Place entry #3

Duluth, MN. 16 degrees. Wind: 17 mph. Overcast.

Today I recruited a self-described ‘expert tracker’ to go walking in the woods with me. I’ve been in the woods with him before, and have been impressed with his ability to spot things that I would otherwise miss. Unfortunately, like me, he’s often at a loss to provide context or explain what he sees. But his powers of observation alone make him a worthwhile companion.

We decide to skirt the edge of the property, to traverse the maze of wrist-thick poplars and young pines, an area I don’t often visit. My usual inclination is to cut straight across the open yard to the stand of red pines, the ‘big ticket item’ on my land The pines are mature--if not quite majestic--and spaced far apart, providing good walking and an uncluttered and pleasant view.

We stroll down the dirt road, to the edge of the property line, and clamber over the head-high snowbank. Before us a deer packed trail meanders through the snowy woods, which spares us the trouble of breaking trail. Almost immediately we arrive at a cluster of deer poop. Ever curious, my partner drops to his knees for a closer look. I follow suit. There are probably 30 or so pellets. They look remarkably like coffee beans, oily sheen and all.

We rise, brush the snow from our knees, and continue along. The trail cuts left and right, a series of flat switchbacks, the chosen path of least resistance. Above us branches clatter and sway in the wind, but at ground level all is still. The dense woods feel fort-like. I understand why animals often sleep in thick cover.

Some of the trees are splotched with lichen (or moss, I’m not quite sure—my partner is equally ignorant). One is the color of fancy mustard, a muted yellow with a hint of brown; the other looks like mold. Up close they resemble coral, with ridged and overlapping petals. My partner unsheathes his hand from his mitten and scrapes at the lichen with his fingernails. A few flakes fall off.

On the base of a dead tree two mushrooms are attached like barnacles on a ship. They look like half-opened Chinese fans, but the undersides are curved like seashells, like cupped hands. The tops are shelf-flat; each supports a little mound of snow.

We go out the way we came in. Before we are back at the road, in the last little clearing, we plop down in the snow to rest. I dig a thermos of hot cocoa from my jacket, unscrew the lid. The thermos exhales. My partner’s eyes grow wide. With mitted hands, I pass it over. He sniffs, registers the smell.

“Thanks Dad!” he says.

We pass the thermos back and forth until it is empty, and trudge back to the road.