Riley's Favorite Place

I knew it snowed before I even opened my eyes. The light in my room was bright, the kind of bright that only came from the rising sun reflecting off a layer of white. I moved my hand to my bedside table and felt around delicately until my fingers brushed the frame of my glasses. I placed them on my face, then pushed myself upright slowly and reached for the curtain. When I shifted it aside, the light was almost blinding. I blinked, letting my eyes adjust, and then admired the fine dust. It was perfect snow - enough to cover the ground and trees make it beautiful, but not so much that it stuck on the road and made driving dangerous. Several months ago, Riley would have been up and out of bed, nudging me to get up and go for a hike, promising a hot chocolate waiting for me when I got downstairs.

I moved back the covers and eased myself out of bed, feeling my joints creak as I set my feet on the floor. I moved as fast as I could without straining myself - ridiculous, how much more easily that happened as the years passed. But the sooner I got to the trails the fewer people I was likely to encounter there and the more animal tracks I was likely to see. That had become my favorite part of snowy hikes thanks to Riley's infectious enthusiasm. I'd learned to identify tracks, scat, bird calls, even eggshells on our walks. I'd spent a lot time hiking since the funeral, finding comfort in the familiar paths and the memories of walking there together.

Downstairs, I flicked on the kettle, then sat down and placed my feet into my hiking boots, carefully tightening the laces with shaking fingers. That, too, had come with age, the constant tremor, as if even my body was in disbelief I was still going. Maybe I needed velcro shoes, like kids have. I spent all my time now essentially playing outside, why not come full circle in other ways, too? I slipped into my coat, tugged my hat down over my ears, and put my gloves in my pocket. By then the kettle was bubbling, so I scooped some hot chocolate into a thermos and poured in the water, angling it away from my face so it didn't fog up my glasses.

On the drive over, I went slowly despite the clear roads - my eyes, too, were ageing. The wildlife refuge I was going to was ten minutes away from the house, one of many trails in our area, part of the reason we'd chosen it. But this particular one was special - it was how Riley got me, a city slicker, into hiking. We'd gone there after having breakfast nearby and walked through the trees and the open field to the salt pond that bordered the refuge. Then, I'd approached the woods with trepidation, having barely encountered more trees than the ones that could fit in Central Park or the Botanical Garden. But after years of Riley's gentle guidance, there was nowhere I enjoyed being more. We'd hiked here countless times over the years, and now every time I visited the place it gave me a deep sense of comfort.

I pulled into the empty lot and parked right next to the ranger station, which looked quaint with its dusting of snow and twittering birds on the feeders. I got out of the car carefully, bringing my thermos and a hiking pole I kept stashed in the trunk. As I approached the trailhead, my hopes were confirmed: I was the first one there that day. The small tracks of squirrels and birds skittered around the wooded trail, and I walked carefully to leave as many of them intact as I could. It was chilly, but the movement warmed my limbs.

At the end of the wooded section of trail, it opened onto a vast field and split in two, going in either direction along the edge of the trees. The wild grasses were mostly dead, but a few stalks rose tall, swaying dangerously and threatening to snap under the weight of the snow on their heads. The trail curved along the field, down and then up a gently rolling hill. I went slowly in case there was ice underneath, relying a little more heavily on the hiking pole. I reached a freshwater pond on the left, and I walked onto the wooden lookout over the ice. Our first time there, I had delighted in seeing a turtle pop its small head above the surface while Riley laughed beside me. Now, the turtles and frogs were buried in the warm mud and rotted leaves at the bottom of the pond, waiting out the winter.

Back on the main trail, it carried me into the woods, the more secluded portion of the refuge where most of the larger animals stayed. Sure enough, I saw deer tracks, dainty hoofprints that emerged from invisible side trails, crossed the path, and then ventured into the depths of the trees on the other side.

Eventually I came to a clearing in the woods. One huge tree dominated the area and its far-flung branches prevented anything smaller from growing underneath it. In the open area was a bench. A week after the diagnosis, we sat here and Riley explained that undergoing treatment at this point made no sense, the cancer was too far along. Why spend the remaining time in the hospital fighting off the inevitable when it could be spent out here, was the reasoning. I had cried, but seen the sense in the decision. Now, I walked past the bench, continuing along the trail towards the saltwater pond. Along the way I saw more deer tracks, prints that resembled a coyote's, which was common, and then - amazingly - bobcat prints. There had been rumors of one in the area, a few unconfirmed sightings, but there was the proof right there - one was in the refuge. Riley would have been over the moon, I thought, my excitement over the discovery tempered by sadness that I was witnessing it alone. 

As I neared the saltwater pond, the dense trees around me thinned out and the trail narrowed. Here was my favorite part - a narrow strip of land, just a few trees and bushes on either side between me and the pond. The rising sun lit the top half of the trees a lovely pink shade. Farther along the strip, the trail broke in two again: to the right was a path to the shore, to the left was the bridge to an observation deck. The shore was Riley's favorite part of the trail, a dead end at the water. Depending on the tide, you either had to stop on the grass and peer out from between the trees, or you were able to walk down into the mud of the shoreline and look around the whole pond. Riley loved the surprise of what we found at the end. I would to his place, but not yet.

Instead, took the bridge and reached the deck, set a few feet above the water with stationary telescopes and benches built into the railing. I brushed off a spot on one of the benches and lowered myself down onto the damp wood, leaning back, stretching my legs in front of me. They ached a bit, but no more than normal after a walk like that - they just needed a few moments to rest up.

The pond was salt water and therefore not frozen, so a few ducks floated near the edge. In the distance, I could hear the geese honking. The water lapped gently at the shore, shifting the vegetation that crowded the edge back and forth. There was a breeze out here, out of the sheltering branches of the trees, but it was gentle, and smelled salty and cold. Riley always made fun of me for being able to smell the cold. I sipped on my drink for a few minutes, watching the ducks as they dove headfirst for food, laughing quietly at their little butts stuck up and bobbing around on the water. When my drink was done I set it down beside me and closed my eyes, soaking in the sound, the smell, the feel of the place.

After some time, I opened my eyes again. I had gotten chilly and stiff sitting still, so I pushed myself to my feet and stretched my arms and legs gently. I grabbed my thermos and hiking pole to go, but as I turned back over the bridge, the appearance of the snow brought me up short. It took a moment for me to register the oddness of it - the snow was clean, unbroken, showing no sign I'd walked there. It occurred to me that it was very strange, and maybe I should be frightened, but of what? I took a few steps along the bridge, then looked behind me. There was no sign that I had moved aside snow to sit, stretched my legs out and rested my feet on the deck, stood, or walked. 

Confused, I went to the end of the bridge and looked back the way I had come on the trail. I'd left no footprints. Had I looked back at all during my walk? How long had this been going on? I shook my head and turned and looked in the other direction, towards the water. To my surprise, there was a figure standing at the very end of the trail. I'd thought I was alone here. From this distance, with my vision, and with the person bundled tight in a coat and scarf, it looked like a stranger. I took another glance down to where the snow said I had never walked, then started off towards the person.

They stood still, only moving a little as they admired the view of the pond. As I approached, something about their posture seemed familiar, but I didn't feel like I could trust my eyes. I cleared my throat softly, so as not to startle them. "Excuse me?" I said. "Can I ask you something?" They didn't turn around or respond. Maybe they hadn't heard me. I stopped and looked back - I still wasn't leaving a trail. "Hello!" I called, moving towards them again. "Did you happen to notice the footprints?" Still nothing. 

I was beside them now, so I reached out a hand and touched their arm gently. They didn't startle, they just turned to face me, and as their profile came into view I dropped my thermos and hiking pole, my hands flew to my glasses, readjusted them on my face, swept my hair from my eyes - but that face, that smile, those arms reaching towards me, could not be mistaken. I would know them anywhere. "Riley?" I whispered.