by Stephen Sedam

It was late. A still, quiet night in the dead of winter.  Everyone else was asleep. I turned off the last light before heading upstairs to join them. Then FLASH!  The motion sensitive light above the garage turned on. A scream of white light announced the presence of something in the backyard.

I slunk to the edge of the kitchen window and peered outside.  Nothing.  On to another window.  Another view.  Nothing. Check the gate across the driveway! It had not been disturbed. 

Then the light turned off.  Darkness returned.

I should just let it go. It’s probably nothing. Turning to go upstairs, FLASH!  It’s back. Uh oh.

The curious inner voice prevailed and within seconds my coat, boots and gloves were on and I headed outside. Cautiously.

Opening the door as softly as possible, looking to the left, to the right, quietly I moved forward. The fresh coating of snow made the frigid night seem quieter than usual yet there was no noise.  Then rounding my car which was parked beneath the light, there it was.  Or, there were its footprints.

Chipmunk and mouse tracks leading from seemingly everywhere to the underside of my Prius. They no doubt found refuge from the cold in a cozy corner of the engine compartment, complete with their own carry-on bedding.

That got me thinking.  What other mysteries about our wild neighbors can only be told by a snowy winter? Here in the Heights, wild animals live all around us – chipmunks, squirrels, mice, fox, rats, skunk, possum, raccoon, deer, rabbits, coyote, hawks, owls, turkey, cardinals and a host of other birds. We see them, some frequently, others rarely. Where do they come from and where are they going? Just what are they doing all day and all night? 

Our snowy winters give us some answers to these questions and even better, let our wandering minds weave stories of their fascinating, undetectable lives.

In a typical week my meanderings take me on journeys through Lakeview Cemetery, in to Forest Hill and Cumberland parks, across a school yard and alongside neighbors’ lawns. There lie patterns of tracks that invite story telling. Tracks creating mesmerizing braids of life.

Tiny, barely visible tracks of mice so light their print is nearly timid. The bold cloven mark of deer. The three pronged wide print of a turkey. The convoluted Escherian travails of a squirrel.

Some tracks speak to independent movement while others show a pair moving together. Or was one being followed by the other?

Tiny tracks appeared in every direction from a small clump of grass in a deserted area. Were they coming to and from home or hiding from a hawk?

Tracks in a solitary line lead to a patch of disturbed snow.  Was there a fight or merely a playful tussle?

Then there were the tracks that ran away from the reddish brown patch of snow. Here was a spot shared by a winner and a loser.

Some tracks of the same animal are smaller than others. Young ones surviving their first winter?

Some tracks give away the sneaky routes of home invaders. So that’s where they come in!

Some tracks come right up to the house. Maybe they are peering in our front windows when we’re peering out the back.

Tracks tell us of the incessant activity of which we are otherwise unaware. They show us swift sprinters and playmates.  Others move slowly, gracefully.

They are awake, doing their stuff, while we are cozy under our covers. By morning, they show a picture that took all night to paint.  It’s not as if you can stand in your bathrobe looking out in the dark and see it all unfold.  You very well know that if you tried, that night you’d see nothing. It’s the next night, when you’re fast asleep. They’re out there putting on a show.

Homes, gardens and sidewalks stretch out across miles and miles and miles of winding roads, streets, boulevards and alleys where once lay fields, and streams and forests. They’ve adapted to us. Some of us have adapted to some of them.  They’re mostly invisible, except for their tracks.

There is no limit to the fascination of life around us. Wild lives connected to us in ways we barely know. Even if you pay attention, it’s hard to keep track.