It's the day after the blizzard and Pete and I had Walden Pond to ourselves except for a x-country skier who passed us, continued around the pond, and disappeared into the woods. Besides his ski tracks, which were barely visible on the hard layer on the snow's surface, our snowshoe tracks were the only other evidence that people had been there. At first I felt bad that we were disturbing the beauty of the scenery. And our snow shoes made such loud crunching noises as we walked, disturbing the peace and quiet. Then I embraced our intrusion and realized that we were part of this place just like the deer who had left its footprints when it came down to the water to take a drink and then check out the teepee of sticks that someone had constructed.
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