The scenic road up to the top had closed prior to my arrival due to snow and ice that liked to linger in the shaded spots. I was told it would likely open up again in a few days. I was also told it was likely closed for the season. So I waited. But when the warmth of the autumn sun gave way to snow flurries at the lower elevations, I realized that the snow and ice held the winning hand. I had made a long day hike up the streamside mountain trail the week before the snow flurries. But that trail I had followed before, the one adorned with the bright yellows, reds, and oranges of fall, no longer seemed familiar under its light coat of snow, that grew imperceptibly thicker as I ascended. And this time, I was loaded down with a full pack as I planned to stay several nights in order to capture the stars. And so I was thankful for the footprints.
There were two ascending sets of footprints in the snow. They knew where the trail was, and so I followed them. They warned me where the slippery spots were, and assured me I could continue on. I felt comforted to be in their company. And so I spent hours following them up and up.
There was much rejoicing when I finally spied a picnic table through the trees, which could only mean one thing: I had reached the outer edge of the campground. Although closed, it was the trailhead for a number of trails that I planned to explore, and it also meant I could finally drop my pack and set up camp somewhere in the woods outside its boundary. And so I left the footprints to find a suitable spot, and found one, gently sloping, but exposed to the warmth of the afternoon sun. And with my own repeated footprints, I trampled the snow in a shape big enough for a tent.
It was somewhat eerie walking through the empty campground, everything untouched save for the footprints up the campground road to the trailhead. My footprints joined those of the other two, eventually overtaking them in number with each pass. That afternoon I spied from my campground the two fellows whose footprints I had followed. I thanked them for the footprints, and after a brief exchange, they were off down the mountain trail, making another pair of footprints pointing downward. And I was alone again.
I set out to explore. Not long after the trailhead, I left the footprints at a fork in the trail. It felt good to be making the first footprints in this new snow. It crunched satisfyingly under my boots as I crossed a short timber footbridge. The snow piled thickly on the planks, gently rounded and perfectly formed at the plank edges. And when I returned later that night, I was thankful for my own footprints, taking comfort in knowing that they would unerringly lead me back to my tent.
Many footprints later came the time to make my own back down the mountain. My camera batteries were exhausted, but my spirit was renewed. And on the way down, I wondered: who might follow my footprints?