The trip started with a bunch of last minute scurrying around getting things together: fitting Magnus with some boots, rigging the sled to carry the majority of our heavy gear, double checking the maps to our destination. The morning vanished but we managed to hit the trail at one pm sharp.

I started out bearing the laden sledge. I tied the leads tightly to my daypack, with the pvc poles right up against my back to keep it under control when descending. It wasn't so bad pulling it, and I quickly got used to leaning into my straps on uphills to keep the load moving. It was more difficult to get used to the slight delay as I crested a hill, and then the ever increasing push from behind as the whole thing got moving down hill. And it was certainly better than carrying the stuff in backpacks.

Snow shoes were definitely the way to go, as I'm no ski patroller, and controlling the loaded sled while wearing skis was beyond my skill level. An added bonus to snowshoes was their lack of icing: small streams could just be forded, without worry about trying to keep skis dry. We brought along the boards in case we wanted to have some fun up the trail, but snowshoes were the order of the day. Magnus used Liz' Tubbs, which are a bunch smaller than my giant yellow Redfeathers, and more suited for walking on the packed trails. As we went off-piste and the snow got softer and deeper the larger shoes helped me break trail.

It was snowing lightly, and we crunched our way up the trail. After an hour or so we made the right turn down to the Neversink. We ran into a couple guys looking for the lean-to. They were disapointed to learn that it had been relocated two miles further up the trail (and hill). They also showed us a good place to cross the Neversink, and even helped us haul the sled across, before trudging off dejectedly.

I led us up the trail to the usual jumping off point for the "fisherman's path" and it was unbroken. We struck out across the deep snow, battling brush and heavy snow in equal measure. Though we'd made it half way on the map, the going was much harder off-piste that on the packed trail. In a couple hundred yards we came upon a tracked trail. Someone had actually been up here, probably the seven hikers I'd come across the previous weekend.

We were still bashing through branches, but at least the trail was a little packed. It was mostly flat, but pulling the sled was tough, and we slogged for an hour and a half before I realized I didn't recognize where we were. We were heading for the camp at Donovan Brook where Liz, Patty, Sophia, and I had camped two summers ago. I mean, I've been up there a million times in the warmer months, and a couple times in winter. I knew that if we followed the river we'd get where we were going, but the trail followed a different route than it did in the summer. I remembered crossing the river a couple hundred yards back and fessed up to Magnus that not only were we lost, we might have hiked right past my intended camp. The terrain didn't look right at all, the river narrows considerably above our camp, but it shouldn't have been doing it yet.

So we dropped our packs and retraced our tracks for ten minutes or so. Indeed, I'd blown it and trekked right on past our site. It looked so different in its deep winter cloak. Oh well, at least we hadn't gone on too long before I noticed my error. We hightailed it back to the packs and sled and brought it all to our new home in the woods. It was now nearing four o'clock, and the first order of business was begining the snow shelter that would be our home.

Magnus got busy piling snow while I volunteered to make some hot beverages. I pulled out the stove, pumped it up, primed it, and immediately realized we were in trouble. The stove wouldn't light. I fooled around with it, trying to clear whatever I could without fully disassembling it but had no luck. It was less than an hour till dark, and there wasn't time to safely get back to the car.

Oh, how grim! I informed Magnus of the news, and we proceeded to keep warm by digging and piling and packing snow. The growing pile of snow was cold comfort though, as we knew we'd be spending the night cold and damp. We piled our packs in the center to reduce the amount of snow needed. After a couple hours and the help of the sled and snowshoes we'd acheived a conical pile of dense, heavily packed snow about five feet high. Building a quinzhee is quite the zen excercise (or is it US Army?): one shovels and piles up tons of snow, only to remove 90% of it. We picked a spot on the base, and began tunnelling into the haystack shaped mass.

Our hole quickly became a tunnel, and then an expanding room. By now it was fully dark, so we worked by headlamp. My groovy new LED lamp's cool blue glow contrasted eerily with Magnus' traditional tungsten yellow, especially as seen through the walls of the quinzhee. It clearly would have been better to do this part by daylight, so one could tell when one neared the edge. As it was, Magnus put a nice big window right where we didn't want it, so we had to figure out how to patch, as well.

Crawling around in snow like moles is wet work, and though we stayed warm through exertion, we were both soaked by the time we finished. As soon as our structure remotely resembled a shelter, we hauled all our stuff in, stuck a pack in front of the door, and crawled into our bags. Though I kept my wet underwear on so it would dry rather than freeze, it wasn't so bad there in the bag, and I didn't take long to fall into a sound sleep.

The morning was lugubrious indeed. No dinner, now no coffee, and frozen power bars. Forget it. Continuing a fine wilderness tradition I started last year, we strapped on the skis and high tailed it out of there. We made it to the car in an hour and a half, and shortly thereafter were munching bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches and slurping hot java in the Country Cupboard. After stopping back at the house to grab another stove, and risking the mockery of my wife and mother, we headed back into the woods.

The trip back in was speedy and fun on the tracks we'd firmed up that morning. At the Neversink crossing we ran into another couple looking for the lost lean-to. The DEC's really got to put a sign up that indicates it's been moved. As we were chatting with them I glanced upstream and saw, silouetted perfectly against a still pool, a good sized trout jump clear of the water! This in the middle of January. Must have been a big fly to rouse him out of his torpor and get him to fling his entire body free of the water. Encouraged and full of the beauty of the woods we quickly ate up the mile back to camp.

The afternoon turned mild and sunny, and Magnus and I set up an office on the bank of the frozen river and basked in the late afternoon sun. And of course, we indulged in many a cup of hot liquid. And the Guiness Stout we had lugged seemed worth every ounce as it formed a perfect head in our plastic mugs.

We worked on the quinzhee a little, smoothing out the ceiling, and moving the door so it faced downhill and would leak less heat while not requiring the "slither like a reptile" effect we'd enjoyed the night before. And working on the shelter by day one could tell when the wall was getting too thin by the light coming through. I was distressed to see a couple spots where we'd come within fractions of an inch of breaking through. Next time we've got to start early enough to work by daylight.

On the gear front, I was totally encased in down thanks to my key eBay purchase last summer: a Feathered Friends Rock and Ice parka. Total overkill for the conditions, it nonetheless was comfy as hell whilst sitting around contemplating the setting sun. I also tried out the hippies' advice and took off my boots and layered socks, down booties, foam, and finally nylon outersock bootie things. It was weird to feel like I was tromping around barefoot in two foot deep snow. But my feet stayed warm, dry and comfortable.

Getting in bed Sunday was an entirely different experience than the first night. Oh, man. Dry clothes, full belly, nice warm mug of hot chocolate; it was downright homey inside that quinzhee. We later found it had been -10 (f) outside, yet I was cozy in my 20° bag. It seemed to be about freezing inside the shelter. With the foam floor, a backpack inside the door tunnel to control the draft, and our warm bags, we were toasty and content. The candle burned its own flue in the ceiling, and I fell asleep before Magnus could even finish arranging his bed and blow it out.

Monday dawned clear and cold. The need to pee finally forced me out of my warm nest. Slipping into cold gear was a drag. Note to self: next time sleep with the next day's gear. But once outside and moving around we began to enjoy the morning. The Coleman stove fired right up, and giant mugs of coffee were soon being greedily inhaled. As the sun appeared over the ridge of the Burroughs Range I realized we'd better be getting a move on. We packed up, spent twenty minutes or so taking pictures, and moved out. Magnus wanted to experience the joy of sledge pulling, so he set out and I followed to help the sled through any thorny spots.

The woods were warming quickly in the morning sun, and I even heard a bird twitter as we disturbed his morning repose. We crunched our way back to the main trail, then downhill to the car. Stopping to sign out in the register, I thanked my lucky stars that I lived so close to such a special wilderness.