I don’t know my fellow trail users, and they don’t know me. There’s little chance we’ll ever meet, unless they venture out in the daytime or if I decide to hike at night. For the most part I use the trail by winter’s day, they by cold and starry night. It works out fine.
What also works is the agreement I and the animals have made but never discussed. And it goes like this: They make the trail, I help maintain it.
When I strap on snowshoes after the season’s first snowfall, I wonder if the trail I used last winter through the meadows, woods and fields will still be discernible. It is. The deer, rabbits, coyotes and other critters out there have stayed the course, softly but consistently stepping down the grasses and leaves through the snowless months. I simply follow their shallow depression in the early snow. I’m back on track. Their track.
My part of the deal comes with the first significant snowfall. There’s a path—a furrow in the whiteness—to follow despite the gathering snow. I strap on my largest snowshoes and stomp down the path. Snowshoeing out and back on the trail is a good start to make the going easier for the nighttime users.
Sure enough, when I come back the next day, there are animal tracks in my snowshoe tracks. They have taken advantage of my snow trampling. I know, however, that I’m getting the better of the deal. To follow an animal’s trail through the meadows and fields, over the creeks and into the woodlands is to follow the path of least resistance, established by those who live in those places. Every day and night.
I am always impressed how animals find the best passage through brush, over creeks and up and down hills. I take advantage, realizing I am the interloper here. And I’m just happy I can repay my trail mates in times of snow.