Are We There Yet?
It may be hasty to use the present tense, but indications that spring has arrived in our part of south central Montana are building as the days pass.
Calving and lambing came first while below freezing nights and snowy, wind blown days held us in winter’s grip. The new life was the sole herald of hope in the bleakness. After the babies gained in strength they could be seen running full tilt with one another or racing the ranch tractor, while their mothers socialized or waited with patience for the little terrors to return hungry to the milk bar.
The next arrivals were the bluebirds and robins flashing their exotic colors and loud voices, reminding me of vacationers at the airport returning from Hawaii or Mexico, as they make sure we all hear about their hard earned fun in a warm place.
The last snowfall was just over a week ago dumping five inches, but with the increase in sun hours and a bigger swing of temperature, it did not lie long on the ground. Its melt was the moisture needed to encourage the native pasture grasses to finally push their first tender shoots above the shallow Montana top soil. The full March “Worm Moon” (named for the new worm castings in the soil) stroked the Beartooth mountains as it set peacefully in the west.
For the past few mornings my wake up call at dawn has been a pair of Canada geese honking directions to one another as they fly over the cabin. The air drifting through the inch of open window behind my bed has a damp, peaty quality with a lingering mineral sharpness. It is full of new bird song, undeniably exuberant.
My insulated snow boots have been swapped for rubber wellingtons and it no longer takes half an hour to get ready to go outside. Yesterday I stomped happily around the sleeping vegetable and fruit garden, examining the raspberry canes and apple trees for new buds and testing the compost covered raised beds with some exploratory prods with a garden fork. The dog proudly pranced about with a severed deer’s leg that had lain frozen under the snow since last fall’s hunting season. Who knew what delights lay waiting? As he settled down to start work on it, a noise overhead made us look up simultaneously to witness arrival of the first
Rocky Mountain Sandhill crane. Its five foot wingspan sent a huge shadow across the garden and we were treated to its curious and extremely loud rolling wattle-like call. It landed on the open hill above the ranch house and has remained nearby ‘wattling’ musically with the obvious urgencies of spring.
Local knowledge says that snow is still possible in these parts all the way into June, but this newcomer is going to settle for what is in front of her nose; all signs indicate that spring is here and life is busy renewing itself again.
Virginia has been a wanderer her whole life. She is seldom lost however and has made an art out of plunging her roots deeply into whatever soil she finds herself. She is usually in the good company of her husband of 35 years.
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Virginia Cross
Virginia has been a wanderer her whole life. She is seldom lost however and has made an art out of plunging her roots deeply into whatever soil she finds herself. She is usually in the good company of her husband of 35 years.
