Up at five, bundled in winter wear, out the door by five thirty. Zeke dances up ahead as I stride purposely with snowshoes slung over a shoulder. The heavens give us snow and distant engineers give us funny shoes to stride upon. It's a mile or so walk to the trailhead.

The almost full moon paints vivid, contrasty landscapes as if auditioning for an Ansel Adams shoot. Instead it has to make do with my cold, fumbling fingers snapping a long exposure of a moonlit barn.

A couple blocks later and we're at the Farnum Hill trailhead. On go snowshoes and into the dimly lit woods go we. Onward and uphill, any vestiges of chill replaced by the heat and sweat of exertion. Hey, this is hard, it wasn't a hill when we hiked it last week!

A mile in and I'm a hurtin' ol' dawg. Zeke, who outta be a hurtin' dawg, is sniffin' and peein' and runnin' like it's the first day of spring and he's a year old pup. I'm trying to figure out why anyone, including me over the past few years, considers snow-shoeing a pleasant activity. Give me ratty old cross country skis any day over this clown footed slothing.

Still, you can't beat the scenery. The snow sparkles as the moon capers through the trees. Fine, white handkerchiefs of snow drape across bow and branch. A grouse explodes in flight and takes roost in tree top, a barely recognizable silhouette among the shadows.

As we reach the top of the hill the Moon's black and white contrasty world starts to soften and color under the approaching dawn. With its magic waning the moon settles back into being a small illuminated orb locked into a mathematically sterile orbit.

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