Winter is a different language

In summer a forest is a wall of green. In winter it is a text. Tracks, bark scrapes, snow-laden branches and the shape of a hollow all say something about who passed and when.

Trackers read the age of a footprint by the crispness of its edges and the glaze on its floor. Overnight frost gives a print a crust. A midday print is soft at the rim. A fox walks in a line, a deer wanders, a hare doubles back on itself to confuse pursuers.

Slowing down enough to see

The first rule is to stop. Most of us move through woods at the pace of a commute. Standing for five minutes at a track junction teaches more than an hour of walking.

After a season of practice, a snowy path stops being scenery. It becomes a conversation among animals that you are, quietly, allowed to overhear.