While snowshoeing on a tamped-down section of the Ethan Pond Trail in New Hampshire’s White Mountains the other day, our group approached an untrammeled stretch of the Zeacliff Trail that descended into a ravine below frozen-over Whitehall Brook before rising precipitously to the Zeacliff Overlook.

Other than a small wooden sign at the intersection, there was no clear mark indicating a route through the expanse of white.

Steve Brown of Canterbury, a member of our party, paused here and extracted a map from his pack, while his son, Aidan, and fellow adventurer Rick Ely of Stonington, peered over his shoulder.

"It seems like this might be the trail," Steve said.

A far easier alternative would be to continue retracing our steps about 2 relatively flat miles on the Ethan Pond Trail to our temporary home base at Zealand Falls Hut, and then ascend another 1.2 miles and 1,100 feet of elevation via Twinway to Zeacliff Overlook.

I immediately thought of the Robert Frost poem, “The Road Not Taken,” in which the narrator must choose between two routes diverging in a yellow wood.

For most of my life I’ve embraced Frost’s decision to take the one less traveled, but after already tramping several miles this day, and nearly 7 miles on skis and snowshoes with a full pack the day before, and anticipating still more backpack skiing-snowshoeing the following day, I succumbed to the appeal of a shorter, safer route leading to a cozy, warm hut where I could hunker down next to a wood stove with a cup of tea.

Four others in our group evidently shared my preference, so we set off for Zealand Falls while Steve, Aidan and Rick ventured down the snowy valley. Along the way we bumped into Steve Kurczy, a former newspaper colleague now living in New York, who had skipped the Thoreau Falls side trip in favor of skiing with Molly, the hut caretaker, through glades around Mount Zealand and Mount Hale.

“The 2-feet-deep snow was untouched. The mountain was all ours for the carving up,” he said.

While the rest of us used lightweight cross-country and backcountry skis, Steve Kurczy opted for an alpine trekking setup equipped with heavy-gauge bindings that allow for either trekking or downhill modes. He also applied a pair of snow-gripping skins to the bottom of his skis.

Steve, now completing a fellowship in economics and business journalism at Columbia University, had organized our Zealand Falls expedition. The other members of our party included Phil Plouffe, a Mystic mail carrier with whom I’ve shared many adventures on land and sea; Jenna Cho, another former newspaper colleague who now works in marketing for a New York City law firm; and Rick’s wife, Laura Ely, a nutritionist/health coach; and stepdaughter, Heather Boucher, a high school student. Steve Brown, who is Steve Kurczy’s uncle, is a teacher; Aidan is a high-school student.

After the Zeacliff Trail split, the main group returned to the hut for a short rest and snacks before most of them scrambled up Twinway for the expected rendezvous with Rick and the Brown father and son. Only one problem: The trio was nowhere to be seen.

“They should have been here by now,” Phil fretted.

From the lookout he gazed at the vast Pemigewasset Wilderness that spread across Zealand Notch to the Willey and Presidential ranges beyond, and shouted, “Rick!”

To everyone’s astonishment, they heard a faint, distant reply.

Turns out that with trail markers buried in snow, Steve, Aidan and Rick had strayed off the Zeacliff Trail and could not easily navigate their way to the top of Zeacliff. Just before hearing Phil’s call the three considered going back the way they came – a laborious, potentially perilous retreat that might have kept them rambling well past dark.

Guided by voices, though, they eventually struggled to the overlook and then began a descent, to everyone’s immense relief, to the cabin.

Here again they encountered Steve Kurczy, who was skinning his way up Zeacliff.

“You’ve got some tight turns to navigate on those skis,” Rick cautioned him. “Do you want to turn back now with us?”

Steve insisted he could handle the challenge.

Phil shook his head.

“So where do you want your ashes spread?”

Steve rolled his eyes and continued ascending.

“A half-hour later I was atop Zeacliff, looking out over the Pemigewasset Wilderness toward Mount Washington. I ripped off the skins, locked down the bindings, and pointed the skis downhill,” he said.

Not long afterward, our wayward band finally reunited at Zealand Falls Hut.

The wood-shingle structure, owned and operated by the Appalachian Mountain Club, is among eight AMC White Mountain huts available to hikers all year, and one of three open during cold-weather months.

The nine of us had skied and snowshoed in the day before from a parking lot off Route 302 near Breton Woods. For the first 4.1 miles we followed the snowed-over but smooth Zealand Road, and then another 2.7 miles via the winding Zealand Trail, closed in by evergreens and interrupted periodically by gullies, narrow bridges, ditches and stream crossings. For this section I switched from skis to snowshoes; most others proceeded on skis.

Loyal readers may recall my account of an expedition to Zealand Falls in January 2012 with Phil, the Elys and several employees at the Mystic Cycle Centre, which Rick co-owns.

On that outing I ill-advisedly skied in while lugging a plastic sled containing some 60 pounds of food, clothing and miscellaneous gear, which Rick helped me drag the last 50 steep yards to the hut. If you ever undertake a challenging journey and can bring along only one other person, I would recommend Rick, a former champion triathlete who has competed in ski races and the Iditarod bicycle race, and can make just about any repair or rescue on the trail, all the while keeping a cool head.

The other members of the party are no slouches: Steve and Aidan have climbed all 48 New Hampshire mountains that rise above 4,000 feet; Phil has ascended Argentina’s Aconcagua, at 22,841 feet the highest peak in the Western Hemisphere; Steve Kurczy, a rock climber and marathoner, has ridden his bike across the country; Jenna has run half-marathons and has taken up rock climbing; Laura competes in triathlons; and Heather, this year’s valedictorian at Stonington High School, has completed a month-long National Outdoor Leadership School course in Alaska.

Not wishing to repeat my difficulty with a sled, I carried all my food and gear in a backpack and tried to be judicious about what I brought. I wisely did not, however, sacrifice my heavy sleeping bag, which is rated to 30 below zero, for a lighter model.

During summer Zealand Falls Hut, which accommodates 36 people in two coed bunkrooms, is full-service, offering pillows, blankets and hot meals. In winter, guests sleep on bunks with mattresses and may use the hut’s kitchen facilities, but they must bring their own sleeping bags and food.

While Zealand Falls Hut includes an adjoining outhouse, there is no running water in winter; the caretaker must haul 5-gallon jugs from a nearby well several times a day for drinking and cooking.

The hut was about three-quarters filled our first night, Friday, March 17, and after dinner – pasta, stir-fried vegetables, soups, topped off by a pound and a half of fudge thoughtfully packed in by Jenna – we lingered at our tables, chatted, played cards and listened to me recite a Robert Service poem, “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”

Molly shut off the battery-powered lights at 9:30 p.m. and stopped stoking the wood stove, so we clicked on headlamps, donned additional layers and remained in the main room another hour or so before retreating to unheated bunkrooms.

Outside, where gazillions of stars twinkled in a clear, moonless sky, the temperature plunged to the single digits.

The last thing I did before crawling into my sleeping bag was fill a nalgene bottle with hot water from a kettle. The warmth helped lull me to a deep, satisfying sleep.

I rose at dawn, ready for another day of adventure.

This is the first of a two-part account of our White Mountain sojourn. Next week: In Mountain Huts, You Can’t Always Choose Your Bunkmates.