I kept watching the clock this afternoon. At 3:51 p.m., the moon was rising. Not a full moon, but only a night away from full, and the sky was cloudless. Maybe not so tomorrow night. And so it was tonight, the time to go. My anticipation rose with the moon.
Winter normally affords only one, maybe two, opportunities to snowshoe or ski comfortably by the light of a full moon. For me, the necessary trifecta is the right temperature, a cloudless sky, and, of course, the full, or nearly full, moon.
That all came together tonight, with the temperature barely dropping below freezing as the sun slipped away from a springlike late February afternoon. I would leave the house at 6:51 p.m., exactly 3 hours into the moon’s night ride. It was nearly halfway up in the eastern sky when I strapped on snowshoes and put them to the trail.
I hoped to see animals moving in the moonlit meadow or across the large field as I crossed from the wide snowmobile trail to my narrow path in the forest. But the melting and freezing of the past few days created a crust atop the snow. Crunch, crunch, crunch spoke my snowshoes. I would not be sneaking up on any animals tonight.
The full moon was behind me to begin with, a slight breeze in my face. My shadow danced in front of me—a snowshoe waltz. I crossed the open field, the wide expanse allowing me to study the sky—Orion the Hunter and Sirius the Dog Star high in the south, the Big Dipper standing on its handle in the northeast, and halfway up in the east was the moon, 250,000 miles away but seemingly riding on my shoulders as I headed west.
The dark, jagged form of the hilly forest was a half mile away. It wasn’t that dark when I got there. Of course, that was the point, this full moon jaunt. The path was easily visible in front of me as a white ribbon tinged in blue, though always trailing into a dark curve. I’d reach the curve and see the next stretch of ribbon awaiting me. I paused to listen for an owl, perhaps a coyote or fox, but heard nothing.
I took photos—a tough assignment at night without the aid of a tripod—and then pushed on again. I realized I hadn’t put my gloves back on, but my hands were comfortable. There was no breeze here, only the sifting of the moonlight through the bare branches and portals in the pine boughs. I saw rabbit tracks, and wondered how the cottontails adjust to the lighted night, their nocturnal rounds more visible to peering owls.
I headed home, my shadow tagging along behind. All I heard were my snowshoes and the rhythm of my jogging steps. For a moment, it was nature’s night song, the wings of a migrating bird, the flow of a creek, the call of an owl and all the intricacies and mysteries of a winter’s night.
I traversed the meadow and turned onto the wide trail that leads me home. Sirius was my guide, high and straight ahead. Yes, Sirius the Dog Star, whose spirit I always told my good dog was in him. I stared at Sirius, with the glowing moon on my left shoulder. Soft and peaceful was the night.