Before you go out the first time, you're suspicious: walking through the bitter cold with tennis rackets on your feet is fun because? Then you take your first few steps and feel like a little kid playing the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk: fee, fie, foe, fum—plod, plod, plod, plod. But it's not so hard. Just keep your legs wide, your feet flat, one step at a time. Maybe more like the Tin Man.

Your confidence builds. The air is crisp. Small gusts whisk through the spruces, blowing off showers of snow that glitter in the winter sun. Sprigs of mountain laurel peak through the tops of undulating drifts, and you remember that you're walking about two feet off the ground. Nice.

Suddenly some tracks cross your path. You stop and look closely. Two little paw prints followed by a pair three times the size. It's a snowshoe hare, nature's graceful antecedent the awkward augmentations strapped to your feet. At first you think,"Hmmm, maybe we were meant to be a tropical species after all." But then you're inspired. You've got the hang of these contraptions; there's no need to keep going at this snail's pace.

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Now you are the tortoise, flat on your back, arms flailing uselessly because there's nothing to push against when you're lying in two feet of snow. Weary, wet, defeated, you stop struggling and lie quietly, staring towards the blue, cloudless sky. The hush of the forest descends for a second, and you realize that, even though you've devolved into a weak, shivering heap of polar fleece, it was worth it to come out here anyway. Then your friend starts cackling, and you notice you've been lying there for well over a minute. He still hasn't lifted a hand to help you. Up the hill the snowshoe hare sits, invisible against the snow. He's laughing at you, too.

Read the Hot Pick - Hiking

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