in Thoreau’s Journal:

I cannot now walk without leaving a track behind me. This is one peculiarity of winter walking. Anybody may follow my trail.

I walk along some swamp side all summer, and thought to myself, I am the only villager that ever comes here. But I go out shortly after the first snow has fallen, and lo, here is the track of a sportsman and his dog in my secluded path, and probably he preceded me in the summer as well. But my hour is not his, and I may never meet him.