BY HARRY WEEKES
I walk early in the morning. When it is really dark (no-moon dark), I make sure not to turn on any lights so that my eyes are pre-adjusted when I step outside and start down the driveway. I have done this routine enough that putting on my shoes is simply a matter of reaching out, having my hand run into my boots, and then lacing them up as I sit in the dark garage. I do not think I make too much noise.
And so it was that I stood up only to hear something moving behind my car and then the opening and closing of the dog door. Ummmm… The usual flash of thoughts ran through my head, which started out with a very calm and interested “That was something leaving the garage” to the somewhat nervous “What is the biggest thing that could fit through the dog door?” to my I’m-still-afraid-of-the-dark-induced “Should I run?”
Since this event, I have searched the area and found only this—the edge of the dog door has been nibbled enough that something can easily push in and out. No droppings. No fur. No spoor of any other kind.
This mysterious mammal has been on my mind (I assume it is a mammal, because if there is a snake or mobile plant living in my garage at this time of year, I will need to invoke a totally different suite of skills to figure out my next move). The recurring theme represented in this latest episode is “The things we do not see.” And there is no better time to appreciate all the other unseen beasties out there in our world than after a fresh snow
Since winter showed up, I marvel at all the tracks crisscrossing my own. Across my relatively straight line are the footprints of a fox, moving about, surveying little pockets of smells here and there, always visiting some exposed tuft of grass. The deer tracks are elongated, connecting one clump of trees to the next. Intermittently, there are the faintest tracks on top of the snow, made by an animal so light it barely sinks into the fresh powder. Invariably, around these are the slightly heavier dumbbell prints of the weasel, no doubt looking for the delicate snack.
Rapidly becoming my favorite, though, are the tracks of the rabbit. On one hand, I just love that rabbits hop and bound and explode across the snow. On the other, I just love how much even one rabbit moves about.
I included a photo with this essay that may not be ‘readable.’ It shows what, I think, is one rabbit moving around the driveway of my in-laws’ house. Over the course of two days, this rabbit has tracked almost everywhere. There are droppings, openings to tunnels beneath the sage, evidence of small nibbles taken from exposed bushes, and what looks to have been a rabbit festival there are so many footfalls.
There is something about this specific rabbit, and the world he or she represents—the one unseen and wild that moves about at night and during the day—that makes me profoundly happy.
That happiness is filled with curiosity and wonder, both of which overwhelm and override my fears as the dog door slaps closed and the garage is quiet and dark. I think I am alone again. Oddly, I am reassured that I am not.
Harry Weekes is the founder and head of school at The Sage School in Hailey. This is his 50th year in the Wood River Valley, where he lives with Hilary and one of their three baby adults—Simon. The other members of the flock, Georgia and Penelope, are currently fledging at Davidson College in North Carolina and Middlebury College in Vermont, respectively.
