We followed the deer trail into the woods. Fawns stood motionless under the spruce trees, watching as we used the path, the forest highway they’ve worked for decades. To a deer, I imagined, the pathway is more than a simple route. It’s a legacy, painstakingly traveled for purposes beyond travel.
One deer followed the next much like cars following each other toward the new super Costco on the edge of Kalispell. Or maybe to the new Freddy’s, that place is packed. On our walk, however, the destination was the lake and the road was a traditional deer path, one we’ve shared for decades.
Leaving the yard, I noted that they had scraped the snow off the front lawn to find a few meager blades of soft grass. In harsher winters past, they’ve been known to break into stacked leaf bags, eating the entirety of the dried leaves raked from local yards, a desperate, dry sustenance.
Now, deep in the woods, the deer sported their thick, gray-brown winter coats. They moved very little as we and the dogs strode by toward the frozen lake. They stood and watched, conserving precious energy while mentally marking the fastest path away in case we decided to mount a threat.
We ignored them. They ignored us. There was a subtle tension in their eyes. A sensed unease. But we weren’t hunters. They knew it. We simply shared their trail, a path we feel is ours, yet has always been theirs. The broken branches served as ancient signage, a familiarity built over generations of travel.
I felt like a child among the countless trees. Some had fallen during the last windstorm. Others leaned against neighbors, trying to make it through the night. The cold was deepening, with more wind and cold to arrive before winter breaks.
We reached the lake. Slushy snow sat on top of the ice, marked by the expanded heart footprints of deer splayed across the marshy shoreline. The prints had a heavy drag behind them, where lazy, tired walkers had waded through the thicker drifts. It’s winter, I thought; it’s OK to drag a bit in the cold.
Across the lake sat the McMansions. They’ve been popping up as sure as glacier lilies through springtime snow. The comparison felt wrong. Glacier lilies are food for hungry deer, not second homes for part-timers fortunate enough to own multiple estates.
At the shoreline, the world slowed to a crawl. The lake came into focus. The vast white overrun by a layer of slush that clung to everything it touched. It has been a wet winter, though the recent arrival of the fluff was a welcome addition to the snowpack. The cold still due.
We stared in silence, the dogs anxious to move. We stayed off the wet, frozen lake as past lessons had taught us that marshy shorelines during warmer winters can be deceptively deep. There was no need to walk back to the farm wet.
Up ahead, the path revealed more downed trees. Some with the bark burned or stripped at the base, as if they were intentionally or accidentally girdled to improve a view from shoreline. At the top of the hill, we looked back. The lake was stunning as always. How lucky, I thought, to live before the landscape got owned by big homes and endless condos.
Beside us stood Chicken Ridge, now rebranded with a fancy subdivision name to accommodate the wealth moving into the valley. They’ve turned this home for old-timers into the next resort valley. In the name of density, decision-makers are approving hundreds of high-end condos that no wage-earning local can afford. At least the new snow bunnies got a non-stop flight back to work.
Gotta make a living, I thought, pay the piper his dues. The deer stared at me with those cold, black eyes, as if asking if I knew a way out of the hamster wheel that had invaded their peaceful forest. I do not, I told them in silence. I am but one man, seeking enough courage to break the silence of winter. I nodded in solidarity at the deer as the dogs motioned it was time to keep pace to the warmth of the woodstove.