Spring in the mountains reminds me of a woman awakening after a good night’s sleep. She yawns and stretches lasciviously. She comes slowly to awareness of the new day, the new season. She turns over and is tempted to sleep again as momentary snow storms speckle the evergreens, gentle reminders of the past winter, of sleep. She periodically dozes and awakens, as chill and warmth alternate, as clouds drift in and away, as winds torment us and then bring blessed serenity.
At dawn, the temperature outside is in the low 20s, in the house in the 50s, cold enough that a fire feels grand. No woman, no house should long remain chilled in the morning. By 9 or o’clock, however, the sun has warmed the small east-facing porch so that it is a good place to read and write, to sip coffee and munch on toast or granola. In the afternoon in the lee of the house, sheltered from the almost constant winds of spring, it is warm enough to work unshod, in a T-shirt and shorts, the sun bright enough for slathered-on sunscreen along with sunglasses and a hat. After all, even lasciviousness needs care.
In normal years, the woodland paths would still be a soggy mess from snowmelt, but this is what people have come to call the new normal. New normal, it seems, is always bad, whether referring to weather or the economy or the difficulty our kids have growing up; the new normal reminds us how good the old normal used to be. This winter and early spring have again been dry, I almost said exceptionally dry but it has usually been that way during a couple of decades.
So we take our pleasures where we can find them and make the best of what we have. This spring, then, is the time to enjoy the woods before the heat of summer roasts them dry.
The woodland paths are now a joy to stroll or, during my more energetic days, to run. Here and there an early lousewort or a daisy pokes its way through broken twigs and fallen leaves. A small white butterfly flits along the ground. I do not fully appreciate its beauty until it opens its wings to display minute delicate tracery on the insides. True beauty often takes such attention to find it.
The birds that I have missed all winter are returning. I hear the sharp clack of a hairy woodpecker poking at something good in the trunk of a ponderosa pine, and its friend flits in to see what it has found. I hear the rough call of a Steller’s jay, and then its mate appears and they fly off together. Two ravens swoop huge and low overhead, flying complex figures beside, above and below each other, but staying close. It is the time when all of nature turns lascivious.
An acrobatic nuthatch walks upside down on a piñon trunk. It is the only bird that seems to enjoy life in reverse, even eating upside down.
The humming birds have not yet appeared in these mountain altitudes, but their arrival is not far away. For a little while at least we will be able to put out the syrup they love before we have to worry about the hibernating bears awakening and stopping by our house to steal the precious liquid.
A squirrel scurries up a juniper trunk, its mouth crammed full. A single baby rabbit turns its back to me. It believes it is safe if I cannot see its face, and in ignoring it, I encourage the illusion for which it may one day pay the price.
In the woods near my house there is a manmade pond that catches and for a while holds rain and snowmelt. It still has a few inches of water. I sit on the bank above the pond and watch for wildlife. The sun is warm, the wind still. I lie down. I sleep. There will be plenty of time when I waken for the future joys of spring.
(Photo by Jan Arendtsz)
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