I know my way around our cottage woods pretty well. I can walk the path through the forest to the lake in the dark without a flashlight—my feet know the way. Around us, there are more than 40 hectares to explore, crossed by deer trails and electricity corridors, creeks and valleys. I’ve been tromping over that land my whole life, so it was a shock when I found myself lost there.
Late one bright, frigid afternoon in February 2022, my two daughters, aged 12 and nine, my husband, Steve, and I strapped on our snowshoes and struck out northwestward from the house. While making our way up the long, gradual slope, we stopped to look at the convoluted trails of mice running between trees, to investigate lichen and bracket fungi, and to adjust the kids’ snowshoes when they came loose.
As the shadows started to lengthen, we moved further up, clambering around fallen trees. Weariness began to outpace enthusiasm. At the top of the ridge, we came to a stand of hemlock, where we discovered a couple of deer beds under the delicate branches. When had the animals last been there? Would a fawn snuggle up on its own in a small spot or beside its mama in a big one? We knew there were wolves around; we’d seen the remains of their deer kill a few weeks earlier.
In the shade of the dense
