I should have met Ed by now. But I'm not really worried, at least not yet. Right now I'm too entranced with my surroundings. Last night's snowfall clings to the thick stands of trees lining the Timm's Hill Trail, coating every branch, thick and slender, with an inch of powdered sugar. Little snow caps are perfectly mounded atop every signpost. And the balsams' wide, lacy branches, so prettily dusted with snow, resemble sugarcoated funnel cakes.
Deeply breathing in the crisp, fresh air, I pause to snap a few photos, then make my way toward the narrow bridge ahead. The snow, covered with a feather-light layer of ice, makes a delicate crunch with each of my steps, quickly followed by a clumsy clop as the rear of my aluminum snowshoe slaps down. I hate marring this pristine trail, which has seen no other human traffic since the snow fell, but it's unavoidable. So I don't look behind me, but instead concentrate on the path stretching ahead, which is smooth and undisturbed save for pint-size tracks made by residents of Timm's Hill: rabbits, deer, birds, foxes, turkeys and more.
I bend to photograph some particularly interesting tracks, then clomp over the bridge, leaving a slashed snow cover in my wake. Ed is still not visible — or audible — on the trail ahead of me, so something is definitely amiss. And I'm pretty sure I know what it is.
The two of us had driven up to the 10-mile Timm's Hill Trail in north-central Wisconsin to snowshoe or ski from its southern trailhead in Taylor County to its northern terminus at the Timm's Hill observation tower, which sits a little southeast of Prentice. At 1,951.5 feet above sea level, Timm's Hill is the tallest point in Wisconsin, and one of the highest natural points in the Upper Midwest.
When we arrived at the trailhead, we deemed snowshoeing the better mode of transportation, as the trail wasn't yet groomed for skiing. But instead of leaving our car there and beginning the trek together, Ed had me start in on the trail while he drove ahead 4½ miles to the much larger parking lot at Spirit Park. The plan was for him to then snowshoe back toward me. But Ed is notorious for his poor sense of direction, so he must have accidentally headed north on the trail toward the tower, not south toward me.
Sure enough, after crossing the road slicing through Spirit Park, I see snowshoe prints marching off northbound through the otherwise unblemished snow cover. Seconds later my phone rings, and a panting Ed, now jogging back toward me, admits he went the wrong way.
"I figured the trail to the tower would be all uphill," he says, "so I took the path that was going downhill. But the trail isn't all uphill. It keeps going up and down."
"No worries. We should run into each other in a few minutes."