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Who says you can't fall off snowshoes?

As I stood deep in Sequoia National Park's Giant Forest under blue skies, enveloped by the silence that comes from a blanket of deep, fresh snow, I pondered how snowshoeing evolved from humans' key to winter survival into one of America's fastest-growing winter recreational sports.

Actually, I mostly pondered how our ranger-led snowshoe hike may have been the last great travel freebie around. Heck, the park service even lends the snowshoes free.

Twice a day on Saturdays and Sundays — and daily during holiday weeks — the first 24 people who reserve spots by calling the Giant Forest Museum can go on a two-hour naturalist-guided snowshoe adventure. The routes — all about a mile or two — vary depending on the weather and snow conditions.

The museum discourages adults from bringing children younger than 10, but it agreed to let our 6-year-old daughter, Sophie, come along if I outfitted her with kid-size snowshoes, which I rented from our lodge. I also promised to bail from the hike if it proved too strenuous or boring for her. It was neither, something I credit to Sophie's enthusiasm for snow and our ranger's engaging manner.

Because Sequoia had recently received 3 feet of snow, our hike went through such magnificent virgin powder that it pained me to trample the beauty of the scene with clunky snowshoes. Ranger Mary Anne Carlton broke trail in the fresh snow, and we followed single file. We were pretty far back in the line, so the snow was packed down for us, making snowshoeing simple. But what's the fun in that? Pretty soon, most of the group fell out of our orderly line and began traipsing around in knee-high snow.

Carlton peppered the hike with enough "forest factoids," as my husband, Vic, called them, to keep the more serious nature-lovers interested. We heard how the forest inhabitants prepare for the harsh winter in Sequoia, which averages 12 to 15 feet of snow a year. The black bears bulk up on the high-fat acorns before finding a small tree hollow to den in until spring. They don't eat, drink or relieve themselves all winter, but their slumber isn't the deep coma we tend to think it is. They wake up occasionally and aren't in the best humor when they do.

The mule deer, meanwhile, head to lower elevations. Their spindly legs can't handle the deep snow, and they can't find the food they need to survive. My favorite, the hardy coyotes, do spend the winter in snow. They run in a straight line, their hind paws reusing the front paw prints to conserve energy — like snowshoeing in a single file.

Hikes vary, but all let Sequoia visitors experience the pristine wilderness just as conservationist John Muir may have done when he named the Giant Forest in 1875. At the northern fringe of this grove proudly stands the General Sherman Tree, which, although neither the tallest nor widest tree in the world, is considered the largest living tree because of its volume, 52,500 cubic feet; it weighs an estimated 2.7 million pounds, stands almost 275 feet tall and is about 2,100 years old.

Not second rate

Some would say Sequoia plays second fiddle to Yosemite, but we found that a big advantage. We felt as though we had the place to ourselves, even on a holiday weekend.

Truth be told, we wound up here largely by default. As a family of procrastinators, we waited until almost Thanksgiving before deciding we wanted to spend Christmas away and show Sophie snow for the first time. The only available accommodation inside the park at Yosemite was an unheated tent cabin without a bathroom.

At Sequoia, I booked a room with two queen-size beds at the Wuksachi Village and Lodge, the newest development in the national park, for a nightly rate of $125 plus tax. (The park's $69-a-night winter special wasn't available.)

A taped message warned us to carry tire chains, even if we had a four-wheel drive car, which we did. When the written confirmation arrived, the message was repeated: Bring chains.

Not only do we procrastinate, but we also don't follow directions.