Trail Time – Signs of spring
At a certain point each year, when it starts to look as though winter might be over, Lars and I hop into the truck and drive the back roads to our favorite places on the Gunflint Trail, looking for Spring. For me, there is nothing that feels more like spring than a river running with speed between its still-icy banks. At End of the Trail campground, I stood in a spot of sun, high above the rushing water of the Seagull River, looking down into a beautiful pool below a water rill, gold and green and fully alive with sunlight and a lusty current. A pair of mergansers flew by at eye level, their wings pumping steadily, heading straight toward the open water ahead, then, wings stilled, floated down to a splash landing to enjoy a little fishing. Beyond them a sheet of ice still held part of the pool in winter’s grasp.
Heading down the Trail, we checked out rivers and lakes, looking for those familiar signs that we see each year, yet never tire of. The return of songbirds to herald the end of winter ranks right up there with running water as one of my favorite sounds. Over the last few days we’ve heard and seen the winter wren, pine siskins, common redpolls, nuthatches, purple finches, and a solo female red-winged blackbird. The juncos are back as well. They arrived with the snow buntings right before a snowstorm last week. The buntings disappear with the snow. The juncos are sticking around for the sunflower seeds they can find at our place. Since bears are starting to emerge from their dens, we don’t fill the bird feeder anymore, but scatter seeds on the snow for the birds to enjoy. We enjoy their company and their musical chatter. Each day they eat all the seeds so if a bear wanders by, he’ll see no reason to hang around. At lease that is the theory. The chickadees are always with us. They’re singing their spring song now. Two or three notes, in descending scale: a gentle but slightly mournful tune to announce spring.
The birds prefer the seed to be scattered near a sheltered area, and they flock to the shrubs that fill the northwoods: the alders, willows and hazels. Each are producing their familiar early buds: Pussywillows, cones and catkins, or the minuscule ruby-red hazel flower. Each bud on each shrub is so tiny, but en masse they create a beautiful haze or furze of muted yellows, purples and dark reds, softening the landscape. of dark trees and stark white birch. There are many kinds of willows in our area, and there are some that declare spring in a louder voice than others. I keep watch for the bright yellow-green of the young willow leaves and certain golden willows with new shoots that shine like distilled sunlight in the still-drab woods. All these shrubs are so humble, yet they are among the keystone species of the forest, producing food, filtering water, and providing habitat and shelter for birds.
I love all the seasons, but I get mightily sick of winter come April. Each sign of spring is a delicious reminder that summer is around the corner. Every spring is somewhat the same: there are the same signs, the same species of returning birds, the same rivers running free, but each spring is a fresh expression of rebirth and hope and joy. The forest and waters of the northland give us abundant beauty, bring us deep peace, and allow us to participate in the burgeoning of life all around us.
—Marcia Roepke
