Cabin Journal

Tempestuous Spring

I forgot how moody spring is, as changeable as my new cat, which one minute is running around the house like a wild animal and the next is curled up in my lap purring.

I started out my walk from the cabin under gray skies, crossing Tahosa Creek, which is still frozen and smothered in snow, and as I bushwacked my way up the hill, it started snowing hard, obliterating all the mountain tops around me. This was the kind of snowstorm I had been craving all winter, the snowflakes falling fast and heavy, big thick ones so I could almost make out the individual pattern in each flake, almost dizzying in their flight to earth.

But by the time I reached the top of the hill and started down the road, the sun had come out again, as if the snow had been a figment of my snow-starved imagination. The sun felt delicious, and I thought I could smell the earth for the first time since last fall, moist, dense, full of  living matter just waiting to spring to life.

 

 

Around me, some of the aspen were flowering (above), the soft pussy willows resembling cherry blossoms—this subtle mountain version more delicate than the more riotous outspoken pink on the plains.  I read later that aspen leaves and plants that grow more readily in an aspen forest, because of more sunlight, decay faster than pine needles, so the earth is richer with nutrients than under the pine trees. Almost unconsciously I slowed my steps, wanting to linger in this spring-like moment.

But too fast, as I reached the main road, the clouds started moving in again, starting to erase the Twin Sisters peaks to the north (above), and soon I was pelted with something between snowflakes and rain. The moisture descended from the skies with a hiss, the sizzle of life, bringing moisture to these too dry mountains. On the few puddles, the drops created circles, something missing all winter (left).

Back at the cabin, when I went outside to empty the pail that’s catching water from the roof, I realized everything is soaked—my prayer flags, the ground—and water is dripping from all the gutters and roof. It sounds and feels great.

 

Hopeful Signs

 
Ways to tell winter is leaving:

• When I arrive at the cabin the water jugs are not frozen solid.
• The olive oil and salsa don’t need to be thawed out in the microwave before I can use them.
• The cold that emanates from the uninsulated floor only comes up about a few inches, rather than a foot, so my feet aren’t as cold.
• My bed doesn’t feel like it’s been well chilled.
• The temperature inside the cabin is above 20 degrees.
• For the first few hours after I arrive I don’t need to sit at my computer wearing my knit hat, parka and fingerless gloves.
• With sun is tracking higher, it’s touching parts of the cabin it didn’t reach all winter.
• I  can leave the front door open, to hear the winds through the trees and bird cries (bottom).

 

When I go out for a walk, the light is different—fuller, less stingy, more luxurious; even the clouds look different. And I’m hearing new bird calls I haven’t heard all winter. The ground is no longer frozen solid but gives under my feet; in fact, with the melting snow, in places it’s downright squishy. I don’t mind my muddy boots; they’re a good sign. Still, I see almost no one else walking on the roads.

This week, for the first time since October, I was able to sit on my deck, albeit in a place sheltered from the winds and in the sun. The sun still feels good—comforting and not too hot.

And yet, even in this warm and almost snowless winter, the snow hangs on up on the north-facing slopes and in the woods. The creeks and ponds are mostly still frozen, although I’m starting to see openings in the water, like giant blue eyes set in the white snow, and the tufts of dried yellow grass in the meadow are still bowed down from winter’s onslaught. The ground squirrels have not yet emerged from hibernation.

I’ve been carrying snow to the base of my trees, especially the tall ponderosas, from the shaded areas where it hasn’t melted. I have no idea if these small offerings will make a dent in the lack of water they’ve been receiving this winter, but I feel I have to do something, even if it’s a useless gesture.

The weather forecasters are saying it’s too late to hope for enough moisture to end the drought, so now I will have to wait for the whatever comes this summer. In the meantime, I’ll look for more signs of spring.

Finally, snow

 

 

Finally, we got some snow, only about six inches, but the first substantial snow since December. Is there anything more beautiful than new snow, blanketing and erasing all that brown? I think you can feel the peace and quiet from these photos I took last week.

 

 

 

 

I love the shadows created by the sunlight on the new white palette, above.

 

 

 

 

Left, it looks like the tree is emerging through the snow, like a new plant breaking free of the earth.

 

 

Snow smothers the streams, so we get just a glimpse of the water. Everythinng is tinted with blue.