How Was Your Winter?

Huckleberry and I hiked out to the secluded Shattuck Pond last week, which is about a mile from our back door, up the hill and through the woods. It has been closed to us since heavy snow accumulated, although I can’t remember how long that’s been. By now, the snow has disappeared from a good portion of the trail. The rest has a few inches. Where it drifted, the boots sank above the ankle. A snowshoer had been through recently, and those tracks were helpful as stepping stones. I tried to keep to them in snowy areas while Huckleberry skated across the crusty surface all around, and bounded left and right, deeper into the woods.

Having these trails reopen is the same as being able to use a road you’ve had to drive around while the bridge was out. Expelled by deep snow, we must detour onto the roads, where Huck needs a leash—not due to traffic, which is modest, but because of his bias for diverting to visit houses. Two years ago, unleashed, he drifted into someone’s yard as they were coming out the kitchen door and slipped past to go inside, causing an unwelcome delay.

The trails are reemerging. Yes, we sometimes snowshoe during the season, but our range is restricted by my age: I don’t plow through snow like I used to. And spry as he is, Huck is also held back when the snow is up to his belly, as it was through a good portion of February, into early March. He likes to fly, and deep snow restricts his air time. Frustrated, he will turn back to the road after several leaps and bounds if the snow is especially deep.

So we made it out to Shattuck, slogging part of the way, and the water was cascading from under and around the beaver dam, tumbling downhill in sheer delight. There are not many happier sounds, I don’t think, than swiftly moving water, unless it is through your basement. Out in the open, where it should be, the surge of awakening water gives notice that everything is getting ready to roll out of bed. Submitting himself to that enthusiasm, Huck jumped the stream and charged up the hill on the other side. I remained behind, at the edge, looking over the dam, across the silent pond, following the still white slope of Thumb Mountain to where it met the blue sky. I thought of all that melting snow beginning its journey to the sea.

We weren’t the first since the melt began to appear in that spot, I’m sure. But possibly the first of those who can be counted on as regulars when conditions permit, like French trappers returning to proven hunting grounds after the mountain passes clear. Except, I am only in the casual business of walking my dog. I let the feeling of welcomeness develop inside me, shifting my gaze around the scene of familiar woods, which peered back at me.

“Look who’s here,” the woods said. “How was your winter?”

We are eager to turn our attention to other trails that have been closed to us, trading places with the snow at the top of the hills, to check on things. I don’t expect to find anything new. To the contrary, I hope to find it all the same.

I’ve heard the sap has been slow this season. I mean, it was cold, cold through January and February. Now that the water is running, the sap may follow. There may be more snow, but it won’t be allowed to lie around. Things are stirring. The covers are rustling. Nature is up, padding across the kitchen floor, and reaching for its apron.

Time to put the kettle on.