For several months, as is common every winter, I enjoyed the company of a pine marten living near the house. Pine martens are large aboreal weasels. Fresh tracks were visible everyday and occasionally she passed through the void under the mass of snow accumulated outside my kitchen window, much to Siegfrieds’ and my interest. Last week she took up residence in the large storage room behind the living portion of the house. My tolerance for stepping in poop and pee and for being hissed at every time I went out back as well as for her chaotic rearrangement of my goods stored back there led me, with great reluctance, to set a live trap for her. I caught her this morning.

I transported her in the live trap inside a covered box, in order to minimize the trauma of the experience for her, by snowmobile to a place about a mile north of the house. I am concerned that this is not far enough away to prevent her quick return, but I think she may be associated with a male marten that lives in the neighborhood and I did not want to break up any potential romance.

The tracks (spoor) in the snow tell the story. I set the cage down in the snow, opened the door, and she ran out and bound away at great speed.

Late in the day I snowmobiled 32 miles to the north to rendezvous with an old friend with children who are coming to visit me for the weekend. It is always odd to leave the pristine quiet interior of the park and to make landfall down below. For me it always recalls the feelings I experienced every time coming into port after a long sea voyage. Here, at the edge of civilization, the snow is broken and dirty. The noise and smell of engines, the hustle and bussle, and the overloud voices of many people are startling. We pack baggage, skis, and friends up and I gratefully head back up the couple thousand feet to Canyon.