After a heavy snowfall, I always like to walk down this dirt road to see what other creatures may have passed here before I did. The squirrel’s tracks are among the easiest to identify. They are small, close together, almost symmetrical, and they always end about a foot or so from the base of a tree. The crows that come to eat the stale bread I throw out leave their marks as well, narrow rows of claw-shaped lines that often go in circles as evidence of how they approached the food. And turkeys, traveling in large flocks this time of year, leave long meandering trails through the brush and low growth that other creatures avoid.
A few tracks, though, are not so easy to decipher, as the least bit of wind will blow the fresh snow across them, rendering them into nothing more than shadowy indentations. I stand there, the cold filling my chest, trying to imagine what sort of animal crept through here in the dark, most likely in search of food, as most woodland creatures have long since established a shelter for themselves that they return to all winter long.
One set of markings that I’ve learned to recognize is the coyote’s, that stealthy wild canine that leaps through the deep snow, leaving the distinct impression left by its belly coming to rest briefly before it makes its next jump. Food is scarce this time of year, and I always worry about my cats. Fortunately, the cold keeps them close by, and I am up often on winter nights if one of them is still outside hoping that the mere sound of my voice calling at the door will be enough to dissuade even the hungriest of predators.
During this last storm, I was amazed to see a single bird, a junco, trying to get at the feeder. Despite the 40 mile-per-hour gusts and driving snow, this tiny gray and white feathered thing flew back and forth from a pine branch to the porch railing, over and over again, until I noticed that the feeder was empty and hanging askance, most likely due to a nocturnal visit from a raccoon. I quickly went out to right and fill it, and it wasn’t long before other birds joined the junco. Nuthatches, chickadees and titmice all had a feast unbothered for once by the squirrels that usually crash the party. Squirrels rarely venture out during a storm, but the instinctive need of birds to keep their protein supplies filled defies even the worst weather. Later, after they’d had their fill, the porch and the ground below it were covered with the crisscrossing tracks that these tiny birds left behind.
We are midway through January once again, and if meteorological trends, as well as the almanac, are to be trusted, there will be more snow to come before the first crocuses appear sometime in March. It will fall gently or fiercely, blow into bluish drifts, hang like a frozen wave from the roof of the garage, and soften the landscape. And across its pristine expanse I will see yet again the marks left by creatures for whom winter is simply another thing to be borne in their unquestioning cycle of survival.
— Rachel Lovejoy is a freelance writer living in Lyman. She can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com
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