As I enter my fiftieth winter, my 606th moon, my fifth decade, second century, and eighth president, it seems a good enough time to re-start the chronicling of my wanderings, which are driven by the strange goal of completing every road and trail on a map. This week saw me seeking out small spurs in Taylor Park. Taylor River Road winds up the canyon and then splits at the lake. Normally by this time of year, the snowplows have built large frozen berms on both arms of the fork

Arriving in Taylor Park, I once again parked at the Outpost, the berm now noticeably higher than in January. I purposefully dawdled...

. Tumbling down from the reservoir above, the Taylor River is bone chatteringly cold, clear and calamitous. Riddled with boulders and...

It is difficult to describe snowshoeing as fun. As low tech as it gets, one simply straps what amounts to dinner plates to their feet and...

Greeted by the same shaggy dog as a few weeks before, Charlie, Bella and I set out on a short walk, finally mustering the energy to leave...