My husband and I were having our Saturday morning coffee when he said, “Come look! There’s a coyote running across the lake!”

I jumped up from my recliner, eager to capture the beauty of this wild animal as it made its way across the frozen Gile Flowage toward an island, only a quarter mile from our shoreline.

Once it disappeared behind the tree line, I tried to trace its path, wondering where it had come from. I figured its starting point must have been somewhere around the northern bend of our neighbors’ shoreline, but from where I stood in the cabin, I couldn’t be certain.

I turned to my husband. “Are coyotes really scared of humans?” I had just taken the tags off the snowshoes I bought five years earlier, and this was the question I needed answered before my first planned trek into the wild.

“In all my years hunting, I’ve only seen one,” he said. “I was up in my deer stand. He must have caught my scent because he took off running.” He looked at me reassuringly. “You don’t have to worry about coyotes. The only reason they wouldn’t run is if they are sick — or if they have rabies.”

I couldn’t help it. Of course, I thought, that would be the coyote I’d meet.

For once, I wasn’t going to lose my nerve. Between the winter holiday treats and long bookkeeping chair-marathons for my day care and Doris Writes Wordwhispers businesses, I had 15-plus pounds to lose. It was the first springtime day with a tolerable 30-degree breeze. Exercise had to trump fear.

I strapped on my snowshoes and headed down the snow-covered driveway. The coyote had traveled from the north, so to avoid an encounter, I made a tactical decision to head south. I went maybe 200 feet, reaching the Y in the road, and that’s when I first spotted them: tracks in the snow.

I took a gulp of air and peered around me. I pulled my phone from my pocket, opened my AI app, snapped a photo, and sent it along with a breathless message: “Are these coyote tracks?”

Nope. Bunny.

I took a right and trudged uphill toward the T in the road. As I moved farther from the safety of the cabin, I decided to be smart about it. I messaged AI again: “Will coyotes run from music?”

With my music blaring, I took a left at the T. Once again, I was stopped short. Another track. Another photo. No message this time, just the evidence. A deer print was added to my digital library.

My plan was to snowshoe for 30 minutes, and with my investigative stops, I decided to return home at the end of the road. Most of the cabins I passed were abandoned for the winter. I felt an odd, quiet comfort in the solitude.

Until I didn’t.

Paw-shaped tracks. One last photo, and I had finally found exactly what I wasn’t looking for, leading from the lake to the shore, directly to where I was standing.

I didn’t race back home. According to the chat, a coyote might interpret a running human as prey. I started practicing the “tall, domineering stance” AI suggested might frighten an animal away. I knew my husband would be good at that. He has the presence for it. Me? Honestly, I felt my stance would be as effective as a bunny on its hind legs.

When I got safely back to my driveway, I tromped down the trail to the sliding door and yelled to my husband, “I found where the coyote went!” The mental image of rabid eyes and razor teeth gave way to something else: a sudden, bright spark of courage and pride.

“I found the tracks!” I called out. “Do you want to come see them?”