These were not my old cleats that I'd worn for our winter treks into the ravine for so many years. Our son had ordered them for us, the old ones, from Mountain Equipment Co-op decades ago, and we'd worn them ever since. But three years ago I thought when I saw others wearing a different type, rubberized that slipped over a boot sole, that I'd give those a try. Try them I did, and they seemed all right other than that they kept falling off my boots.

But then the following year when I tried them again, they remained intact on my boots, and this year I hauled them out again and they seemed fairly good. Lighter than our originals. I persuaded my husband to get himself a pair while they were still in stock, as long as the season was young. He tried them and soon discovered he didn't care for them. After today's fiasco I've decided I don't either, so it's back to the trusty old cleats.

Today a reliable pair of cleats strapped firmly over boots was an absolute requirement. We'd had freezing rain overnight last night, although the temperature dipped to -6. And then, there was cold drizzle in the morning. Every outdoor surface was covered with knobby nodules of ice and heavy fog hung in the atmosphere.

The temperature rose to -0.4 and the drizzle stopped, so we decided we'd make a run for the ravine. We dressed Jackie and Jillie in their winter-weight raincoats, no boots, and off we set. Not quite. Off we set, gingerly -- me, anyway -- because our driveway and the road in front of it leading to the ravine entrance were both ice-slathered and fairly slick. Once in the ravine, descending toward the forest and the trails, Jackie and Jillie made quick work zipping by us, scouting out whether anyone had dared enter their forest, finding no one, to our relief.

And suddenly, as we made our way up and along a secondary trail to the first of the bridges, a large, very large bird, in fact it was a Great Blue Heron, lifted itself off the creek and over the treeline in a flight parallel with the creek but further upstream. We were surprised he was still around, and hadn't migrated for the winter. Could be he knows something more than we do; that this peculiar winter that started out early, inordinately cold and snowy, would morph into an odd season of moderate temperature and skimpy snow events.

As it happened, the rain held off, and as I skittered along uphill, downhill and wherever the trails take us, finding footing with care, one of the cleats kept slipping off its boot and I kept having to replace it on said boot. This must have happened at least twenty times, and it was beyond irritating. On a few of the descents my husband helped me, his footing wearing the old cleats more secure than mine, and I hate that, because it means he has to tend to me when I much prefer he look to his own balance for safety sake.

That said, we were grateful to have had the opportunity to get out, even if the day was so heavily overcast and fogged in, though not as evident in the ravine as it was at street level. When we approached the last of the bridges we looked through its slats (I did, my husband, taller, can look over the top rail) to see if the group of a half-dozen goldfish we'd seen the last few days were still in residence. Gone. Either because the milder temperature had made them more comfortable to swim out, or because the giant bird had enjoyed a good snack.