Tag: Snowshoeing

Pull of the moon

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.

Watch on the wind

As I veer off the tree-lined snowmobile trail and set my snowshoes on a meandering path through the open meadow, the wind finds my face. I jog along the twisting trail through the meadow, a trail I’ve packed down on previous outings, having some fun laying out a path with plenty of turns.

I’m snowshoeing at night but not in darkness as the ambient light from the nearby city teams up with the diffused light from a full moon above the clouds. There’s enough illumination to easily see my course. My snowshoes faithfully follow that path, crunch, crunch, crunch on the packed whiteness.

I come out to a large field of picked corn. The wind is more noticeable here, catching more of me as I head west, the last row of corn stubble as my guide. I now get a wide look at the sky as it partially clears. The clouds are racing eastward, chased by a wind that is suddenly switching from southwest to northwest.

As I jog along I think about the wind, how it dictates my direction and choice of clothing. I check the wind by the small windmill in the yard before I leave (I trust it more than my phone). Head into the wind first, I tell myself, and then let it push me home after I’ve worked up a sweat.

Right now I’m working up that sweat as the wind bites at my face. I continue westward, tugging my collar a bit higher, my cap a bit lower, songs about the wind filling my mind in the quiet night. On this night, it’s “Against the Wind.” Still running against the wind.

Then I turn to reverse my steps, and just that suddenly the wind is my friend. But if I think the wind is pushing me home, I’m only half right. I’m also following the wind home, running in second place. Of the wind, poet Alan Alexander Milne penned, “It’s flying from somewhere as fast as it can, I couldn’t keep up with it, not if I ran.”

Sharing the trail

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.