Nature reflects humanity, and vice versa. Cycles of destruction and renewal, death and rebirth, ebb and flow, the ugly and the beautiful. Trees fall — and sometimes are “felled” –and we clean up the signs of their passing so that our eyes can rest on a more peaceful scene.
We often use “nature” as a synonym for tranquility and refuge. It is that. But it’s also the underbelly of survival. The lapse into winter’s sleep. The stubborn return of ice. The violence of spring storms.
Spring reminds me of the turmoil in our nation, and in the world because of actions by our nation. Some of us tried to do the societal version of “spring clean-up” before its natural time — to nudge us back to more civility, tolerance, kindness. But spring comes when it comes. Nature’s season are fairly predictable. Humanity’s? Not so much. There are too many variables.
And so we carry on, and take joy in little things when the “big things” are too much to absorb. Here’s a look at “the little things” in the far-north as spring slowly arrives and clean-up begins.
The ice on the bay broke up but remained into late April, passing back and forth in front of Camp Many Moons with the seiche (tide) and the wind. One day it’s gone. The next, it’s back.
Pushed up at the shoreline, it looks like broken glass…confused, changeable, complex. Like us.
Fog arrived as warming air met cold water and a low sun softened chunks of dirty ice with pastels.
In the woods, the snow was slow to melt. Some find this unsightly. I find it interesting.
At Sand Point in Baraga, ice still lined the sandy beach and floated in the bay, until…
…a strong wind that same day pushed all the ice out. When I arrived home from my beach walk…
…a fallen birch tree blocked my path. I parked my car, walked home, and called the neighbors…
…who were quick to clear it, first using a tow rope to pull it aside…
…and then a chainsaw to cut it up. I’m grateful for handy and helpful neighbors!
At home, I discovered a big elm down, too. Neither the birch nor the elm were rotted, so it must have been a strong wind that arrived as I was driving home from my beach walk.
My neighbor cut up the elm for me…
…while I borrowed a different neighbor’s “sawz-all” (a tool that saws anything) to cut branches from a balsam that also was down.
The deer browsed the branches I left on the ground. They normally don’t touch balsam, but at the end of a deep-snow winter, their fat stores are depleted and they explore any food source.
Some of them are noticeably skinnier than a month ago. (Yes, I’m still feeding them.)
Elsewhere on my property, a big cedar fell during the winter. After the branches were removed, I offered the trunk to yet another neighbor who needs kindling. (I have plenty of cedar kindling in firewood piles already, since I have a lot of cedar yrees that are dying one by one.) I love the sharing and mutual support in this remote neighborhood, especially since I live alone.
But this job was mine alone; piling the elm stumps into a stack. One comfort from losing a live tree–it has a 2nd life as firewood. That’s the elm on the right, still moist. The birch on the left, already cut into pieces, is dryer and grayer. The grass is gradually starting to “green up,” but still mostly brown.
Yet Boo found a fresh patch of grass…
…and of course immediately threw it up. A curious habit of cats, that! Eat something that you know will make you vomit! I caught the “stomach bug” this week and sure didn’t enjoy the process. But cats know what cats need. Purging is apparently something they need.
The snow is melting quickly now. This is all that remains on April 20 of a 6-foot pile in my drive.
Farther north, there was enough snow a few days ago for a final ski with the hike/ski/snowshoe group. We northerners like to get in all the winter sport we can, and there’s no substitute for the full-body exercise of cross-country skiing. So we push through the pieces of dirt and fallen vegetation that sometimes grab your skis and are a feature of spring skiing. We’ll be in hiking boots now, until next winter, when the cycle begins again. That’s the thing about nature, and humans. Cycles happen. We adjust. We change strategies. We endure.
For Many Moons 