Most people see winter as a dead season.  Foliage has fallen from the trees, leaving them stark and lifeless.  Green grass turns brown and is quickly covered with snow. Flowers wither and die, birds move south, the woods are left quiet and empty. The expired landscape is plunged into a desolate deep freeze. As the forest sleeps in the dead of winter, most people gravitate to hearth and home, staying warm and away from the harshness of winter.  The cold keeps us from the outdoors in the same way the warmth of spring and summer draws us out.  

I'm an unnatural beast, routinely disobeying these simple rules of climatic change. We had just received our first significant snowfall of the season; I was rejoicing in 12 sparkling white inches of fluffy new snow. I headed outside to play. I dug out a year old, never used pair of snowshoes that morning and drove down to Arcadia, an Audubon Society Wildlife Sanctuary in Easthampton, Massachusetts.  

Snowshoeing is not a sport I've ever tried, but the prospect of getting outside in the middle of a perfectly powdered forest outweighed any mild apprehension I might have been feeling. The sky was blue and clear, save a ribbon-thin wisp of cloud above, and the air was crisp, still, and cold.  There's a small network of trails that cover the 700 acres of protected land.  The trails are gentle and wide; excellent for nature walks.

The shoes were simple to strap on, and remarkably easy to walk in.  I stepped higher than normal, but didn't sink down into the fluff more than a few inches before stepping again. Before long I was warm and shedding layers of clothing. The sensation of stepping into fresh crisp snow was exhilarating.  I had been down this trail many times before, but the snow coated branches like frosting and every tree looked brand new and different. Everything was quiet, untouched and beautiful. Perfect. I was totally alone in a dessert of dark woodlands and brilliant white snow. 

The snow cover extended like a carpet blanketing the ground in every direction.  Suddenly, I noticed a variation in the trail shortly ahead.  Tracks leading out of a snow covered area of fallen white pines crossed over the trail I was following.  I was not alone after all. I approached the tracks slowly, careful not to obliterate them with my large  snowshoes. There were two steps following each other, like human steps do, as if a smaller mammal with paws instead of feet were walking upright.  

The print was canine, and although a rural residential area was located just a mile away, I knew these tracks were coyote. Dogs aren't this efficient in their gait. They are domestic, rambunctious animals that have a lot of misplaced energy. Anyone can see that by watching the family dog scamper around, bounding about free and easy. Dogs are carefree animals; they know they'll be well fed and sleep snug at the foot of your bed tonight. These tracks were far too well placed to be a dog.  A coyote will lay a back foot into the impression the front foot just left as it trots through the forest, leaving two prints in one spot, a sign which is referred to as direct registration. 

I followed the tracks as they scampered up a small hill and then back through a snarl of underbrush.  I had no intention of finding the animal; I was just interested in where she had been.  As the terrain leveled off, the tracks seemed to explode into a sprint. Chasing lunch, I thought. Instead of finding evidence of a scuffle, the tracks slowed about 25 feet after the first energy burst and led me through a complicated tangle of brush. I stopped twice and circumvented the obstacles, trying to stay on her trail.  I imagined her weaving her way effortlessly through the tangle of fallen trees, low limbs and scraggly bushes as I struggled to keep up. She was trying to lose me, and it was starting to work. 

I persevered, following her trail deeper into the woods.  Above me the trees were a combination of oak, maple and pine. The limbs of the different species intermingled like a stiff confusing knot of Christmas lights, but far less colorful. Their branches were almost black, seemingly frostbitten by the cold, and the topside of each branch was tipped white with new snow.  A slow breeze passed through the entangled limbs, answering with an eerie creaking--it made the forest feel haunted.  

The coyote's trail braided adeptly through complex snags of trees and brush, rocks and hills. It was clear she was taking a direct route, but not a route that was meant for me.  At one point, her tracks seemed to disappear entirely at a wall of pine boughs, weighed down by the heavy snow.  Disheartened but still intrigued, I pressed on. I stepped carefully, bending my head down and slowly moved through the narrow opening in the wall of pine boughs, needles, topped with heavy snow. The branches above me thundered as a strong wind shook the snow free from heavy boughs.  I pulled my head into my shoulders and ducked from the falling clumps of new snow. I felt a rapid fire of pounding against my back, shoulders and head.  "Get out!"  they seemed to scream at me.  "Get out and leave us perfect as we should be!" Snow piled against the back of my neck, falling inside my collar.  Very cold, wet, and now covered in snow, I heeded the forest's advice.  I turned around and headed for the warmth of my car.

The trip back through the sanctuary was anticlimactic, like I had been sent away scolded by a cross teacher. Stepping in fresh naked snow, knowing you were the first to see the woods and the beauty herein was a treasured privilege.  As I stepped with clumsy clown feet on the trail I broke earlier, it was disappointing to see how badly my tracks had interrupted the beauty of the woods. True, the damage was only aesthetic.  I didn't enter the forest with a chainsaw, or a machete, or a match and gasoline. I didn't leave a single piece of discarded litter: not a bubble gum wrapper or a soda can. I didn't stomp on sleeping vegetation or interfere with wildlife. I just left an unmistakable trail in the snow behind me.  I was only trying to get closer to wilderness and further away from being a human--driving a polluting car, wearing flashy, expensive, unnaturally colorful outdoor gear and leaving tracks so big, sloppy and inefficient, it makes our pet dogs look like stealth predators. 

I think I will always be at odds with being out in the middle of the woods and protecting the beauty and life of the natural world from anything not natural. It's a conflict I must manage for myself.  But I can say that I will always respect the forest enough to politely leave when asked.

Author's Biography

Originally from the Boston area, I graduated from the University of Massachusetts/Amherst with a Bachelor of Science in 1992.

My primary occupation is managing a large chain bookstore in the richly academic heart the 5-College area of the Pioneer Valley. 

I am currently in the midst of hiking all 48 of the 4000+ foot peaks in the state of New Hampshire. I love nature and being outdoors. Other than hiking, I also enjoy mountain biking, road cycling, skiing, and most recently, snowshoeing.  

I write on a variety of subject matter, ranging from humor, online business, cultural trends, and of course, outdoor sports. I have been published by Metroline News and Community Magazine and written articles for various websites.

E-mail Karen at KELynn1023@aol.com

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