Sometimes I don’t mean to take a walk – it just happens. And today, the day after Christmas, was one of those times. Clad in thick fleecy bottoms and a pair of Bearpaws on my feet it was the sight of two coyotes that first captured my attention. Their tawny thick coats were attractive and made the pair look bigger than they ought to be. The foxy face with an overly rotund and barrel chest stood out from the black hairs on the inside of large ears that dominated the canine-like face. As the presumably hunting pair dove off the ledge-like slope that filters into gafmbel oak and eventually a seasonal streamlet with ponderosa pines shielding the nooks and crannies where life can go unnoticed, I didn’t even bother to grab a jacket or hat.

Tracking the coyotes was not a priority. The snow too stiff with a glaze of ice on its uppermost layer hid the prints which would lead me to their den. Instead, I rambled along a bit disappointed that the couple of feet of snow measured weeks ago was now significantly less. Unplussed, I shuffled onward negotiating hard pack with pockets of crumpled oak, acorns and dark dirt.

Less than an hour later a shift of movement nearly went unnoticed. But, out here one cannot consider the most minute and barely detectable movements as purely the flutter of wind. In this case, the patient search turned up a small herd of elk bedded in the morning shadows. An obvious criss-cross of paths signed that elk recurrently congregate. Yet their pale rumps and dark necks are always a surprise when observing in relatively close proximity.

Staring, for what seemed like a long while, one resting cow must have felt peering eyes. With no sound to be heard each individual of the herd stood and stretched and moved up and then diagonal across the small hill never rushing but diligent in movement none the less. This herd didn’t appear spooked and fearful but instead erring on the side of caution at a predator whose intentions were unknown. 12 – not a big herd yet the other side of the knoll a larger herd was probably bedded down (tucked in this hidden valley is often a larger collection of over 100).

On the more northern slopes the snow was still deep, dry and powder. My Bearpaws absorbed the snow tumbling into the open tops but the slight flush of perspiration from the up and down terrain undulations allowed me to maintain comfortable warmth. Rounding the lower flanks of this little mountain I searched for the beacon I’d so grown accustomed to during the summer but it was no more. Searching the hillside I realized this hole speckled, bark flaked, fading to gray and leaning to the side ponderosa had succumbed to becoming a ground habitat for a new kind of animal that didn’t need higher shelter. I can only imagine she landed with a dismal thud before breaking in two. The standing trunk had housed woodpeckers and squirrels, a time now gone by but she would replenish the forest floor with her decaying bark creating a perfect bed for a yet unknown tree that will one day, hopefully, grow as tall as she.

My internal arrow turned again towards the south and just a smidge to the west. A couple of additional climbs and I would be on the ridge by which my unexpected travels began. A thorough-fare of tracks ducked into the base of tree clumps, or led up shaggy barked trunks but that investigation was going to have to wait for another day.

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