timberdoodle

Last week, I said to myself, “Enough is enough.” As in, enough pretending it’s too cold, and I don’t have the time, and probably nothing will be going on anyway, and spring will never actually come.

Enough sitting indoors. Enough twiddling my thumbs. Enough.

I said to myself, “It’s time.” Time to find spring, and the warmth, and the green things and the singing birds.

Time to get my pants dirty. Time to brave the ticks. Time to watch the timberdoodles.

Timberdoodle is another name for the bird formally known as a woodcock. I really like these birds. They’re mysterious, well-camouflaged. Funny looking, too, with enormous night-vision eyes placed near the back of its head for vigilance, and a long, narrow beak for probing leaves and soil for grubs. I’ve probably walked past hundreds and never even known they were present. I’ve seen only one in the wild, held two in my hands as wildlife rehab patients.

Seeing woodcocks is not difficult all the time, however. You just have to know when and where. When is early spring, March through May, fifteen minutes after sunset. Where is open, grassy fields close to woodlands, where the timberdoodles spend most of their time. I know of such a field.

meadowThis is what you will see, if you also know of such a field: First, since you should get there in time to watch the sun set, you’ll see the bluebirds, flitting from post to branch, scolding each other, and singing on barbed wire fences as if the answer to a sharp thing was, of course, a bird. And you will probably also see the gleaming white breast of a red-tailed hawk perched in an oak tree, surveying the meadow for one last meal before sundown. You may also see a hard mass of foam clinging to the branch of a tree—an ootheca, or egg case holding hundreds of praying mantis eggs that will hatch and yield perfect miniature mantids as the days warm up.

You’ll hear things too: the chorus of the spring peeper frogs chiming from the low pond behind the tree line; the sing-song voices of the bluebirds and the robins claiming each nook and cranny. As the sun sinks, the day birds will bicker for the best sleeping perches and then slowly fall silent. The frogs will intensify their songs to compete with the darkness that’ll otherwise obscure their presence.

The sun will set, though the sky will be bright. And you will hold very still.

The first thing you’ll hear as the darkness falls is a questioning, nasally voice. “Peent? Peent? Peent?” That’s the male woodcock, pushing through the tall grass to find a mate. But his question isn’t enough. So to be very sure she sees him, he’ll launch into the air, gaining altitude slowly like a heavy bomber, banking around great curves, twittering the whole way. He’s hard to see in the darkness, but if you’re fast, and carefully extrapolate his location from the flurry of twitters, you can land your binoculars on him and watch his long nose leading a body the size of your two fists, wings furiously blurred as he circles overhead.

Well, so. It’s a natural phenomenon that has happened every spring for millennia. Not such a big deal that I’m seeing it for the first time.

clouddotsBut I’ll tell you a secret. When I arrived at the meadow and found my seat next to a short pine sapling, I had the devil of a time just being there. It was as if I’d forgotten how to open up my heart outside. It was as if I actually preferred the screen in my hand, the people in my pocket to the fresh air and the golden sunlight on my eyelids and the company of all those wild things just as hungry for spring as I am. No offense to the people in my pocket.

I wasn’t actually seeing or hearing any of these delicious things that were happening around me. I had to sternly make myself zip up my phone, turn off the camera, listen and see. I hate that a long, cold winter and the accumulation of my own bad behavior now require so much effort for me to be present for things I love, for things I’ve never seen before.

Spring will keep whispering her “wake up” incantation to the birds and the bugs and the leaves and the buds, and to me. Enough walking around with my heart closed. I’m going to make damn sure I’m listening.

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Posted in Education of a Naturalist, Fauna | Tagged , | 4 Comments

how-to: believe in spring

iceplates lastyearsleaves moss skunkcabbage wintergreenThe first warm day in March go out into the dry woods. Do not step on the failing ice still floating on the pond. Do not linger too long over the fur-and-feather-and-bone evidences of someone’s meals. Do not listen for what hasn’t yet returned.

Go down through the tangled briars, down to the soggy bottom where the creek carves a narrow way between its banks. Go down on your hands and knees. Don’t mind that your jeans soak up the liquid dampness of the thawing soil, don’t mind that the rotting logs shatter under your weight. Go ahead and stick your nose right into the hesitating green scent of the sun-drenched mosses.

Search out the skunk cabbage spathes, the bold, advance scouts of the green kingdom. Let your eyes map their silhouette, count them by the dozens. Admire those aubergine rockets burning through the forest litter, those first homely, smelly harbingers of spring.

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Posted in Flora, Seasons | Tagged | 5 Comments

flashback

I swear I’ve been hearing ghosts. The voices of spring peeper frogs keep creeping into my ears as the sun sets, later and later each day, but they’re nothing more than the echoes of my powerful imagination. I know logically the little frogs are not awake. Not for another few weeks yet. But as much as I’m enjoying the snow, and the promise of owls, and the company of ducks, a little bit of my heart craves the day when the snow melts and fills all the hollows, and the frogs start shouting in the trees to wake up spring.

Meanwhile, I stumbled on some photos from scouting trips that didn’t make it onto the blog last summer, so I thought I’d throw them up now. A little bit of a flashback for those of us for whom summer can’t come soon enough.

caterpillar butterfly flowers fairycups

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Posted in Pictures | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments