by Jeffrey Miller
It snowed last night. When we had turned out the lights in the bedroom, a few lazy flakes had been falling from the sky, illuminated in the glow of the yard light. By morning, four inches of feather light powder coated the land, looking like freshly dusted powdered sugar.
A Saturday, we slept in until the sun started shining through the windows. Melanie had some chores to do, the kids were busy reading and playing, but I had the day free. Dressing warmly in woolens, I strapped a pair of canvas and moosehide mukluks to my feet. Pulling on a raccoon fur bomber hat and warm striped skunk fur mittens, I opened the door and stepped into the light.
Silence prevailed as I moved away from the house. My mukluks made a faint whispering sound as they disturbed the virgin snow. Nearing the riparian forest, I found the first evidence of life. The tracks moved away from the river and into the forest, on the prowl to fill a hungry belly. Rather large paws, without evidence of claws, dug through the snow in a two-by-two pattern. I was starting at the tracks of the secretive large weasel, the fisher.
The tracks appeared to have come from the icebound river and up the bank, going from brush pile to brush pile. They even went up a tree and back down, no doubt chasing a squirrel. The fisher never stopped for a moment on his quest for food.
Backtracking to the river, a pair of holes, the size of a basketball, became apparent on the ice. Carefully slipping down the bank, I was soon standing over them. After scrounging around the bank, I found a long, weathered stick. After poking it into the holes, it came back wet. Slid marks were apparent in the snow, the trail bouncing off of every divot or hole in the snow near the bank. There was no doubt I was looking at the spoor of a river otter.
Despite the below zero temperatures, the otter was able to keep the holes open by tunneling under the insulation snow. Had it opened up the ice and slipped out directly above it, the water would have frozen within moments. Rather than needing to open the ice every time it came up for air and food, the otter used the snow to keep the hole open.
I needed to walk down the river a bit to find a smooth, tapered bank. Snowshoes can be unwieldly, and trying to climb a steep bank wearing them is a recipe for disaster. Even so, I had to grab the willows and boxelder saplings that grew along the bank and pull myself back into the forest.
The snow remained unmarred for a few hundred yards, before I cut a small, dog-like track. The red fox isn’t much larger than a house cat, and their little canine tracks are much smaller than their larger cousin, the coyote. The tracks veered towards a meadow of big bluestem grass. Tunneled in the snow, in the subnivean zone between the frozen ground and the air above, mice are able to feast on the dry grass without exposing themselves to predators.
Unfortunately for them, foxes have a keen sense of hearing and smell. The fox tracks stopped as if a leash had been yanked. I could picture in my mind the fox cocking his head, listening hard for the slight rustle of a mouse in the grass. Once he had determined the location of the rodent, the fox licked his nose, wetting it to absorb the scent molecules drifting up through the dry air. Dropping his haunch and coiling his rear leg muscles, the fox exploded into the air. Once at the apex of his leap, the canine made an arc towards the mouse. His face and front legs surged through the snow, his mouth open. Pinning the mouse down to the ground, the fox popped back out of the snow into the light. Throwing his head back, he gulped down his meal eagerly before resuming the hunt.
Not too far from the mouse’s last stand stood a bur oak tree. During the fall wildlife had gorged on the newly fallen acorns. Since the winter had begun, however, only the strongest animals could dig through the snow for what few acorns were left. A few large, dug-out holes were scattered around under the tree’s wide branches. Delicate heart-shaped prints meandered away from the holes. The whitetail deer must have eaten sometime during the night as soon as the snow had stopped.
Trying to remain quiet, I slowly slipped along the trail. The wind was in my face, blowing my scent away from the deer’s fantastically evolved nose. A single deer split off from the others, heading towards the river. As my snowshoes arced back towards the ice, my heart stopped as I noticed a set of deer legs, partially hidden in the trees.
Fumbling for my camera, I eased down to the snow. Creeping along the ground, I was able to snuggle up against a large boxelder tree. The deer, despite not being able to smell me, knew something was wrong. I wouldn’t have much time for pictures.
The young buck finally noticed me. He had likely shed his antlers a month or so prior, and through the viewfinder I could see his pedicels, where the new antlers would form. He moved his head back and forth, trying to get a fix on me. His soft, liquid eyes probed my face. In addition, he flicked his snow-white tail back and forth before stomping his right front foot. Agitated deer will stomp their feet to try to intimate their foe. All too soon, an errant breeze tickled the back of my neck. While a deer may not immediately flee when they can only see a predator, one nose full of human scent is enough. The buck bounded away through the snow, leaving me alone. Without the pictures the brief encounter would have felt like nothing more than a dream.
All too soon, I had to head back home. The driveway would need to be plowed with the ATV and our walkways to the vehicles blown out with the snowblower.
With one last wistful look at the river and the forest, I made tracks home.
***
photos courtesy of Jeffrey Miller
Jeffrey Miller, along with his significant other, Melanie, and their four children, lives along the banks of the Sheyenne River in southeastern North Dakota at Cottonwood Bend Farm. During the growing season they produce fruits and vegetables from the field and orchard, and when the cold winter descends, craft hand-sewn hats and mittens from locally harvested wild furbearing animals. A professional conservationist, Jeffrey and his family live close to the land, raising or hunting and fishing nearly all of what goes on their table. http://www.facebook.com/cottonwoodbendfarm