Snowshoes to the Hut

Gita stands in the snow with her guide, Mr. Fabian. It is her first day on snowshoes. The shoes are big and flat. They look like two tennis rackets under her boots.

"Walk with your legs wide," says Mr. Fabian. "Like a duck."

Gita walks like a duck. She falls on her first step. Snow goes into her sleeve. She laughs and gets up.

"Good," says Mr. Fabian. "Now you know the worst part."

The hut is two hours away. It is a small wooden house on a hill. There is a stove inside. The cook makes hot soup for walkers. Gita wants that soup very much.

The path goes up through tall trees. The snow is deep and white. Everything is quiet. Gita hears only her breath and her shoes. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

"Look for the orange marks," says Mr. Fabian. "They are on the trees. We follow them all day."

Gita sees the first one. It is a bright orange square on a tree. Then she sees another one, and another. She feels like she plays a game.

After an hour, Gita is warm. She takes off her hat. She puts it in her bag. Her face is red. Her legs are tired, but she feels strong.

They stop to drink hot tea from a bottle. A small bird sits on a branch near them. Its chest is orange, and it looks at Gita's bread.

"Give it a little," says Mr. Fabian. Gita puts a crumb on the snow. The bird jumps down, takes it, and flies away.

Then the snow begins to fall. It is soft at first. Big flakes come down slowly. Gita puts out her hand and catches one.

"Pretty," she says.

Mr. Fabian looks up at the sky. His face is serious. "The snow gets heavy," he says. "We must walk faster."

The snow falls thicker now. The trees look grey and far away. Gita cannot see the top of the hill. She looks for an orange mark. There is no mark.

"Mr. Fabian?" she says. "I do not see the next one."

"Stop here," he says. "Do not go on. Look slowly."

They stand still. Gita looks left, then right. Snow sticks to her eyelashes. She wipes it away and looks again. Then she sees a small orange spot. It is low on a tree, under the snow.

"There!" she shouts.

"Good eyes," says Mr. Fabian. "Snow covers the marks. Look low and high."

From now on, Gita is the leader. She looks for every mark. Sometimes she finds it fast. Sometimes she looks a long time. Mr. Fabian says nothing. He only follows her.

Finally, she smells smoke. A yellow light shines through the snow. It is the window of the hut.

The door opens. A woman in a red sweater looks out. "Two walkers!" she says. "Come in, come in. The soup is ready."

Inside, the room is warm and smells of onions. Gita takes off her wet boots. She puts her feet near the stove. A big bowl of soup comes with bread.

She eats the first spoon. It is the best soup in the world.

"Tomorrow," says Mr. Fabian, "you lead the whole way down."

Gita smiles with her mouth full. "Then I need a second bowl," she says.