Nothing is as expected this morning.  A well defined trail stomped into the snow by a small horde of humans ends for no apparent reason in a meadow clearing much like five others passed through to get to the spot. The wind that hammered Chicken Ridge all night decided not to join us. Surrounding mountain ridges look fuzzy, not crisp in the cold morning light. I find beauty in small things —dunes of drifted snow, tree remnants, my shadow looking like it belongs to Pippi Longstockings.  My beaver hat is to blame. Made for me by a Yup’ik grandmother thirty-five years ago, the hat takes years off my shadow. It’s the one that accompanied me on dog rides over tundra trails and on walks across Bethel to visit the love of my life.  A scruffy time traveler, like me.