Footprints in the snow

It has been snowing for three days, now. The trees are heavy with white powder, sagging under the weight, and the flurries blow in on the biting wind. It has been a cold winter, bitterly so, and the backcountry, so far from the bustle of the cities, is abandoned. A deathly stillness has come over the land, and not even the animals dare stir from the burrows and nests out into the world. And yet there is someone out there. A figure, tightly bundled up, walks with a steady determination, shrugging off the wind, shielding their eyes against the snow, leaving tracks which are slowly being covered by a fresh layer of snow. And yet, this is not the only person to pass by this way. The figure stops, crouches, and examines the path ahead. Another set of footprints continues on into the snow. A finger probes, measures. Silence.

Satisfied, the tracker continues following the trail. But here, I must stop and ask you for some help, friends. Who is this hunter, tracking their prey so doggedly though the snow? And who, exactly, is the one being hunted?