I have betrayed the snowshoes which carried me through many grueling miles and were, no matter the terrain or the snow conditions, as reliable as a toaster.

(I was going to use the familiar Swiss watch as the measuring stick for flawless, long-term performance, but it occurred to me that toasters, humble appliances though they are, function so consistently that most of us, I’d wager, couldn’t say how old our model is. Also, I own a toaster, but not a Swiss watch.)

I replaced my venerable MSR Denalis with a fancy new pair that boast clever bindings and aluminum crampons as big as a great white shark’s teeth and a retractable heel bar that, the manufacturer all but promises, will waft me right up steep ground.

I was reluctant to banish the Denalis.

I had become attached to them, as a person can be to any item which he uses often and usually with enjoyment.

But as often happens, I was seduced by vibrant photographs on a website. These included the clever technology that lets you manipulate the mouse and get a sort of 3-D view of the product, or zoom in for a detailed view.

My wife, Lisa, and I bought two new pairs of Wilderness Technology Cascade snowshoes.

They arrived just after Christmas in a cardboard box nearly big enough to sleep in, were that necessary.

The Cascades aren’t dramatically different from the Denalis we have both used for more than 15 years.

The new shoes are a bit bigger — 9 inches wide and 28 inches long, compared with the Denalis’ measurements of 8 by 22.

The Cascades are, naturally, a bit heavier as well. But I justified that burden by figuring that it would be offset by the new snowshoes’ better flotation — the key factor in snowshoeing, when every inch your shoes sink exacerbates the exertion.

(Wearing multiple layers of clothing is always important during the winter, but especially so with snowshoeing. No matter how cold it is, you’re likely to warm up fast unless you’re on flat ground and hard-packed snow. In which case you probably don’t need snowshoes anyway.)

The more persuasive factor in favor of the Cascades, though, was the bindings.

Our MSRs have a simple and generally effective set up, with three rubber straps that latch across the top of the boot, and a single strap that goes behind the heel.

But for the clumsy and the inflexible — I am both — manipulating the straps, which are similar to belts, with metal knobs that slip into a hole, often annoys me. I struggle in particular when I’m wearing gloves or mittens, which, given the typical weather while I’m snowshoeing, I usually am.

I’ve also noticed that when I cinch down the three top straps to a tension that holds my boots securely, the pressure constricts the blood flow to my feet so much that my toes get cold despite being ensconced in insulated boots.

The Denalis’ bindings were state-of-the-art 20 years ago, but the Cascades show how much snowshoe design has progressed.

The Cascades have two top straps, made of rigid, ribbed plastic, that slip into a slot and quickly ratchet snugly but not too snugly. Snowboard bindings have the same basic system.

The Cascades have a heel strap that’s nearly identical to the Denalis.

I went out on three straight days with the Cascades and I was impressed, overall, by their performance.

The bindings, in particular, were much easier to use, as I hoped they would be.

I experimented briefly with those heel bars while climbing a moderately steep hill. I recognized their utility, and I suspect I’ll deploy the bars frequently in the years ahead.

Comparing the Cascades’ flotation advantage over the Denalis is a more murky matter. I would need to swap between the models in the same place, obviously, but that seems awfully onerous. In any case, flotation is a function of physics, so the Cascades, by dint of their size, inevitably have an advantage.

We’re not trashing our four pairs of Denalis.

(We bought two more pairs for our kids, Olivia and Max, several years ago.)

I expect that I might still prefer the Denalis for spring snowshoeing, when the snow is firm and their smaller dimensions help offset my natural clumsiness.

In any case I’m certain that the Denalis won’t end up where my first pair of snowshoes did — decorating our living room wall.

(They would be the ideal accoutrement to a mantle over a fireplace. Alas, I have neither a mantle nor a fireplace, and propping the snowshoes over our electric furnace seems silly.)

Those original snowshoes, which I bought nearly 30 years ago, are the traditional bear paw style, shaped rather like a teardrop. They were constructed in Canada from ash wood, with rawhide web lacing and a cumbersome rubber binding that held my boots to the shoes about as effectively as several strands of al dente spaghetti would do.

But these snowshoes looked cool — albeit in the glossy color Cabela’s catalog rather than a website, as I acquired them back when the World Wide Web was a fledgling and I didn’t even own a modem.

They looked, at any rate, the way I thought snowshoes ought to look.

The Grizzly Adams fantasy dissolved the first time I got into soft, deep snow and, like a turtle upside down on its shell, couldn’t right myself and one of the snowshoes twisted around and turned into an anchor.

Once I had tried the Denalis — I rented a pair for a snowshoe trip in the Cascades with my mom — their superiority over the bear paws was so undeniable that, once I had bought a pair of MSRs, the old shoes’ wall-hanging fate was inevitable.

I hope the Cascades prove to be as sturdy as the Denalis. The MSRs’ decks, made of hard plastic, bear the chips, nicks and gouges of innumerable rocks and trees, casualties of early and late season trips when the snow coverage is spotty.

The Cascades are made of similar materials, so I have confidence they will still be usable a couple decades from now.

But I’m still holding out for a pair that levitates.