The first time I saw evidence of the way mouse-size critters travel beneath the snow was in Kaslo in late winter. Petite tunnels, now roofless, wove their way thither and yon in a patch of melting snow beside the trail.
Several years later and near Clearwater, the view showed a length of arched snow, pushed upwards by wee animals scurrying along beneath the surface, in their efforts to avoid being some predator’s lunch.
Experience number three occurred in the lane behind our place this past December when a perfectly round small hole in the snow beside my boot caught my eye. I stopped and discovered another just a couple of metres away. Linking the two was a lacy trail made by miniscule footprints. Now I want to see some of these critters on the move.
Two different experiences occurred when my husband John and I were in the Cariboo over Christmas and travelling along the Likely Road to visit friends at Big Lake. The day was clear and sunny; the road graded wide and smooth. Driving east along a straight stretch, I noticed an isolated, round, white blob ahead of us and wondered how that lump of snow could have been left there by the plow.
However, having been warned on previous occasions by above-mentioned husband to avoid hitting such debris because of the possibility of rocks within, I steered past it. This was good because, as we approached, the snowball moved, grew legs, and hopped off towards the edge of the road. It was small, compact and bunny-like, not lanky like a snow-shoe hare, so maybe only a youngster.
We hoped it would avoid sun-tanning on roads in future; perhaps this White Rabbit thought that, like Alice, we should have followed it into Wonderland.
The return trip that day had another treat in store for us. Two animals crossed the road well ahead of us, but we didn’t expect they would wait to show themselves. This was indeed our lucky day. Two lynx ran upwards through the snow to the top of the ridge beside us and disappeared, but only briefly.
The one closest to us lifted its tabby face and tufted ears to stare fixedly at us. It hid briefly a couple more times, but cat-curiosity won out and it raised its head again to see if we were still there before becoming invisible. We edged the car forward looking for the other one – and it was watching us too. However, it was much harder to spot as its chosen hiding spot was in some spindly saplings, an almost perfect camouflage.
Thrilled by these sightings, but with John bewailing the lack of a camera, we remembered back to an earlier occasion when we were travelling along Dunn Lake Road as daylight faded, a friend with us. A lynx had run across the road in front of us into the low brush lining the road. Within seconds we stopped beside its exit spot – but saw only unmoving brush. We could feel its presence, but three pairs of eyes never caught a glimpse of that elusive animal.
While travelling the Alaska Highway in September, a comparable situation had occurred when a lady moose crossed the road well ahead of us. I caught sight of her again down a rough side road and followed it.
This time, only one of us was fortunate enough to see her head just visible above the bushes where she had stopped and turned to observe us. But she swung away into the trees before John caught a glimpse. What are these animals thinking as they stare at curious humans, anyway?
