Place Entry #7: Hello Spring!

Sunday, April 10th
10:00 AM
51°

This week, I was joined by Greg, my husband, and Brett Mosier, a naturalist who gives tours at Clark Reservation, for my hike. We took numerous trails that led us to and from the lake, which was no longer frozen. The water had shed its ghostly paleness for a darkness that churned with the wind. At first, I thought the trees still looked sadly naked, but Brett told me to look closely at the branches.

"They're all ready to burst," he said, and I realized they weren't naked at all. Their branches were full of little plump buds. Brett had printed off a list (with pictures) of the common trees in the park, and by the end of our two-hour hike, I was surprised how easily I could distinguish the trees. The buckthorn, small and shrubby, spread across areas of the park like weeds. Their low branches tangled with one another wickedly. They weren't native to the park, but buckthorn trees are quick to fill open spots and spread. A few of the buckthorn trees still carried their shriveled berries like small weights.

"The diarrhea berries," Brett said, as he pulled a branch closer. "I wonder why this tree still has them." Why would a few trees fail to lose their berries? I pondered that question.

I've crossed from the Mildred Faust trail to the Big Buck trail before. I've come to believe I'm quite familiar with the park. I know the trails' names and where they start and end, so when Brett asked me to stop at the meeting point of Mildred Faust and Big Buck and tell him what was different about the section of forest we had just entered, I looked around for something small. I thought there might be a flower starting to make its way out of the soil or a mossy boulder near the path. 

"The forest is completely different," Greg said, and I looked up and around. How had I never noticed? The buckthorn had disappeared. The trees looked larger and more distinct without the buckthorn's tangled branches consuming the extra space. 

"Yep," Brett said. "This is part of the mature forest. The buckthorn couldn't invade here because these trees had already claimed the sunlight." The difference suddenly seemed so obvious, and  though I had walked on this trail many times, it became new. One tree, thick and strong, had branches that spread horizontally. Brett informed us the way that trees' branches spread out instead of up indicated it had been there before the forest. Nothing had originally surrounded it to compete for sunlight, so its branches were able to grow, bend, and twist in whichever direction they chose. Now, as we continued through the park, I noticed the differences in the mature forest, the new forest, the transitional forest (a mix of the older trees and the buckthorn), and the individual trees. 

We lifted logs and found small centipedes curled in half circles. A small wolf spider scampered away from our giant bodies. I've never been fond of bugs, yet I knelt down in the soil and watched them gleefully. We discovered spots full of little shoots. Brett said they were trout lilies. They lifted from the soil like probing fingers, testing the warmth and sunshine. 

Life thrived. Signs of growth and activity surrounded me. Since the snow was gone, except for dips in the terrain where it still carpeted the ground, I noticed a thick layer of needles missing near the bottom of a patch of Northern White Cedars. 

"The deer ate the needles over winter," Brett explained. "The bottom branches still have needles because they were buried in snow." The things I now noticed almost overwhelmed me. I found deer trails winding through the forest. Their tracks, their poop, the trampled branches, and flattened leaves were all clearly visible. I touched the twisted, raised patterns on the Hackberry trees. Shagbark Hickories stood together with their long strips of bark draping down the trunks. There was so much detail that I had missed. There was so much detail I knew I had yet to discover. 

Since I was paying such close attention to the different barks and buds of trees, I forgot to listen to the music. It was a loud hollow tapping that captured my attention. 

"The pileated woodpecker," Brett said. I knew those were at the park, but this was the first time I'd heard one. The silence of winter was over. The coldness dissolved into sunshine. The snow only clung in shaded bowls in the land. Flowers sprouted. Trees' buds were ready to pop open and unfurl. 

"Hello Spring!" I said with excitement. I'm eager to return and watch for a pileated woodpecker. I want to see how the trout lilies progress in their growth. I want to watch the trees shake out their leaves. Winter has departed (even though it is possible to get another snowstorm), and for the first time in my life, I'm really paying attention to the transition to spring.