This post is part of a project in the works; "An Ogemaw County Year". The blog and eventually the book will encompass nature noticing, research and facts over the course of a year with a watercolor painting for each entry. Originals and prints will be available via the website as they are completed and prepped and the book will be available upon completion.
Fresh snow blankets the ground this morning sparkling with a thin crust and untouched except for the delicate patterns or bird tracks crisscrossing its surface. My breath puffs out in little clouds as I crouch to study a line of more pronounced tracks. Two larger prints sit side by side, framed by smaller ones ahead of them—the telltale sign of a cottontail rabbit. Its rear legs stretched in a leap, the tracks coming together again as it landed and hopped forward.
The snow is fresh enough that I could almost imagine hearing the faint soft crunch of its last jump before it vanished. I decide to follow the trail. I zip my coat tighter and carefully tread beside the marks, mindful not to disturb them.
The tracks weave through a mix of tall grasses poking up from beneath the snow, then disappear for a moment beneath the low branches of a white cedar. Pausing, I kneel and see more faint indentations on the sheltered patch below. This rabbit stopped to forage here. Nipped stems of wintergreen confirm its passing—it seems even in this deep cold, the cottontail finds its meals by browsing whatever vegetation it can.
Further ahead, the tracks curve toward the maple saplings I planted last spring. My heart sinks a little as I spot the bare ends of branches gnawed clean of their buds. Rabbits are opportunists, and winter offers few choices, so young maples and birches like these make an easy target. In another spot nearby, I’ve wrapped protective cages around some trunks to shield them from this precise type of mischief.
I press onward, and the tracks grow bolder. This rabbit was moving confidently, bound for a destination. Finally, I see where they lead. A tangled brush pile I created while cutting wood, half-covered in snow but still providing perfect shelter. I approach carefully—too close, and I’ll likely startle its occupant.
Cottontails rely on places like this to escape predators. Their survival depends on remaining vigilant against foxes, hawks, and owls that hunt them. Their populations often rise and fall in cycles, connected to the abundance of predators and the availability of food. Every four to ten years, you might notice a dramatic change—a seemingly thriving group one winter can vanish into scarcity by the next. I wonder where in the cycle this rabbit falls.
For all their seeming abundance in some years, life as a cottontail is short. Few survive beyond their first year. Breeding begins in early spring, and in northern climates like this, a female might produce three to four litters by late summer, with as many as six young in each. It’s a numbers game. While many kits won’t see maturity, the survivors contribute to the ongoing pulse of life here.
My attention shifts as a faint movement catches my eye. Just within the brush pile, a flash of brown fur melts into shadow. There it is, nestled snugly against the cold. Its fur, so unassuming, blends perfectly into the earthy tones of its winter refuge. I resist the urge to move closer. Instead, I straighten up and take a step back, leaving the rabbit to its sanctuary.
Winter is lean and quiet, but even in its stillness, stories like this unfold all around. As I turn for home, I remind myself to check the trunk guards on my fruit trees soon. Cottontails will strip the bark if they can, damaging the cambium and leaving the trees vulnerable to disease. Their survival demands such resourcefulness, though, and I respect their place in this landscape.
The snow crunches beneath my boots, echoing in the quiet morning as I make my way back. I glance once more at the tracks I followed, now leading away into the soft white expanse, a reminder of this small life weathering the season.
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