They say spring advances fifteen miles a day, the pace of a leisurely walk, which is why I could experience three springs last year. The first was in March, in Ohio, on the shore of Lake Erie’s Maumee Bay, where new grass was sprouting in farmers’ fields and clusters of broad-winged hawks circled overhead in kettles. I counted 200 broad-wings one day, but a local birder said they sometimes numbered in the tens of thousands and even hundreds of thousands—whole galaxies of hawks spiraling slowly northward with the wind. In the marshes and woodlots were other early migrants—red-winged blackbird, yellow-rumped warbler, ruby-crowned kinglet, and a brown thrasher that perched at the top of a tree beside my cabin for an hour and performed tireless variations of “Here I am, look at me.”
Three weeks later, those same birds were showing up 300 miles north, near Traverse City. The snow was finally gone from the woods; forsythia and trilliums were in bloom. Suddenly morels were popping beneath the aspens and trout were gobbling mayflies in the rivers.
Then it was time for the third spring, so I drove north again, crossed the Mackinac Bridge into the Upper Peninsula, and followed county roads until I banged up against the shore of Superior. I had the key to a friend’s cabin but had to shovel a drift away from the door before I could open it. Remnant bergs sat melting on the beach. Overhead the sky was stacked with hawks waiting for a south wind to carry them across the big lake.
Spring is the most complicated season. It arrives with reluctance, pulling its clanking train of machinery, and we recognize that the name we’ve given it is all wrong. It doesn’t spring, it creeps, two steps forward and one back—and often it backs off entirely and you have to wait a few days or a week before it tiptoes forward again.
One morning I stepped from the cabin to listen to those clanking gears and turning wheels and caught the first warm wind of the season. A familiar warbling call sounded high overhead and I looked up to see a loon hurtling past, bound for Canada. Then came another, and another, each making its ululating call.
This was the clarion announcement, the very emblem of the wild north, a song that has always stirred something deep in the souls of those who value solitude and unspoiled places. It’s the music of mist-shrouded lakes and tannin-colored ponds, a boreal timelessness best heard from a canoe. But coming from the sky above Superior it was the sound of a different wildness, one in transit, like us, winging northward into the lengthening days of the season of hope.
Excellent, Jerry! You’re right about spring creeping, but the woodcock are back, and that’s a harbinger for sure!
Glad to hear it, Kit. Friends in southern Michigan reported seeing a sky dance one evening last week, but I hadn’t heard of any in the north. I’m ready!
Jerry, your words are so musical and flowing. What a gift you share!
Thanks, Terri. Hope you and Barry are enjoying B’s new chapter. Retirement! What a concept.
I envy you the drive above the Bridge, Jerry, but heard robins singing, sandhill cranes clacking, and bullfrog calling last week here in Leelanau. You’re right about spring not springing. More cold weather next week. But snowdrops are blooming in the cold, cold ground. Spring seems to be something we can count on to arrive — sooner or later!
Thanks, Pamela. Sandhills and bullfrogs! We haven’t heard them on our side of the bay (no spring peepers yet, either), but some migrant songbirds are showing up, including robins,red-winged blackbirds, and white-crowned sparrows and chipping sparrows so things are looking up.
Lovely description. The dawn chorus is really heating up here in Manistee County..the ramps are becoming more rampant in the woods and the bear reports have begun. But I’m waiting for the turkey buzzards to return and the peepers to sing!!
Thanks, Marilyn. I know many people who are eager for the bluebirds to return. And the hummingbirds. And the warblers and flycatchers. You’re the first I’ve heard who looks forward to the return of the turkey vultures! But I agree with you. They’re true harbingers of spring, and I enjoy watching them soar, especially as they make subtle micro-adjustments with their wings to maintain stability.
You brought spring right back to my eyes, ears, and all of my other senses. I love how you see the world!
Thank you, Lisa.