Up here on the pass, traversing a corniced ridge, the wind is howling, full of thick, sideways-flying icy flakes, and you can hardly make out the pack bouncing in front of you. We are traveling in single-file, like intrepid grade-schoolers. Hatchets in hand, hunched under the weight of a decaying deer leg, we hike. Our snowshoes plunge into the fresh January snow, as we take turns at the brutal task of leading, breaking trail in the deep powder. For the rest of us followers, the sequence goes like this: brace… lean into the wind… study the faint, snowshoe-sized hole left by the traveler in front of you… leap into it… balance… repeat. This is how you walk on the moon. This is how you stay alive.  Despite a lifetime of wandering on foot, I remain a clumsy hiker. When it’s my turn to lead, I make a wrong step and disappear to my armpits in a nondescript drift. I flail for a moment, then give in, my legs pinned, mittens waving for help. In an instant I’m hoisted back on my feet by fellow …