My mother always used to say that spring moves north at the pace of a man walking slowly and that autumn moves south at the same pace. I think she gleaned that from one of her extensive collections of books by nature writers like Edwin Way Teale and Hal Borland. She treasured those authors, calling their works her "comfort books"; now those books are on our bookshelf, and I find them comforting, too.
After many seasons of watching the seasons, I'm inclined to agree with the pace of spring and fall. Of course, that means that here in the Great Land, we're among the last in the U.S. to see spring arrive and the first likewise to have autumn fall over us. But now, here in the Susitna Valley, we're well past the spring equinox, and that slow-walking man is approaching. That's a wheel that never stops turning.
Previously on RedState: Photographs and Memories: Reflections on Winter
Photographs and Memories: The Circle of the Seasons
When I was a boy and then a young man back in Allamakee County, Iowa, spring was often a season of mud. We got plenty of snow in the upper Midwest in those years, and from late February to early April that snow melted, making a sloppy mess akin to what Russians refer to as their rasputitsa. It wasn't uncommon to see a farmer take his tractor to the field a few days too early to start spring plowing and get bogged down up to the hubs. But then as April proceeded on to May, things dried out, the summer birds returned, and my Mom's flower garden exploded into a riot of color as the wildflowers bloomed in the woods. Wood ducks would show up on the creek trailing bevies of ducklings, and the white-tailed does would appear with their spotted fawns as we moved into summer.
Up here in the Great Land, the process takes a little longer. Around here, it's May showers that bring June flowers, but even now, in early April, we're seeing the signs as the days are longer, the sun is out more, and the snow is slowly melting.
The winter that's leaving us, interestingly, was the winter of the Redpoll.
These little finches are common enough not only in North America but also in Asia and Europe, and their populations can swing pretty wildly; this was a big year for them, and they are still hanging around, buzzing about the bird feeders and calling from high in the birches. They're keeping company with our usual run of chickadees and nuthatches, all while dodging the little Cooper's Hawk that hangs around the area looking for a small bird for his next meal.
Soon our juncos will be back, probably within the next week or so. Dark-eyed juncos are somewhat migratory; they stay rather late in the fall and are usually the first migratory birds to return in spring. Later, we'll have an explosion: Thrushes, warblers, and many more.
The bears are awake now. Only a few days ago a friend of ours who lives "on the mountain" near Hatcher Pass sent us a photo of a huge griz track in the snow next to their garage. The bears will be moving down, out of the woods where they slept out the winters, back towards the rivers and meadows where they will fatten up on fish and berries.
The seasons, of course, mean different things to different people.
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It’s interesting. In all the years I lived in the city, I paid only nominal attention to the turn of the seasons. Since returning to a rural lifestyle, I’ve become much more aware of the great circle the year makes, not just with the weather but with the creatures around us. Soon the robins will return, and then the swallows will be back to start hoovering up the mosquitoes. The sandhill cranes will be overhead on their way to Arctic nesting grounds, and we’ll be in the full bloom of our short, mild, beautiful Alaskan summer. Time to get out the fishing gear, put new lines on our reels, check the tackle boxes, and get ready for the summer's fishing. And before we know it, mid-August will see the opening of grouse season - and so the wheel keeps turning.
We have friends who live in places like Florida and Arizona, and that’s great – to every cat its own rat. People should live where conditions suit them, and everyone is different. But I’ve always preferred living where there are seasons. I think they define the year, punctuating our life. Granted, here in Alaska, we joke that the four seasons are “Ice-Out, Mosquito, Road Work and Winter” or occasionally "June, July, August, and Winter," but we still love it here. And, I will admit, while the winters are indeed beautiful, we look forward to the return of the sun.
Wherever you are, whatever stage you are at in the great cycle, may the warm sunshine of spring smile upon you. Find some time to get outdoors and enjoy it. Political and personal troubles come and go, but the sun will still shine, and the trees, birds, and flowers will always be there. It's important to remember that, now and then.
