A new year has a way of reminding me how much of the world I still haven’t seen, experienced, or truly noticed. There have been moments in my life when I’ve stopped short and thought, Wow—there’s a whole other world out there. I hope I find myself thinking that often in 2026.

The first time I remember feeling that sense of discovery was some sixty years ago. My father shoveled a patch of ice clear on the pond near our house, chopped a hole, and told me to lie on my belly. He covered me with his coat, and I peered into the hole. Below the ice, vegetation swayed gently over a sandy bottom—and then a fish swam into view. The bluegill glided past calmly, unaware that I was peeking in. I had never considered that an entire world existed beneath the frozen surface.

Years later, that feeling returned while snorkeling in Hawaii’s Hanauma Bay. I swam alongside a sea turtle and spotted an octopus perfectly blended into a rock. Schools of bright yellow tang, parrotfish, and other striped, colorful fish drifted past or munched quietly on coral. I remember wishing I could develop gills and stay there all day. Once again, I had stumbled into a place that had always been there, waiting to be noticed.

I feel that same sense of wonder when I look up at the night sky. Whether peering through a telescope or standing outside on a clear evening, the questions come easily. What’s out there? Will I ever know?

Last week, I discovered another world—this one much closer to home. While cross-country skiing, I noticed a delicate trail of mouse tracks etched across the snow. The tracks ended at a slight indentation, and I knew the mouse had slipped into the subnivean layer—the space beneath the snow but still on top of the frozen ground where mice, voles, ruffed grouse, and other animals make their winter homes.

By then, my mouse was likely tucked into a network of tunnels, safe from owls and hawks overhead. It would still need to watch for weasels, foxes, and coyotes, whose keen hearing allows them to detect movement even beneath deep snow.

Snow is an excellent insulator. The subnivean layer stays close to 32 degrees Fahrenheit, even when the air above is far colder. If my mouse wanted extra warmth, it might tunnel closer to the ground. Or perhaps it was traveling through fluffier snow near the surface alongside a ruffed grouse, ready to burst into flight if danger appeared.

Years ago, my grandsons and I experienced a bit of that same coziness when we built a snow cave. We dug until we had a snug shelter, carved shelves into the walls, and brought in battery-powered luminary candles for light. Despite the cold outside, it was surprisingly warm inside.

Fallen tree trunks and branches create similar protection for wildlife. I remember rabbit hunting with my father when I was young. We would circle piles of downed limbs and brush, hoping to flush a rabbit out. I wouldn’t have known the term subnivean layer then. I was focused on spotting a rabbit and making my father proud. He wouldn’t have known the term either, but he understood the value of snow. It preserved tracks—whole stories, really—allowing us to learn about the creatures that shared our world. Without ever saying it aloud, he was teaching me how to notice.

Over the years, I’ve discovered wonders under the water, near the stars, and beneath my feet. I know you’ve experienced various wonders too. Maybe you’ve explored a tidal pool or walked on a swinging bridge through a rainforest’s canopy. In this new year, I hope we can keep in touch and share our explorations of newly discovered worlds.