I step out the door into about 8 inches of fresh snow. My foot makes a crunching sound as the white crystals cave in under it’s weight. I look out into a forest of boughs weighing heavy under the cold cloak. Birds flutter from branch to branch.
I inhale the cold air into my nostrils, clean and crisp as can be. The clouds are a lighter grey than when they bring rain, but through the blizzard I can only see about 50 feet in front.
I start up the trail along the creek, one I’ve walked hundreds of times, yet it looks completely different. The trail itself is no longer visible, I must go by memory. The snow a blank page, my tracks the only story told so far on the white book.
Growing up in eastern Canada I would travel through the forest on my cross country skis, thinking of the First Nations who travelled the same paths not that long ago.
For half the year, people had no business in the forest without the help of skis or snowshoes. Anyone who has tried walking through snow waist deep or higher knows it is exhausting and futile. Everything under the cold blanket was unreachable until spring and the people relied on their success hunting to survive. Even the water was locked under the ice so fishing became a challenge and drinking water had to be found only in fast moving creeks.
But the snow also had its advantage. Tracking went from being the work of expert hunters to child’s play. Every creature could not help but leave its mark. Every movement written clearly for all to see, on the white book.
Further along the creek I see some tracks emerge from the forest. I crouch down to get a better look. A deep, wide track in two halves reveals the elk has come by. The tracks follow the creek valley, the route of easiest passage. Not far along I can see some green where the elk has dug into the snow to forage on some ferns, before going on it’s way. This large, beautiful animal always leaves me in awe. Many times I have followed elk tracks simply because they show the easiest path along the valley.
The creek winds through forest dense and dark to come join it’s source, a small lake. The lake its mostly frozen over after two weeks of below zero temperatures. A few ducks are crowded into the last liquid sections where they can still eat. When the ice covers those sections, the ducks will have to go down river to the ocean, where food is still accessible.
The forest is more quiet than usual today. Birds are roosting, saving their precious warmth and energy for a better day. There’s no point in leaving home for most creatures today, as food is scarce and the cold makes it too expensive to travel. So nature waits until the sun comes out again, and the temperature rises to melt the work that has been done by winter.
As the trail takes me closer to home, I walk a path very near my house that is a park frequented by many, right in town. A lone set of tracks appears next to mine. Tracks I’m not expecting to see so close to home, in the middle of our little town.
The tracks are those of a cat. But not any cat; the king of the forest. A cougar has passed here since the night’s snowfall. Following the tracks I leave the cover of the park and follow them over an open field to a nearby building. The tracks go under the stairs of the building, as if the cat was hiding from sight. They come out the other side and dash once again across the field, disappearing into a thicket where I cannot easily follow.
I wonder if it is only today that the cougar has come through here, a stone’s throw from where I live. Maybe it passes there everyday, like me. Maybe the story is not new. But today, unlike other days, I can read it. Because it is written, in the white book.
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