Ode to the Posthole


John, Family Ambassador

Postholes, I love you.

I love that you’re like playing Russian roulette in the snow.

I love that you’re like turning the crank on a jack-in-the-box while terrified of clowns.

I love that you’re like Jenga when the tower it teetering.

I love the unpredictable certainty that I’ll punch through the crust of the snow and sink up to my knee. The dread, the acceptance, the possibility it won’t happen, followed by the shock it did.

I love the extra effort required to pull myself out of the hole and that this wasted effort has just decreased the likelihood I’ll get where I’m going.

I love it when my fall doesn’t stop until I’m waist deep and my feet are dangling in space between boulders I didn’t even know I was standing over.

Most of all, I love that you’re so easy to avoid simply by wearing a pair of snowshoes.
Left the snowshoes at home. Slogged through thigh-deep wet snow up Arizona’s highest peak.


Top: Tubbs Snowshoes FLEX ALP. Bottom: Boot, size 10. Spring on Rampart Ridge.


Waist-deep and “loving” it on Raven Ridge. Credit for RavenRidge.jpeg: Colleen Murphy