I roll over in bed and stare at the ceiling. Impossible. Swinging my legs out over the side, I slip my feet into my slippers and pad to the front door. Unbolting it, I swing it open to discover huge clumps of wet snow falling off the trees, landing in the driveway, off in the woods, and on the roof my cabin. The air is chilly, but without wind it doesn't seem too oppressive, so I decide to skip breakfast and head up to Baker's Knob (the blue trail).
Halfway up the first rise, I come upon deer tracks and follow them along the trail. The animals and I are working with the same advantage: the plopping snow everywhere helps mask the sound footsteps. Even trying to be quiet, I know that the perfectly spaced sound of my step is unnatural. Against my better judgment, I take a shortcut through a minefield of downed twigs and branches, reading the snow carefully to avoid any sticks that might break underfoot. I lose the deer, meekly afraid to wander too far from the well-beaten path, but coming back to the trail I discover something new--fox tracks.
They're old, probably from early this morning, since the snow at the edges has fallen into the center of each print. Every now and then I come upon a spot where he or she stopped to dig in the earth for something my inferior sense of smell would never allow me to find. When the loop of the blue trail comes back on itself, I can see where the fox stopped, must have looked up hill, backpedaled, and continued across the trail instead, back downhill into the trees. So, I abandon the fox and, when I get to the top of Baker's Knob, rest against a picnic table. I'm beginning to understand the disadvantage of this plopping snow: I can't decipher any sounds either. I'm ready to give up when I hear it.
The snap of a twig underfoot. No falling snow could make that noise. I creep carefully to the edge of the hill and find myself looking down at seven white-tailed deer maneuvering their way through the snowy understory. I watch them for several moments until they're out of sight. Just then, a huge dollop of snow crashes into my head and sprinkles down the back of my collar. This reminds me that I'm cold (or made me cold), and I curse myself for skipping breakfast as my stomach lets out an unhappy growl. I turn my back in the direction of the deer, and plod home.
Photo courtesy of Adele Brand of The Sitting Fox
*Have an adventure today!
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