New York Reader Stories: In our father’s footprints

Mid-afternoon snowflakes floating softly to the forest floor signaled the first change in the weather, and the beginning of a memorable end to a deer hunt in the southern Adirondacks. It was easy to follow their path as they fell, and they had no sting on contact with our faces, the kind, as kids, we used to run around trying to catch and dissolve on our tongues.
But now the temperature was dropping, and suddenly noticeable winds drove snow down at us at an angle, making visibility a problem.