On Foot

A heavy, wet, sticky snow fell and we went out and walked in it that night: slushy and slippery. The temperature dropped over the next two days and we walked again: alternately icy, soft and crunchy, depending on what had happened to that patch of ground over the previous 48 hours.

We walked to the bridge where we first saw Cody and managed to spot her again in the fading light, swimming back and forth in a zig-zag pattern further downstream from the bridge than before. The light doesn’t really fade when there’s this much snow on the ground and clinging to the trees: everything just becomes a light gray with the dark accents of leeward tree trunks and branches. 

Cross-country skiers, pedestrians, dogs and deer all left tracks in the snow and ice on the path. Our feet crunched and squished and slipped along, and our feet felt the sharp edges of the hard ice, even through our shoes. And they felt the gentle, frictionless contours of the slippery spots. And they felt the fresh snow compacting under them where nothing had yet stepped, stomped or skied.

Of course, it’s slower going over this unplowed path; more effort. More tension in all the supporting and stabilizing muscles of the ankles, legs, hips and abdomen; and more attention to seeing where our feet might find themselves next. Our eyes examined and perhaps selected each step. Our feet told us what conditions were really like “on the ground” and informed our perspective on when and how to take the next step.

Our hands tell us what we have, but our feet tell us where we stand.