Many robins- the announcers of spring in the city avenues, but here in the woods, merely a band of collaborators seeking shelter and ravaging themselves on the berry fest. The trail is dotted with purple smears and small black berries as though Hansel and Gretel had run out of cookies to mark their way. The small blackish purple berries staining the snow and feeding the festive robins grow on long Tarzan jungle like vines. I often wondered what the robins, who apparently over winter in the Champlain Valley, use to stave off hunger until the grubs, worms and insects they feed on become available again. For a time I speculated the robins, like many of us, maintained a stash of frozen foods, only they have no microwave to warm and soften up their entrées. No wonder Robins seem overjoyed with a sighting of spring, anxious for the ground to offer up creepy crawly creatures again.
Marching across a small wooden bridge, I spot another sign of spring albeit premature- a frog of some four or five inches spread across the deep snow. Glistening with moisture, could it even be alive? Gently pressing one gloved digit against its stretched out appendages, I am startled to see it move, twitch really, unable apparently to hop or ski across its unaccustomed environment. Alas there is no stream or melted abyss of which I might transport this early purveyor of spring. I move along leaving the overly anxious creature to its destiny- probably lunch for some hawk or maybe a robin grown tired of purple berries.
Reaching a well placed bench overlooking a small pond I remove my backpack, sit back, close my eyes, relish the warm sun upon my face, and easily imagine spring, if not summer has arrived. I imagine I need only to open my eyes and look out to see a green everglade of leaves dressing the previously bare stark trees. After nearly dozing off I jump back to winter wonderland. The view offers bright sunshine across a deep blue sky, water trickling over openings in the icy waterways below, robins peering down unhidden from the perches of naked limbs, and snow having now melted, quickly being absorbed into the seat of my pants. Fortunately a little melting snow and warm sunshine enticing as they may be, will not avail me to toss my winter covers as did apparently my amphibian friend.
Leaving the overlook I quickly round the bend and reach the mighty Winooski river’s edge. She is also responding to the sun, for now only a small portion of ice remains on her top. Streaming by faster than the river a duck is skimming over the water no doubt not wanting to be late for Mother Nature’s grand spring party.
No more than 15 feet away a hairy woodpecker drums away on a burl some 8 feet off the ground, as if to say, pay no attention to me, as I surely will of you. I have no time to fuss or fear of predators near, feed I must, dig through this tree’s thick crust I will or bust. Those robins can settle for a vegetarian kettle of stew if they will, I for one need protein and warm meals. I try to converse on other topics with him, but he shows no interest. He continues to barrel away on that burl as I move on. Mr. Hairy, quite unperturbed, pays no mind to my intrusion. I being satisfied I have not interrupted his laborious hunt am at the same time thankful once again for microwaves.
Just above the canoe launch, a snowman presides over the river bend without even a scarf, giving testament to the beautiful and comfortable winter day. Yet I expect deep down he is no doubt lamenting the very sunshine that carries my spirits so high.
Reaching the end of the trail leaves me with a decision. To venture directly back to civilization and slumber home along the roadway or to mush through unpacked deep snow from which the railroad bed now slumbers. I easily transgress to the latter. Soon I am rewarded with tell tale signs of visitors who have been recently scurrying about. Not seeing the creatures themselves but only their markings reminds me we all leave footprints for others – speak and step softly should we all for no telling how far our voices carry, and how long our traces will remain.
Reluctant to leave the quiet woods, I remain up beat having been visited by so many. Observant and appreciative of all that offers to be seen, I find recompense for my part in paving much of earth.
Not to be out done by flocks of robins in the snow, by alpine amphibians, by woodpeckers with resolute intensity, by torpedoing ducks, by teasing sunshine, nor by a determined yet doomed snowman, one last sighting avails itself to me. A magnificent bird soars above ever so gently, wingspan so wide it nearly blocks out the sun. Feathered wingtips reach out like fingers. Its white neck and head reach out to a golden beak. On the other end a white tail leaving an immense tan body in-between. Even with my naked eyes there is no doubt. No squinting in a scope across a large barren field to guess at this wondrous bird’s identity. As robins are to spring, this bird is to our country’s strength and it’s re-awakening.
As the bald eagle circles two and half times overhead, I can’t help but wonder what other early arrivals Mother Nature is ready to have me behold if only I venture out to Stop, Look, and Listen.
Birding Journal entry. Bernie Paquette Re Print: March 2, 2008.
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