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 had been closed to us since the heavy snow accumulated. When was that? Christmas? New Year’s? The snow was gone from a good part of the trail. Only a few inches remained across most of the rest. Where it had drifted, the boots sank above the ankle. A snowshoer had been through recently, and those tracks were helpful as steppingstones. 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 like finally being able to use a road you’ve had to drive around while the bridge was out. Prevented by deep snow, we must detour onto the roads, where Huck needs a leash — not because of traffic, which is modest, but because of his interest in visiting houses along the way. Two years ago, unleashed, he was in someone’s yard as they were coming out the kitchen door and slipped past to go inside. It caused an unwelcome delay.
The trails are reemerging. Yes, we sometimes snowshoe during the season, but our range is restricted by my age and energy: I don’t plow through snow like I may have. And spry as he is, Huck is also held back when the snow is up to his belly, as it was through much of February and early March. He likes to fly. Deep snow clamps down on his airtime. 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 few happier sounds, I 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 stayed 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 were not the first since the melt began to arrive in that spot, I’m sure. But possibly, we were 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. But 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 similarly closed, trading places with the snow at the top of the hills, to check on things. I do not expect to find anything new. To the contrary, I hope to find it all the same.
I have 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 will not 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.
Jarvis Coffin writes fiction and essays on rural life. He is a retired media and advertising sales executive and former chef/owner, with his wife, of New Hampshire’s oldest inn, the Hancock Inn. Reach him at huntspond@icloud.com, and keep up with all his musings at jarviscoffin.com.