In the far north, winter keeps a tight grip on the land. By early April, the thermometer’s mercury on many a day still finds itself below the freezing point. With the cold refusing to yield its icy grip, one begins to wonder if spring’s warmth will ever come—nearly all of winter’s snow remains on the ground. It’s a bittersweet feeling, and I often find myself torn between the outstanding trail conditions throughout the tail end of winter and the approaching warmth. As the sun continually rises higher, the inevitable occurs. Days become warmer, water begins to drip from eaves as snow melts and slides off rooftops. The ground’s drifts begin to slowly disappear. At home, I wander around the yard, finding forgotten and misplaced tools and materials buried beneath the winter’s deluge, surfacing once more with the melt off.
The air comes to life yet again with the warmer months’ fleeting bird songs, the birds returning from more temperate climes farther south. Snow buntings come first, their flitting along roads and through forests with their white and black plumage brings hope to denizens of the north. Others follow. Geese alight in meadows, picking at dead grass and vegetation from the previous summer as barren ground emerges. For me, the first bugling calls of sandhill cranes high above eliminate any uncertainty of spring’s arrival, ushering in a surety of the season’s transition.
On the ground, bears and squirrels leave tracks on the snow after emerging from their dens and middens. Each narrates their course as they scrounge for food underneath winter’s remnants, bulking back up and shaking off months of lethargy. The diminishing snow reveals mountains of spruce cone shells near our house. Upon further investigation, I find spots underneath our floor where some squirrels made their winter’s residence. An act of war, in our opinion.
As the landscape awakens, so too does the community, coming together to embrace and prepare for the season’s shift. In most regions, the end of winter is a cause for celebration. The same holds true in the north, though there is also a mourning. A mourning for the ease of travel on the land’s frozen surfaces. The relative heat ruins the trails, making them a slushy mess—good for nothing but postholing. With nowhere to go, we store our skis away until next winter. For the time being, we get our outdoor fix walking along nearby gravel roads through birch forests. In the evenings we attend potlucks with friends, celebrating the growing season to come by sharing new plant starts and chicks.
Such are the weeks in this dynamic time before the most frenetic season in Alaska. Thoughts drift to gardens, fish, hunts, and building to come. Ahead lies endless activity, everyone and everything racing to maximize the energy available within the narrow window. Soon the rivers will break free, shedding winter’s ice. The forests will dry out and the current wave of fat mosquitoes will transform into nimble hordes. For now, we’re biding our time through the transition, enjoying the changes that come.
❤