A STEP ABOVE; SNOWSHOEING TOUGH MISSION -- BUT SPIRITED.

Byline: BRETT PAULY

The way snowshoeing guide Lee Benavidez describes the activity, one would think the platforms of aluminum frames, hard plastic and crampons would practically lift themselves.

``I like to compare it to walking on water. Snow is a form of water, after all,'' said the winter-sports enthusiast from Pine Mountain Club, here at the Kern County base of Mount Pinos - our destination for the day. ``Especially when there is powder, you feel like you are floating.''

Ah, floating. I couldn't think of a nicer way to make the three-mile climb to Condor Point, the zenith of Mount Pinos - at 8,831 feet the highest point in the Los Padres National Forest.

The bummer is I'm the Titanic of snowshoers.

The fronts of the funky footwear began to sink in the soft white stuff shortly after they were strapped to my boots. Walk with more pressure on the backs of the frames, the guide suggested. Fwap, backpack first in the snow.

Once up, I must have come off as a pigeon-toed . . . well, pigeon, crossing my tips like a rookie skier flunking Snowplow 101. Splay your feet slightly for better traction, he said. Timmmmberrrrr.

And those frames that are supposed to distribute your weight for better balance? Forget it. For me and my weak ankles that turn inward without the high support of a hiking boot or Alpine ski boot, the frames acted as axes cutting into the frozen backcountry. That's no way to travel. I felt as helpless as I did the first - and only - times I tried skating and cross country skiing, when my ankles served only as broken pendulums, listing to the inside.

``Are you ready to try running yet?'' Benavidez asked. Heck, I was less steady on my feet than my 9-month-old son and this guy wanted me to run?

Somehow I managed. I mean, geez, how hard could it be? Snowshoeing is sweeping the snow-sports world, as evidenced by the frequent weekend sellouts of rental gear. People are breaking into the recreation with remarkable ease.

Snowshoes have been around since the first Asians trekked across the Bering Strait land bridge into North America. And those were the heavy, unwieldy tennis-racketlike affairs made of wood and hide. Today they're constructed of lightweight metal and fabric.

My difficulties on three-foot-long snowshoes seemed irrelevant as I imagined how hard winter travel would have been on the seven-foot models used by early explorers, surveyors, hunters and traders. The trek began to ease as the parking lot got farther behind and Benavidez began to identify the characteristics of the surrounding flora.

A forest ranger would later detail the characteristics of the tree life: The bark of the Jeffrey pine exudes a distinctive scent of vanilla and the pine has larger cones than its bigger cousin, the ponderosa, found at lower elevations. The other dominant conifer is the white fir, with its telltale bluish-green needles. There is also a sprinkling of single-leaf pinyon pines, a member of the white pine family, and limber pines, ancient trees that grow above 8,500 feet and often in grotesquely twisted shapes, making them appear as ``scarecrows'' on the horizon.

Our guide spoke of the benefits of snowshoeing's slow pace.

``It gives you a sense of looking the environment, the biota, in a different way,'' he said. ``You're closer. Even when you are cross country skiing, you are still moving fast. You're missing a lot of nature.''

He talked of the spirit of Mount Pinos or Iwihinmu, believed by the Chumash Indians to be the center of the universe, the focal point of the creator. The blood of the Hopi Indians courses thick through the veins of Benavidez, who fraternizes with the region's Chumash elders. He promised a prayer ceremony to the creator when we summitted. I felt bad being so clumsy in such a sacred place.

The notion of visiting a snowbound mountaintop without the aid of a chair lift fueled me. It was a new experience and my steps were lighter for it.

The trees started to thin and the apex was soon at hand - or, rather, at foot. The snowshoes were unbound and lunch was greedily devoured under warm, sunny, windless skies. Benavidez unpacked his ceremonial tools - sage and the wing of a red-tailed hawk bound with buckskin and beads.

``Sunday is my church day and Mount Pinos is my church,'' he explained. He lit the sage and, with the wing, fanned the smoke under our arms and feet.

He called to the spirits of the bear, condor, eagle, pelican, wolf, raccoon and the coyote - ``the trickster.'' To all the spirits - two-legged, four-legged and winged.

``Grandfather, we ask you to bless us,'' he said. ``We thank you for such a beautiful day. And tree people, to share this moment with us. Many of the elements that we take for granted we need appreciate. The snow. The clouds.

``Grandfather, hear our prayers, hear our spirits. Bless this land, bless these people who are here in this circle. We made it here; give us a safe journey home. May our ancestors and our families have the blessings.''

Maybe it was the prayer, maybe it wasn't anything at all, but I managed to stumble back to the truck even though the descent was more troublesome as gravity buried the tips of my snowshoes deeper.

Call it brute strength, because there was no technique whatsoever. I had made it to the top, and that's all that counts. For the spirits will guide you back down.

CAPTION(S):

2 Photos

PHOTO (1--Color) Snowshoeing guide Lee Benavidez of Pine Mountain Club and his pooch, Mikey, survey the views atop Mount Pinos, with the Cuyama badlands as his backdrop.

(2--Color) Lee Benavidez and his dog, Mikey, track the top of Mount Pinos, on the border of Ventura and Kern counties.

Brett Pauly/Daily News