Sleet and snow stung my face. A foot of powder covered the ground and the wind whipped through the spruce forest. For a moment I let my thoughts drift to the low country, where spring was on its way. Here at 4,500 feet, however, winter showed no sign of retreat.
The bay of hounds suddenly reminded my frigid fingers why we were there. I was accompanying Bob Beahm, former school principal turned hunting guide, and his skilled beagles on a hunt for snowshoe hares.