That time of year again

Fishing is pretty much out of the question around here right now.
Sure, a boy COULD go out to one of the local streams and flail the
water in the hope of dredging up a torpid log that's already absorbed
the stench of the surrounding water and is just waiting for things to
warm up a bit before growing a nice mantle of mold, the telltale
prelude to a lingering and poisoned death, if bubba don't eat it
first. Or even if he eats it afterward....and he will if he can still
get it.
Early spring fishing is fractious around here, if not to say downright
bipolar. An hour's drive north, there's still enough ice on the lakes
to suit the hardwater fishers. Closer to home, the fundraiser cars
parked near shore are beginning to fall through and win somebody who
guessed the right day and time a nice little bundle. Officially,
spring is here, but the calendrical variety generally has little to
do, for the first few weeks, with reality on the ground which is, in
most places, still frozen to some depth even if the surface melts a
bit on warm days. Boats are still parked along the side of the garage
and waders are still moldering contentedly somewhere in the basement
or the closet or.....damn, where DID I leave them this time?
But the real thing IS on its way. There are signs. Some of the
signs, like the calendar, are of dubious worth, which is to say they
lie as often as not. Killdeer, sandhill cranes, and red-winged
blackbirds started to trickle into the state a couple of weeks ago and
have since flooded over the line from Illinois like the thunderous
hordes of weekenders from Chicago who will follow in a few weeks.
Robins are everywhere, as are others of the early migrants and even
odd individuals representing tribes who mostly have more sense. But
we know what all of these have on their wee little minds, we know that
they are driven by a mad desire to get there first and stake out a
good breeding site regardless of the possible consequences of arriving
too early. They may be harbingers, but they are not reliable short
term forecasters. Silver maples started blossoming around ten days
ago during a brief and entirely unconvincing warm spell brought on by
persistent southerly winds, the same winds that drove the optimistic
and horny birds. However, the maples and the pussy willows are not as
easily fooled as birds because their clocks are set to a more certain
and precise standard. The sun may not shine brightly every day (in
fact, that's pretty much a given in this neighborhood), but there is
no hiding the waxing hours of daylight and the slow but certain ebbing
of the night. The other willows and the osiers can feel it even
farther in advance, though they are less rambunctious than some of the
others. They begin sedately adding color to the bark of their twigs
as early as January. This is a promise, not a prediction. No, the
maples and the pussy willows are the real and true sign that Spring is
just about here. Once the sap starts to flow in sufficient quantity
to produce uncountable billions of flowers and those scattered few
dozens, here and there, of fuzzy nubs, there is no holding it back any
longer. Everybody else is going to have to play catch up. No
problem, though, they WILL catch up.....they always do.
Soon enough, though it never really seems so, the magnolias will be
rioting and the forsythias bellowing for attention. But first, bulbs
interred for generations in beds around foundations will throw up
their gaudy produce.....grape hyacinth, tulip, daffodil and
narcissus. Attention grabbers, one and all, they brighten an
otherwise still bleak urban landscape and warm many a barely thawed
heart, and then they fade quickly away, having once again succeed in
seducing most away from paying attention to the real story, the old
story that is taking place at the same time in the forests, the ever
dwindling grasslands, and even the small wooded patches scattered
throughout villages and cities alike.
Here, in the woods, at the same time, the more demure but aptly named
spring beauties and the slandered skunk cabbage start the parade,
followed closely by marsh marigold, bloodroot, trout lilies,
Dutchman's breeches anemones, rues and a host of others that make hay
while the sun shines, before the dense canopy of burgeoning leaves
shuts out the light and cuts off their all too brief glory. Like the
citified bulbs, they disappear, leaves and all, before the spring is
over and summer begins its shameless annual display of excess.
This is the season of neck pains and stumbling. While walking slowly
and admiring the flora, a peep, a twitter or a chirp is heard
overhead. The head snaps up and the binoculars follow. Feet are left
to find their own way unattended. They aren't good at it. The source
of the sound is found and identified.....or not.....and the head goes
down. The pattern repeats itself over and over and over. By the end
of the day, whiplash is understood to be something that one doesn't
need a car accident to acquire. Stubbed toes, twisted knees and
ankles, skin and clothing ripped by thorns and spines are all standard
issue, they are simply a part of the job. And this will go on for the
duration, for the next two seasons, till the job is done for another
year. But, oh what a job.....and oh what a place to labor in!

g.