My alarm started singing to me at 6:45 AM. Yes, my alarm sings — it doesn’t chirp — a lovely little song that repeats the phrase, “Get up.” I hazily hit snooze and told my phone I didn’t want to get up, that it couldn’t make me. On the alarm’s second insistent attempt, I grudgingly complied.

I had made plans to go snowshoeing with my friend Leif. The season pass to Bridger Bowl and all the avalanche gear I had purchased in excitement of my first “winter” out of college had gotten little mileage and in order to fight my increasing frustration, we decided to strap snowshoes to our backs and tromp around until we could use them without destroying them on bare rocks. While neither of us worked later that Saturday, for some reason we had agreed to leave town at 7:30 AM, hours before my usual Saturday awakening. However, within minutes of reaching my coffee maker, the wind outside began to howl and snow started coming in sideways, landing on the bare ground in my backyard. Leif and I agreed to wait to leave until the unaccustomed winter weather let up a little. Our beards were not yet long enough to handle this sort of cold.

About an hour later, we were driving Leif’s Subaru to Hyalite through a few sets of recent tire tracks and increasingly deeper snow. We passed a hatchback and a truck on the side of the road, surrounded by eager college dudes, tossing their skis from the roof rack of the hatchback to the bed of the pickup. We waved and sipped coffee.

Leif and I parked at the reservoir. We pulled on our boots and gloves while the college kids in oversized and obnoxiously bright colored jackets pumped rap music from their vehicles. Peaceful Saturday mornings before 9 AM do not mix well with rap music or neon green and pink. We hurriedly set off towards the Blackmore trailhead.

Chasing Lokie, the small, white, energetic furball of a dog Leif had brought along, we hiked in our boots for the first half-mile. As we climbed, the snow was getting deeper and was still falling. We found a convenient log under a tree and sat down to strap on our snowshoes. It was finally beginning to feel like winter. The pages in my hiking book collected moisture as we consulted them from under the tree.

The Blackmore trail seemed like a proper choice for our excursion. It was longer than the surrounding trails and led in a direction away from the rap music. We started off in this direction. However, we realized with alarm shortly soon after that the oversized-jacket skiers would likely be coming this direction too, the rap music undoubtedly blaring with them, while they said things like “bro,” “pow pow” and “freshies.” We quickly changed course.

The next few hours were spent meandering around on the History Rock and Crescent Lake trails, as well as an old jeep road. Neither Leif nor I had hiked these trails in the summer and were limited to the short descriptions and lousy maps in my hiking book and the occasional sign marking the trails as options for cross country skiing. But none of that mattered. We were happily overheating in our many layers and flipping snow in the dog’s face as he trailed us closely, stepping in our tracks.

After trudging along for a few hours, talking about beer and women and making fun of the dog, our knees were beginning to complain sharply to us, and we decided it was time to return to the car. We took the long way, hiking back to the History Rock trail and looping around to the reservoir. We listened attentively for thumping bass beats as we crossed the stream and neared the parking lot, but to our relief, quiet prevailed. We shook the snow from our jackets, brushed off the dog and climbed into the car.

Leif dropped me off at my house and we made plans to snowshoe again soon, try some cross-country skiing and maybe build quinzhees for winter camping, now that the snowpack was a whole foot closer to quality winter fun. The future seemed promising as I tossed my snowshoes in the back of my car for easy access.

And that’s where they remain. I have since pumped up my bike tires and I have not seen Lokie the dog even once. But for a beautiful, snowy Saturday with only the smallest rap music intrusion, it felt like a bit like the winter I had imagined I would experience after college.

Mike Tarrant has entered the real world after graduating in Music Technology and Economics from Montana State University in 2011. He can be reached at mtarrant24@gmail.com.