Raz and I ... in need of exercise, fresh air, and fresh thoughts ... headed out this afternoon on a hike in the sprawling woods south of the house. We took the old logging road for the first mile before turning west and bushwhacking. I always forget how much I like bushwhacking this time of year until well into it. The four inches of snow is anything but disturbed, although not by humans. We cut across the arterial flow of major deer routes, the tight wound patterns of hectic squirrels foraging in range of dens, and the staccato landing patterns of rabbits. Here, in a copse of pines the telltale impression of three deer bedded down for the night.

All the same comings and goings that take place year round, exposed and then obscured with each new snowfall.

The dog runs in service of his nose, held down mere inches from the ground as he gallops over and under downed trees in pursuit of scents I can only guess at. He stops to jam his head into a deeper bank of snow to parse a sudden mystery before loping off after a more compelling smell. From time to time I have to stop and call after him, his nose having led him well out of sight. He winds back, without a glance or acknowledgement my way, and starts tracing a track the other direction.

Somewhere along the sloping terrain I turn on the GPS to see how close it shows us to where I suspect we might be. The initial reading isn't too bad, but the next half mile through woods is littered with downed trees and a slope that constantly leans my inner compass the wrong way. Everything seems to conspire to pull Northeast when it is North I want. Somewhere ahead is an old, old trail that used to be our skiing route. Now it is nearly impossible to find unless starting at the road. I only manage to find it when within a block of the road, our route leading up to it a zig-zag of uncertainty.