a few moments of abject terror when it sunk in that I’d be floating thousands of feet in the air with nothing between me and the ground but essentially a glorified hamper, I settled down and enjoyed the spectacular ride.

• Appalachian Trail/Washington Monument State Park, Maryland
  It was a blustery day in November when I took to this section of the Appalachian Trail outside of Boonsboro, Maryland. Up South Mountain it went, for a mile and then another mile and seemingly more endless miles before reaching Washington Monument, a nifty little stone tower built in 1827 as a nod the our first prez. The tower was swell, but the real thrill of the day belonged to the AT. I, I’ll shame-facedly admit, know nothing of the history of the trail, other than it runs from Maine to Georgia and it’s old and outdoorsy people talk of hiking the whole thing in a Holy Grail kinda way. But there was something about being on it that filled me with a kind of soft, slow-simmering pleasure. Toward the end of the afternoon, when the low winter sun sank, lighting up the sleeping trees and leaf-covered ground before me, finally caressing my face and hair with the care of a shy lover, that pleasure boiled right over into rapture.

• Gettysburg National Military Park, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
  Despite my Pennsylvania heritage, I’m a latecomer to Gettysburg. But with several trips there under my belt in the past couple of years, I’m making up for lost time. Gettysburg has so much to recommend it, including the new $100 million visitor center with its epic cyclorama, sprawling museum and Morgan Freeman-narrated film. Of course it’s the nearly 6,000-acre battlefield itself that brings people to Gettysburg – and keeps them coming back. While I was moved by every visit I made to the park, the most memorable will remain the horseback tours I took through it. During the first, a park ranger led us past such sites as the Spangler Farm (from where Pickett deployed his men on their disastrous charge), recounting the events of the battle on the very ground where it happened. Two months later I was back riding through the park, though this time it was in the uniform of a Union soldier, part of a new tour one of the local companies is now offering. During both trips, despite Gettysburg’s now peaceful visage, it was painfully easy to imagine the horses screaming and the cannons booming and the men bleeding. All that horror, all that heroism was made immediate.

• Black Moshannon State Park, Pennsylvania
  I don’t know why I should have been surprised that the most exquisite hike I went on in all of 2010 took place just over ten miles from my own house. I’ve grown to love Pennsylvania and its wild beauty with a ferocious pride I couldn’t have imagined as a child anxious to ditch the sticks for the bright lights of the big city. And yet, as I hiked through the snow-dappled forest of Black Moshannon State Park, the trail splitting open wide into cathedrals built of blue sky and rugged mountainside then shrinking into tiny warrens edged by evergreens, I found myself open-mouthed at the splendor. Or maybe I was just panting with exertion. No matter – the madly rushing waters of the creek for which the park is named provided a soothing soundtrack to the afternoon, at least until I reached the spot where it overflowed its banks, flooding the trail beyond my ability to ford it. Of course, I might have been able to make my way cautiously across if not for the cuffs of the two layers of fleece pajama pants I was wearing; soaked through earlier in the hike, they’d frozen stiff. I have a hard time with balance anyway, and when the bottom of your pants have been transformed into gigantic, bell-shaped popsicles, it makes crossing frigid water tricky business indeed.

• Mohawk Valley, New York
  Who knew Pink Boots were made, just perfectly and precisely made for snowshoeing? But they fit so beautifully into those alarming-looking contraptions it was like they were born to do it. And maybe I was, too, because I managed to not fall flat on my face even once the entire morning I spent waddling around the devastatingly luxurious Turning Stone Resort. Oh, there were some near-misses, during which I swayed forward and back, forward and back, madly windmilling my arms while making the “Whoooooaaaa” sound. But somehow I managed to remain upright, which greatly added to magic of the morning. So, too, did the fresh, sparkling snow, through which my snowshoes carved sinuous, oddly beautiful tracks, and which also blew from the tallest treetops, dancing in swirls so graceful only nature herself could have made them.

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2010 was a damned exciting year for Pink Boots. I was fortunate to get this here website up and running and rocking, AND my first foray (as GPB, anyway) into that most beloved and indispensible of all mediums, PRINT, debuted a few days ago in January’s issue of State College Magazine. If you haven’t checked out that gorgeous hunk of paper and ink, please do so immediately. And be sure keep up with my adventures every single month from here on out in SCM!

I intend 2011 to be as filled to bursting with life-affirming edge-living as 2010, but before we can truly bid a buoyant bonjour to the New Year, we have to wave adios to the old one. And what more perfect way to do so than with an end-of-the-year wrap up? Although since these boots spent last year walking – and horseback riding and snow shoeing and hot air ballooning – all over the place, it’s not been easy picking a top ten.

Narrowing it down to only outdoorsy, athletic pursuits helped a bit (though it necessitated passing over kickass moments like GPB visiting Marilyn Monroe’s Hollywood Walk of Fame star). And while sometimes Pink Boots accompanies me more as a state of mind than actual footwear, I’ve chosen to include only adventures during which they were on my feets. Without further adieu then, here – in descending chronological order – are…

Go Pink Boots’ Top Ten Bestest Adventures Of 2010

• High Sonoran Desert, Marana, Arizona.
  This was the then-brand new Pink Boots’ first time out of the box – and my first time in the desert. The vista was stunning: the golden foothills of the Tortolita Mountains below, the luminous faded-denim blue sky above. Towering Saguaro cactus, the Sonoran’s beloved residents, were everywhere; the gritty trail, with plenty of elevation gain and loss challenged but didn’t overwhelm. It was magnificent…at least until I found myself in a wash at the bottom of the canyon, unable to see anything but the rocky hills surrounding me. Confused, cursing my now intensely questionable decision to hike solo, I stumbled along, ready to call the Ritz-Carlton and beg for rescue. My saviors, I realized, were sure to discover me only a couple miles from the resort, trail map in hand and markers all around me, lips quivering and nose running, sobbing like a five-year old. The thought was too much too bear. I put a lid on my panic and managed to hike my ass out of there. The next day I returned sans sniveling, conquering any remaining fear.

• Forest Outside of Chiang Mai, Northwestern Thailand.
  95 degree weather and 95 percent humidity. No drinking water. A trail that, over the five or so miles I hiked it, inexplicably only ascended, becoming steeper with each step, until I was literally climbing, hand over hand, pulling myself forward whenever possible with tree branches and vines, ever upward. That I had actually paid a day tour company – who had assured me the hike was “no, not difficult” – for this replication of the Bataan Death March only added salt to the wound. And yet, as miserable as that hike was…It. Was. In. Thailand. When you’re someplace that exotic, even the most wretched experiences take on a patina of glory in retrospect. Unless, you know, you’re getting a kidney stolen or something.

• Craters of the Moon, National Monument and Preserve, Idaho.
  The first big adventure of my extended spring/summer trip out West, and the subject of my first ever GPB blog piece, Craters of the Moon would hold a special place in my heart even if it weren’t mind-splittingly beautiful. But it is. Formed by volcanic activity a whole lotta years ago, Moon is chock full of crazy caves, fields of lunarscape-like lava flows, cinder cones and other utterly alien topography. It’s also massive – over 1,100 square miles – and checking out almost any feature requires a hike. By the end of the day, I was crawling on hands and knees, softly whimpering in the back of my throat, toward the car. Or maybe it just felt that way. But don’t let the prospect of mere exhaustion – or the fact that one long-ago pioneer passing through described it as “the Devil’s vomit” – stop you from visiting. Make no mistake, Craters of the Moon is one of North America’s most spectacular places.

• Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming.
  Yellowstone is distinguished by the gorgeous, often spooky landscape formed by the monumental, still active volcano which lies underneath it. And by buffalo. Lots and lots of buffalo. Everywhere you turn there are buffalo, big and small, alone and in herds, their great shaggy heads lowered as they quietly graze the park’s iconic ground. My first sight of them literally took my breath away; I was so excited I nearly hyperventilated. By the end of the day, however, I had grown so used to them I reacted to a buffalo sighting as I would, say, spotting a groundhog back home. And while I admit feeling slightly underwhelmed by Old Faithful, I would rank the sublimely desolate Mammoth Hot Springs as one of Yellowstone’s can’t-misses. See it on an overcast day and soon you’ll be imagining the Three Weird Sisters out there amongst the steam vents and blackened trees, casting spells and leading Macbeth to his doom.

• Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado.
  This time, Pink Boots picked themselves up off of the ground and let an equine do the walking – which was a nice vaca for my feet, if not my ass. Although I’d been riding a few times over the past couple of years, I quickly discovered there is a WORLD of difference between a smooth, short trail ride and spending nearly six hours atop a horse cresting mountains – and not just any mountains, but the Rockies, for heaven’s sake. I’m not sure what was more harrowing – descending a 1,000 foot switchback path or riding behind my brother, who’d entered – and won – an eat-50-wings-in-30-minutes contest the night before. But any risks were well worth the reward: the Continental Divide rising up unencumbered in front of us, craggy, white-capped, eternal.

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I grew up in Central Pennsylvania, a land filled with lakes and streams, mountains and valleys, deep, rich forests and wide, verdant fields. It was a largely untamed place – in my youth, the pockets of civilization tossed here and there always felt like they might be overrun at any moment by wilderness.

And yet despite the easy availability of all this untrammeled countryside, I seldom set foot upon a plot of earth that wasn’t paved. My parents – who had lived in New York City for 12 years, during which time they’d produced my brother and me – instilled in me a deep apathy for nature. Family getaways were spent not in the surrounding sticks but in the metropolis for which they still yearned. I was a child of good restaurants and fine museums, of the theatre, of shopping and nightlife. Of the city.

So a few years ago, when in the grip of some mysterious mid-life fever I began to not merely enjoy nature but to actually crave it, like I had the world’s worst case of PMS and nature was a giant frozen Hershey bar with almonds, I was ill-prepared. I’d never been hiking. Or mountain biking. Or canoeing or kayaking or cross-country skiing – or downhill skiing, for that matter. Or snowshoeing.

But I wasn’t going to let a little thing like total and complete inexperience combined with a truly astounding lack of anything vaguely resembling grace or athleticism stop me. Nature, you see, soothed me. I’d discovered that using my own muscles – working them hard – to get out into the middle of nowhere filled me with a kind of still, quiet joy I’d never before encountered.

Which is why I was so thrilled to try snowshoeing at Turning Stone Resort in Central New York. Oh, I knew it was supposed to be about 10 degrees out, and the wind would be blowing like Superman out to freeze a lava flow, and there was a better than even chance I would take a header onto my face at least once. But, essentially, I’d be ok. The resort was providing me with a guide, which was expedient as well as extraordinarily kind, since my becoming hopelessly lost on their 1,200 magnificent acres of grounds and freezing slowly to death would be good for no one involved.

The sun was happily shining when I met Bill, my guide, in the lobby of The Lodge, Turning Stone’s ultra-luxe, all-suite accommodations. Bill was tall and lean, with wire-rimmed glasses and a white mustache. He looked to be in his late 50s, and I immediately developed a sort of awestruck crush on him, the way 12-year old girls do on cute English teachers who seem unimaginably worldly and suave. We stepped out of the Lodge and onto the snow-struck ground, where Bill asked if I was wearing good, warm boots.

I proudly held my foot out. “The best,” I said, pointing. “Timberland hiking boots. They’re waterproof!”

“Wow…they’re pink? I don’t think I’ve ever seen pink hiking boots.”

“I KNOW!! Don’t they just ROCK??”

“They are mighty stylish,” Bill replied, smiling. “What about your pants? Are they heavy enough to keep you warm?” He peered more closely at my legs. “Are those…”

“Yes. They’re pajama bottoms.” I pulled them away from my body, fingering the stretchy material. “But they’re fleece, and I have another pair of pants on under them.”

And then, with Bill still grinning and shaking his head, we were off. The wind blew, lifting the powder off the treetops in great swirling gusts, and soon we were in a silent world that seemed far from people and the problems they make. The snow wasn’t terribly deep, which made the going easier than I imagined it would be. But I still felt my legs working, the muscles in my lower abdomen, hips and butt straining with exertion. It felt good, as did the warmth that was spreading throughout my body. Bill stopped occasionally, asking if I needed a break. I think he was surprised at my stamina, and that felt good, too.

After an hour or so, he led us to the resort’s sweat lodge area. The lodge had been mostly dismantled for the winter, though the red willow skeleton remained. Bill opened a nearby hut and, digging around, retrieved a massive pair of furry buffalo hides. He wrapped the heavy things around us and we sat on a nearby bench, toasty and warm, as he explained Turning Stone’s grueling, glorious sweat lodge ceremony. After I’d peppered him with questions (“How hot does it really get?” “How many people are in there?” “What if you want to leave?”), the talk turned to the Oneida Nation, on whose land the resort sat, and their history and traditions. Finally, curious about this gentle, resourceful man, I asked him what he’d done before coming to Turning Stone.

He told me, but made me promise not to tell anyone. And I swooned with pleasure. Life, I believe, is best when filled with adventure, with happy surprises. When I checked into Turning Stone I sure didn’t imagine the next day I’d be sitting wrapped in a buffalo hide on the grounds of a genuine Native American sweat lodge with a man whose former gig was of the “I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you variety.” But that unexpected morning spent tromping around in the snow with Bill will remain, I have no doubt, one of my most cherished memories. And you know, I didn’t even fall once in those snowshoes?

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