I took a sheltered hike to a different lake yesterday. The wind was blowing more like 20 mph, so I knew I wouldn’t be blown to the next county. This morning the rhododendrons are not being bashed against my window and the blue jays, chickadees and squirrels have ventured back out.
I’d hiked this trail last summer past high bush blueberries. I wonder if this will be a good blueberry year. The ground never froze, so I pick my way carefully around a boggy area. It’s still winter - the air temperature confirms that - but the mud is already soft enough to encase my foot up to my ankle if I’m not careful.
This is a good time to study the skeletal forest. Soon the buds will form and when those tiny fists spread their palmate leaves, the branches will hardly be visible.
It’s mud season, kite-flying weather, mating season. I take a moment to sit in a sheltered spot by the lake and watch two goose couples discuss a little island as they swim around it. Pale Male and Lola are building a new nest on Fifth Avenue in New York City - it’s impossible not to be hopeful at this time of year. And yet - one last blizzard would be a shock, even if we expected it.
The volatile winds have stirred the normally compressed leaves on the forest floor. I see evidence of this leapfrog season in the freshly-pecked woodpecker holes in red maple trunks. Crows soar like hawks,cawing from one end of the woods to the other.
I pick my way back along the trail, suppressing the urge to bushwhack. Until my hand heals, I have to err on the side of caution.