There is a path in the snow from the house to the bird feeders. Though I've not been here long, as soon as I stepped on it, the chickadees appeared from hiding. I had no idea birds would learn that fast. The squirrels surprised me less. Both red and black have marked the snow from their resting place to the tree where seed is supplied.

I haven't had time to make many paths on the land here. The one to the parking place by the road is cleared of snow and gravel. The one to the compost bin is visible.

I've written before about the paths we made on the farm, reflected on the impact we make on the environment. In a previous column, now published in my collection, I wrote this:

"The trails left by the tractor are not subtle. The grass up to the main doors of the barn will soon be flat as I make trip after trip from the place the hay is stacked to the doorway so it can be stored inside.  The grass in front of the barn will grow long again as summer goes on, but this does not happen on the track that leads to the back of the farm. Wheeled equipment has taken about the same track for 150 years. Horses pulled equipment with wooden or metal wheels. Now tractors pull things with rubber tires that travel the same path. Grass grows in the middle, but there are two bare hard tracks. Although they turn to mud in the low places when it rains, the ground is packed hard. Nothing even tries to grow there."

Living on the farm, I could trace the movement of animals and people. I could see our impact on the environment.

Now when I look up from the computer, I see waves rolling, sometimes pounding the shore. These days, the spray turns to ice on the rocks.

I haven't ventured into the bay as cold arrived about the same time we did. But I know that when I do, water will lap around my ankles, but will not remember where I walk. The grass to the shore will, but the water will wash away my presence.

I worry about this. I wonder if I will start to think that I don't have an impact on the water.

At the small pond on the farm, swimming ducks and muskrat would push the weeds aside, leaving dark paths on the green surface. Sometimes there would be foam from something that reached the watercourse downstream.

The volume of water in Georgian Bay is huge. Wind and waves moved the leaves that fell out of sight. We only know the ducks are there when we see them swim past. There are no trails left on these moving waters. The story of those who live in and on and around the water is hidden. I wonder if that means we don't think we have an impact.

There is a water softener in this house. It was here when we came. I understand its purpose. On the farm, the hard water left a mineral buildup in the kettle, in the hot water heater.  Here, glasses sparkle. There, even with regular vinager treatments, there was a dull film on them.

But when the water softener discharges--what they call regenerating--salt water will flow from the house onto the land. Come spring I will trace where that pipe comes out, but even now I know that the distance from the house to the lake means that over time, with rain and snow melt, salt will be carried from my house to the lake.

Outside, I will use compost to fertilize flowers and vegetables in the spring. I will not use chemicals that will end up carried into the lake. Inside, I will not use the garberator, that thing that grinds up organic matter and sends it into the septic system, the weeping bed, and eventually the lake. I will compost everything I can.

What flows from our house is small compared to the volume of water in the lake. But every bit makes a differnece. Just because we can't trace our footprints in the water does not mean we don't have an impact.

Cathy Hird lives on the shore of Goergian Bay.