Hunter II

I had started walking Thursday morning, a light covering of snow, added to the previous day’s remainder, offering another chance at a peek into the activities of a dark night, unseen by me.
The tracks were, again, there—stepping from the woods, across the field—passing through fences as if they weren’t there, in his course to the hunting grounds of the far woods. I checked them only briefly—it was the small-footed canine, the red or gray fox--and walked on. (pictures 1&2)

My path circled around the empty field, where fallen grasses and goldenrod spikes interrupt the whiteness, making small tracks difficult to distinguish from vole holes and dark icy patches of pooled water on the uneven surface. I hadn’t intended to give his tracks another thought, until I came upon the unusual drag markings crossing the trail where it enters the woods.
Something traveling low to the ground would leave such a depression in the snow, though the footprints were just to one side—indicating, perhaps, one being dragged by another. Whatever had moved through these woods, I had not seen before.
I was barely able to determine the direction from which this strangely moving being had come. Cold morning air and light flakes had quickly filled all but a few toenail marks. Yet, it was the fox again—this time, dragging something from the woods. (picture 6)

I followed, eagerly hoping to find some scene with answers to the questions brewing within. Through the undergrowth, branches stealing my hat with their long, bare fingers, I crept backward to the source, the point where this curious walking had begun.
And found a depressed area in the snow beneath a large tree, just beyond the creek.
Whatever he had taken there, he took swiftly, as there was little commotion and barely a hair, aside from some darkened prints, as a clue. (picture 3)

I wondered how far he had walked with his find, and where he had taken it for safe keeping, as foxes sometimes cache food for later times of need.
I followed again, his unbroken trail--across a small creek (4), through a dense stand of firs (5), through the blackberry brambles (7) and out into the open air of the field surrounding the big pond (8)--wishing I, too, had his small stature with dense fur and tapered face, his agility--protection from the snags and tears of this “edge” habitat foxes love.

Twice, it appeared, he wished to cross the pond and turned back, perhaps deciding the refrozen ice not safe for his weight. Then, finally setting his prize down and pausing beneath the dock—the first break in a continuous trail of over 500 feet. The muskrat had been out walking last night, too—his tail drag, a thin dark line in a trail of similar width. (pictures 9, 10 &11)

Beyond the dock, the fox’s prints are the only trail on the icy surface. (picture 12) His prey, not yet eaten, probably carried higher, now, as he proceeded toward home, through the field beyond the pond, back to the oak woods from where this night’s hunt began. (pictures 13, 14&15)
I followed to the base of a large fallen tree--a dry hollow in the 2-foot diameter, soft within with crumbles of decay, a dark chamber deeply buried.

The thought of having such a beautiful animal walking this small tract of woods, to have given them wild spaces to use as they need and the thrill of knowing without seeing, stopped me there.
I imagine a den of kits, mother nursing them and eating what her mate has brought from his night’s hunt.
Growing strong and wild.
Unseen.

My Spring reward is found here.