Despite Two Feet of Snow, Spring has Sprung

Although our land is still blanketed by 2 feet of snow and the lake remains frozen, spring has sprung this week.  How do I know?

One clue is the first of many flocks of migrating geese and one, lone sandhill crane (where is its mate?) announcing their annual return to The Great Land.  Welcome back!  I have missed you!

Birch Sapping in Spring

A second is that twice a day, my husband and I stomp through softening snow to collect sap from the birch trees we tapped on April 20.  We drink this bracingly cold liquid as a vitamin rich spring tonic, and use it instead of water to make wine, beer, coffee, and anything else.  After ten days of clear flow, the sap turns milky, ending the tree’s gift to humans.  The rest belongs to the tree.  This change signals the imminent budding of the leaves.  So, one night, a few days later, I go to sleep in a black and white world and awaken to soft, technicolor green. 

Where the snow is thinnest or has melted and refrozen as ice, as at the base of a tree or building, I am always awed by the tenacity of a green bit of fern or dandelion or myosotis (forget-me-nots) already formed and ready for the heat and light of the sun.  Wild currants pop out of the snow already in bud.  Last year the haskaps flowered when their lower trunks were still encased in snow.  These plants, too, know when spring has arrived, and they are prepared to make the most of our short summer season.

I love such seasonal changes.  They teach me to take nothing for granted.  The flying bird will disappear, the sap run will end.  The green plants and deciduous trees will leaf out in May and then shrivel or flutter, yellow, brown, and red to the ground five months later.

It is my privilege to pay attention.  To notice.  To appreciate.   Nature does not need this appreciation.  It does not need me.  But perhaps that is exactly why I say thank you and endeavor to reciprocate for her many gifts of food, home remedies, shelter, and beauty.

Every day, I take a “walk about” to pay careful attention to the plants on our property and in the woods.   JX Mason (on this site) has described this sort of activity as a walking meditation. I had never thought of it that way, but I do now.  I am focused and calm.  Maybe my heart rate or blood pressure slows – I do not know.  But the daily practice is important to me.  My spirits rise and I feel a sense of expansion in myself. 

As the snow recedes, I hop out of bed thinking about the plants.  In the spring, I prune dead or damaged branches, and cull plants girdled under the snow by hungry voles and hares.  Later, in a sort of reciprocity, I watch for short, two week periods of optimal harvest conditions for tasty and nutritious leaves, berries, roots, and shoots that I am lucky to gather and enjoy.  Shall I eat this lambs quarter raw or cooked today, or in a pesto? Shall I dry or pressure can these other leaves for winter food?   Among the edible plants, our first spring salads are of dandelion leaves, fireweed shoots, and fiddleheads (ferns).  Next I harvest the flavorful young leaves of berry bushes, birch, and alder for tea and flavored vinegars – fresh leaves now and dried for later.  In early/mid May, I harvest bright green spruce and larch tips and snip them into salads, cakes and muffins to which they confer a delightful citrusy flavor.  Other plants share their beneficence later in the summer.

Leaves to rake in the Fall

Late in the summer, I gather seeds of edible, medicinal or beautiful plants that I wish to spread to new areas – the delicacy of columbine, the hardiness of daisies, the scent of iris and yarrow, and rake birch leaves onto tarps that I dump onto raised bed gardens and around fruit bushes and trees as a winter blanket.  Under the weight of the snow, the leaves break down and leaven the soil the next year. 

I do not have a TV or radio or alarm clock.  I have plants and animals that tell me what time of year it is and to get outside and DO SOMETHING joyful and meaningful and healthful.  So I do.   

I hope that you can and do, too.

The Beauty of Winter Trees

Natural settings can speak to people, make them feel at home.  One of my sisters has  been attracted to oceans, another to the desert.  For me, it is forest settings that have always beckoned.

 Every morning, I feel a sense of peace and gratitude as I look out my window at the mature Boreal Forest in which I live.  I regard the trees as my friends, mentors, caregivers, and benefactors.  Alive, they protect me from sun, wind, and cold; they yield nutrients and medicine, as well as beauty. Dead, they continue their beneficence, transformed into my cabin, decks, docks, furniture and fire wood.   

Trees at noon in December

This time of year, I watch the long blue shadows of birch and spruce trees slither across the snow and I am dazzled by the brightness of hoarfrost that coats every surface of the trees.  An occasional owl hoots or raven caws, but otherwise, our winter woods are silent and magnificent.

Almost every afternoon in February and March, my husband and I drive a snowmachine (snowmobile) and sled into the woods along trails we groomed several days before and left to harden.  Our goal is to cull 11 cords of standing dead spruce trees each year for firewood to heat our home and the outdoor soaking tub.  

Sadly, our part of Alaska was infested by spruce beetles about eight years ago.  These tiny insects killed most of the mature white and black spruce throughout millions of acres.  It was very sad to cut down the three stately 85 foot trees near our cabin, but it is even worse to view the skeletal remains.  Dead trees are hazardous, too, both for fire and falling, so every year since the infestation, we pick an area, first on our property, and subsequently, on the state land that surrounds us, to cull dozens of dead trees.  They are put to good use. 

Hoar frost on the trees

Aside from the practical aspect of gathering firewood, this seasonal project generates joy, as well.  Although the beetles devastated mature trees, they did not kill the saplings.  Trees below about 10 feet tall survived the onslaught.  Every time we fell a thicket of dead ones, we find spindly young conifers below them.  Next summer, they will enjoy more sun and space to grow straight and tall and healthy.  In subsequent years, other plants colonize the clearings, too, predominantly prickly rose, elderberry, and highbush cranberry.  Hares, martens, and weasels burrow under the dead branches that clutter the forest floor.

In March, as the snow begins to soften and rot, springy alders and highbush cranberries pop up from their heavy blanket of snow, waving for a moment before they assume a vertical position for summer.  

When the snow starts to recede in April, brown doughnuts of soaked earth encircle the warming trees.  My husband and I tap several birch trees for ten days before the leaves emerge, drinking the bracingly cold sap straight, as well as using it in any recipe that requires water, such as coffee, rice, and homemade wine and beer.  The clear liquid is a nutritious spring tonic, chock full of vitamin C and minerals, such as iron, zinc, calcium, and potassium.  It tastes slightly sweet and vaguely woody.  Eau de paper bag.    

When the soil dries up, I wander through our property, carrying flagging tape and pruners.  I clip the broken branches of saplings and cut out trunks girdled beneath the snow line by hungry hares and voles.  With delight I flag tiny seedlings so that I will not trample or weed whack them when the fast growing wild grasses obscure them.   In subsequent years I marvel as these tiny growths add branches and height, in many cases growing out of the stumps of dead trees.

My woods are a vibrant community of the elderly and the young, the sick and the healthy.  I wander in wonder and awe.