Out there.

I take a deep breath of it, and I know without a doubt, I'm close to them. From the north, the breeze across this frozen lake is wafting its clues for me to follow, so I stop using the compass, and let my nose bring me in. I'm guessing there tucked into a back bay with overhanging cedar. No tracks lead me to them but I think I can see a bit of smoke now too, so I toddle along looking. From quite a distance there temporary home looks like an inflated white bag with steam coming out of the top. I'm not sure if it's tied down or woven into the landscape with all the ropes and cords but I will spend the day visiting with the fabric and rope clan. Before I get any closer I can't help but just looking at eye catching items such as stacked wood piles, next to a maze of kindling, some of its gathered, some of it has been hacked by hatchets, next to all kinds of lines of drying socks and shirts that all seem to made from the shade of gray. Without moving I inhale another deep drought of wood smoke. If I didn't do another thing today, just breathing that smoke would be enough. I move into the smoke plume so my wool shirt can soak some up. I will want to smell that during the entire hike back out. I mosey in as quiet as I can spying like human ant tracks in neat rows that head away from the flap that holds the door. One trail heads down to the lake, from where I came, and where they have been fishing, while another winds its way around the tent off into the woods and the final foot path takes my eyes across the snow, to yet another smaller fabric house. They know I'm coming today, and I almost don't want to disturb them, I would rather like to watch from a distance, completely unnoticed to see all the energy or lack thereof in a day that these two will or will not achieve. I stand and watch , looking, nothing is moving and over the past few days there must have been a mountain of activity here to put this all together, and I know in just a few days that it all has to be disassembled, but it's there thing. I've grown fond of sleeping warm, not so these two. Then for some unknown reason there dog barks, I'm busted, and now my gloved hand is warmly shaken with the wife giving me a big hug. I offered up my fresh, but cold doughnuts and they want to pour me tea. I don't like tea, but I drink there's. The trout whisperer