Today I hoped to get in at least two or three hours on foot with a pack. This stretched into a bit more than four hours (mostly) on snowshoes in Wissahickon Park, a chunk with fellow non-snow hater Abby. Over the four or five miles we covered together we didn't see anything out of the ordinary (I've seen dudes on mountain unicycles, a man who plays a mean air violin while hiking, people humping --the park is filled with surprises) aside from three grumpy looking horses who looked like they'd rather be on the next plane to Bermuda than slipping through the snow with riders on their backs.
Eventually Abby and I headed in opposite directions and I did a few more miles before heading home. The park seemed to be empty and was so quiet it almost seemed loud. I felt like I had the whole place to myself. The Walnut Street bridge, however, reminded me that I was still very much in the city.
|I don't mind good graffiti. This graffiti, however, |
looks like a three-year-old did it.
And then I headed down a hill and came upon this right in the middle of the trail, reminding me that all was right with the world:
|Cutest and most random snowperson ever. I wanted to hug it. |