We’re halfway up the snowshoe trail on Castle Mountain and I’m certain I’m wearing more layers than I need. Long johns, sweatpants, wool sweater, jacket; I feel like the Michelin Man tromping around in a pair of duck feet. I am not a practiced snowshoer, and lack the smooth style of the others—friends who speed ahead with expertise. They aren’t fidgeting with their snowshoe straps and tripping over their own feet in the snow.