Wood-folk comedies

by William J. Long

A fall of snow last night has wrought marvelous transformation in the familiar world. The word of the Apocalypse, “Behold, I make all things new,” is written on the face of the whole earth, which is like a book fresh and clean from the press. Across its white pages go many tracks, each telling its story or leading to some other story beyond; and to read such records, even as a neophyte, is to enter into one of the pleasures of the winter woods. The snow is a greater telltale than any newspaper, and all its tales are true. No matter how shy the wood folk may be, each must leave a trail, whether straight or crooked; and the trails are ready to tell who passed this way, how he fared, what adventure befell him, and how he played his big or little part in the endless comedy of the woods.

The sun is rising as we strap on snowshoes and head blithely down the lake, keeping close to the eastern shore with its deep shadows; for you shall learn little of the wood folk until you learn to imitate them by making yourself inconspicuous. A great tide of light rolls over the level expanse and ripples up the western hills, showing rank upon rank of giant spruces, each bearing his burden of new snow tenderly, as if he loved it. Suddenly the morning breeze shakes them, filling the air with diamond dust, through which the sunshine breaks in a thousand fleeting rainbows.

Near at hand, under the hardwoods of this sheltered shore, the snow has taken many shapes, noble or fantastic, at the hands of the eddying wind; here a smooth page to catch the tale of wandering feet; there a great dome, glistening white, which hides some shapeless thing beneath; beyond that a shadowy cave with doorway light as air, into which leads a single delicate track; and under the cliff, where the wind recoiled, a fairyland of arches, towers, battlements, all fretted more delicately than any lace. Every ugly or unsightly thing has been beautified, every unclean thing washed whiter than wool. All this beautiful world, breathless with the wonder of creation still upon it, this newborn world over which the Infinite broods silently, is wholly ours to enter, to possess, and to enjoy. Expectantly, as if something fair and good must come to-day, and on tiptoe, as if any noise must profane such a world of splendor and silence, we slip along between lake and woods, marveling once more at the magic of the winter wilderness.

A wavy line of blue shadows under the western shore beckons us, and we cross over to pick up our first trail. A curious trail it is, showing a few deep tracks close together, followed by a long groove in the snow; then more tracks, another groove, and so up the lake as far as you can see. Keeonekh the otter left that record; there is no other like it in the woods. He is wooing a mate now, and being a young otter, as the tracks show, he is looking for her in distant places. Thus instinctively he avoids the danger of inbreeding with otters that are more or less related to him; and in this he is like most other wild animals and birds, which scatter widely when looking for their mates.

Wherever you go at this season in this untraveled wilderness, you find Keeonekh neglecting his habitual play (he is the most playful of all wild creatures) for endless, erratic journeys over the ice or through the woods, where he seems a little out of place. Being a fisherman, he is at home only in the water, where he is all celerity and grace; but his legs are short and his body heavy for traveling on dry land. On the snow he does better, and puts rhythm into his motion by taking two or three quick jumps to get momentum, and then sliding forward on his belly. Where the surface is level his slides are short, from two to six feet, according to the speed at which he is going; but he takes advantage of every slope to make much longer distances.

Once I trailed an otter that went over a high bluff to the river below; his trail showed a clean slide of two hundred feet, and the pitch was so steep that I dared not follow. Keeonekh was in a hurry that time, for I was too close behind him for comfort. He hurled himself at top speed over the bluff, and went down like a bolt. In the intervals of travel or fishing he may seek his favorite bank, where he slides for hours at a stretch just for the fun of the thing. That explains why every otter caught in the spring has the glistening outer hairs, or king fur, completely worn away on the under side of his body: he has been sliding downhill too much from a furrier’s viewpoint.

For a mile or more we follow the otter’s trail up the lake, slide-jump-jump, slide-jump-jump, as if he were moving to waltz music. “You are taking your time, Keeonekh,” I say; “but you are leaving an uncommonly crooked trail, dodging in and out like a thieving mink; which is not like you or your breed. Why are you at such pains to hide your tracks? Ah, yes, I remember; last night when you passed this way the wolves were howling.”

As a rule the otter travels boldly, being well able to take care of himself; but here the trail holds close to shore, curving in or out with the banks, taking advantage of every bush or ledge to keep under cover. Suddenly Keeonekh begins to hurry; he is alarmed, no doubt about it. See, his jumps lengthen, he spatters the snow wildly, making us cast about for the cause. There is nothing here to account for his flight; but yonder, over under the eastern shore, are blue shadows wide apart in the snow, which show where some other beast came leaping down from the woods. We shall name that beast presently, for where the lake narrows far ahead his trail sweeps into the one we are following. Holding to the otter’s course, our stride lengthens as we see how desperately he is running. No waltz time now, but a headlong rush for safety.

Near the inlet, whither he has been heading since he struck the lake, Keeonekh darts to a projecting stub, where black ice and moist snow speak of moving water, and begins to dig furiously. Here is one of his refuge holes, such as otters keep open in winter near good fishing grounds; but the frost has sealed it since his last visit, and he has no time now to break through. The other trail veers round this spot in a great curve, the flying arc of which betokens speed, and we go over to find the tracks of a wolf coming at a fast clip up the inlet, sixteen feet to the jump. No wonder Keeonekh hurries; that wolf is after him. But why does he not head straight for open water, where he will be safe? A brook enters the lake ahead; one can both see and hear that it is free of ice.

Turning sharply from his course, leaving lake and open inlet behind him, Keeonekh streaks away for the woods of the eastern shore. Surely he has lost his head; he has no chance either at running or fighting with a brute of that stride and fang behind him. It’s all over with him now, you think, and you are sorry; for though you try to keep open mind for all creatures, when it comes to a choice between wolf and otter your sympathy is wholly with the fisherman. But spare your feelings a moment; you never know the end of a story till you come to the end of the trail. To follow Keeonekh is to learn that he still has his head on, and that he knows the country more intimately than we do.