Snowshoe Tracks to the Closed Weather Station
During the school ski trip, Calla and her cousin Jonas noticed a line of snowshoe tracks that led away from the trail and up toward a small gray building. A sign on the wall said the old weather station had been shut for the winter, so the tracks puzzled them. Nobody was supposed to go there.
"Let us tell Ms. Ferrant," Calla said, and they skied back to the group. The teacher listened closely and then walked up with them, planting her poles carefully as she climbed.
The tracks ended at the door. Beside the step lay a scatter of fresh crumbs, and near the window hung a bird feeder made from a plastic bottle, filled with sunflower seeds. Through the glass they saw a tidy table set with a thermometer, a notebook, and a pencil.
"Someone is still working here," Ms. Ferrant said quietly.
As if she had heard them, a woman in a thick red jacket came around the corner, carrying a bucket. She introduced herself as Dr. Sato, a volunteer who recorded the temperature and snow depth every morning for a long-term study. The station was closed to visitors in winter, but the measurements never stopped, and she had set up the feeder because the chickadees kept her company.
"Those records are older than I am," she said. "Missing a single day would leave a gap in the data."
She invited them to watch the next reading from the doorway, and Jonas wrote the number in his own notebook, grinning, as the chickadees fluttered down to eat.