Whose woods these are, I wish I knew.

It only takes a few steps into a hike before I’m turning the whole thing into a metaphor. Perhaps that’s why I like hiking so much. On a January trip to Estes Park, Colorado, my husband, John, and I did a lot of hiking in the snow. And it all seemed to be a metaphor for parenting.

We took a trail I know well at the Glacier Gorge trailhead in Rocky Mountain National Park. At the intersection of Mills Lake vs. Loch Vale, we turned left to go to Mills. We followed the prints of other hikers and went straight up — steeper than we would have thought possible without the assistance of microspikes, which look like snow tires for boots. Somehow, we ended up at the Loch. I didn’t recognize it even as I sat on a boulder and ate lunch. I’ve sat on that same boulder and eaten lunch there before. I still didn’t believe it when the GPS showed the facts. I had to hear it from my father-in-law — hiker extraordinaire — who texted, “You came out on the left side of the Loch because u weren’t on trail. You did an awesome hike up that gorge!!”

But I didn’t want to do an awesome hike up the gorge. I wanted a nice, not-too-hard walk to a pretty lake. I wanted parenting to be the same way. I didn’t want to impress anyone. So often I have thought was on the trail, only to be proven wrong.

It used to be so easy, back in 2004, the last time both kids hiked with us in the park. That year, when they were 8 and 5, we did the trail from Bear Lake to Bierstadt Lake. It’s not very long or steep. Our son was anxious to prove what a great hiker he was. He had a small backpack filled with toys — things precious to him but not very useful. Our daughter had no interest in impressing us, so John ended up carrying her after lunch at Bierstadt. That day, we learned that she could be bribed with M&Ms.

So much has changed. My son doesn’t care to impress us. My daughter needs a little more than chocolate candy. Suddenly, it’s just John and me on the same trail.

Right at the beginning, we get turned around. It’s difficult to figure out which set of tracks to follow. We make a short circle and end up back where we started.

We regroup. Try again.

Quickly, we hit the junction of footprints where we strayed before. We take a different path, hike up a bank, and then we see it — an orange flag. There, on one of the trees, about six feet up, there’s a metal flag, about two inches long, drilled into the bark. We go a few more feet, see more flags. Some are orange. Some have faded to yellow.

“You don’t think they just put these up in the winter?” I ask.

“No way. They must have always been here,” John said.

I never noticed the flags back in 2004, back when parenting wasn’t exactly easy but was certainly clearer. We took care of the kids. When they did something wrong, we took away a privilege. What happened? Now each parenting decision is day by day, flag by flag.

Once we figured out the orange flags, our hike went fairly smoothly. We reached the frozen lake and ate on the same rock where we lunched with the kids eight years ago. On the way back, we did get off the trail once. At the top of a hill, at a big boulder, the tracks appeared to go straight. After a few steps, John and I both realized that although there were tracks, there were no more flags.

“I think we need to go back a little,” John said.

I was about to say the same thing.

We went back to the boulder and found a different set of footprints. In a few more steps, we saw an orange flag.

Where are the orange flags to tell parents when we’ve veered off the path? Oh, sure, if we go way, way off we’ll know because we’ll sink into the snow, even with microspikes. But there are well-trodden paths that lead to dead ends.

Finally, we reached the intersection where we got lost in the first place. Looking at it from the opposite direction, we could see there was more than one path back to the parking lot. We counted four, including the one we had used with the kids back in 2004. We didn’t take that one. It seemed used. Instead we took the new one, the one that had gotten us lost earlier that day. This time, we knew where it led.

This bird took a little more work to photograph and to identify. We found it at Loch Vale. It would only come around us when we were standing. Since we had somehow climbed up the gorge (more on that tomorrow), I was tired enough to sit, even if it was cold.

At Alberta Falls, a black squirrel stole a girl’s energy bar, and the Steller’s jay took off after the squirrel. It didn’t get the energy bar, but it did get some of my Craisins.

I heard it before I saw it. Who knew that when you stop to sit after hiking in the snow, it’s cold! I ate standing up, shifting from foot to foot.

I scanned Lake Bierstadt for the sound, but it was right behind us. The bird (which I did not identify until later) was sitting on top of the pine tree, just like a partridge in a pear tree.

To get the full effect of this elk sighting, you must picture me wearing exactly what I describe—do not add clothing where clothing is not mentioned: flannel robe, wool socks, hiking boots, parka, gloves.

I spotted an elk off the porch, so I walked below the cabin to investigate. Then I realized there were a clump of five of them. I tried to walk on the patches of grass because they were quieter than the ice-covered snow. Once I got my camera ready, I saw a bull elk off to the right. So there were six.

I followed. More appeared. Seven. Eight. Wait, 11. Two bulls and nine does. Eleven elk a’grazing.

The sun was right in my eyes. If I knew how to do the Kelly effect and had a camera that could do that sort of thing, I’d have a great shot. But my best bet was to somehow get ahead of them without scaring them and shoot from behind.

They were relatively tame. Not shy, but cautious. The bulls eyed me at all times.

I moved to the road, which made me more silent. Finally, I could descend again into the grassy plain, with a ponderosa pine behind me to block the sun.

They grazed. Nuzzled. Nickered, like horses. One attempted to mount the other.

I kept watching. They decided I was probably not a threat, but two to three kept watch anyhow.

I got cold. Hungry. I climbed the hill, walking backward, keeping them in my sight. Then I turned away and headed back to the cabin. I paused at the door and turned around to see if the elk were still there, but the sun was blazing, obscuring them from my sight.