WINTER'S WONDER OF SNOW

For some masochistic reason, I decide to go snowshoeing this morning.  I have been exhausting myself at work, so I slept a reasonably solid eight-plus hours the night before.  I see the sun is out and there's a short thaw heading this way, so if I am going to get outside, today would be a great day to do that.

I suspect that heading out into the forest by myself is not the brightest idea.  I used to live in the woods when I was a kid.  I had an unrealistic fear of the Boogey Man roaming the trails, but I also had a realistic fear of falling branches and errant wild animals crossing my path.  My town is loaded with trails, but I am unfamiliar with a large percentage of them, and some of the ones closer to my house cross swamps.  The possibility of me taking a wrong showshoe turn into an unfrozen bog while all alone is too strong for me to go on a forest adventure today.

I want something a little more exciting than an open field, though.  Much like I bore easily at walking and running in circles, I see no need to snowshoe in circles, either.  I head up to the church cemetery that backs up to one of the large reservations.  This is a multi-faceted cemetery; it has open spaces, woods, flat areas, a pond, an inspiration garden area, and an old chapel with Tiffany windows.  Best of all, it's close enough to the street to be a safe balance between nature and the emergency room should I do anything stupid like break an ankle or get whacked by a tree limb.

This cemetery is a popular walking and cross-country skiing area, so I am surprised when I strap on my snowshoes and trek up and over the snow bank.  All I see is pristine snow, untouched and unbroken by anyone else's footprints.

I start across the open area when I see bunny tracks.  Apparently a bunny lives (or, in this case, lived) under a bush here, and it looks like it came out to explore.  It also looks like it might have been chased as its tracks go round and round then snake out about thirty feet where they suddenly disappear.  It seems like the bunny just vanished into thin air, which probably means a hawk got it.  That might explain the frantic circular pattern around the bush, as well.

I see more tracks when I near a small grove of trees.  I think I see dog tracks, but the paws are larger and a little wider.  I doubt they are bobcat tracks, but who knows.  This place does back up to a busy road on one side, town conservation land on the other.  I also see some tracks that look like razor cuts in the snow.  I surmise these to be eagle or hawk tracks, dragging its talons through the snow as it encounters and closes in on its prey.  It's kind of cool but also unnerving thinking about an animal hiding in the grove of trees, so I circle the grove but do not attempt the trail that disappears into the clump of woods.

The cemetery is busy with trucks today, two pick-ups with plows and a box truck.  I do not realize until later when I am set to leave and see the sign that there is a funeral being held at the stone chapel shortly.  I feel a little self-conscious with the workers as audience as I am a novice snowshoe-er, so I work my way back up toward the inspiration garden, which is blanketed in snow.

Backing up to take a better picture, I forget that snowshoes only work going forward, catch the blade in a deep rut, and fall over hard backward, angling to save the cell phone I am holding in my bare hands.  I start laughing, attracting the attention of the man shoveling the roof of the building attached to the church.  I am not sure he can see me struggling in the snow since the stone wall blocks a full-on view.  When I finally right myself, I am minus one snowshoe, covered with white, and have left a giant ass print in the snow behind me.

It's a successful trek this morning, but I have things to do and places to go.  I've cut a wonderful trail of criss-cross patterns through the cemetery, breaking that pristine sight-line.  I also probably should get my car out of the lot before the funeral attendees arrive or I might find myself in a longer procession than just a walk in winter's wonder of snow.