Mulling things on my morning ramble with Lady, our family’s mutt.
Shortly after we crossed the side rail separating us the town from the wildness of the town pond, I noticed, despite the melting of some snow cover yesterday, the track left by two ice fishermen and their plastic sled made going out to fish on the north old clay pit.
I find their spot, and it is one of their favorites for ice fishing, is an odd one or at least one I can’t figure out.
The north pit is basically a relatively shallow bowl, generally 4 feet or so deep. There is one spring on the northeast corner I know of and a slight drop near shore along the south shore, which is generally a good spot, and there is the channel leading up to the neckdown under the bridge between the two pits.
Otherwise, the north pit is basically a shallow bowl, unlike the south pit, which is much smaller but much deeper (deep as 14 feet) and much more interesting in structure.
Cold enough this morning that the snow remnants crunched loudly; cold enough that we stepped lively.
But we were early, predawn was barely lighting anything and I did not see or hear anything in terms of wildlife.
Well, other than more tracks of rabbits and squirrels around the town pond. And Lady acted like she saw a rabbit bolt through the brush between the south end of the south pit and the trail, formerly a side rail, above the south pit. But I did not see.
What I did see as we came back to the edge of town were the lopsided telephone poles leading east from town. In the light before dawn, they looked like a string of crosses, ``My Calvary.’’ (Hello Charles Demuth and your ``My Egypt.’’)
Downtown, the bank thermometer read 20 degrees. I suspect it was just a degree or two cooler.
The cook/chef who runs the food truck, for nursery and migrant workers, at a downtown restaurant had just started work. It was too early for the usual wonderful odors wafting around for a block or more of the fillings for tacos and burritos cooking.
More rabbit and squirrel tracks became visible on sidewalks, yards and streets as light increased as we neared home.
Back home, I saw rabbit tracks zagging and zigging through the backyard when I checked my thermometer behind our garage: 15 degrees.
I suspect the truth, like it is for many things in life, is somewhere in the middle: between my 15 and the bank’s 20.