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Each person has their
own sign of spring. Some know it is coming when they see crocus or
daffodil. Others wait for robin redbreast, and some can recognize a
certain smell in the air. I know spring is coming when the goose
fighting begins.
Frank
and I have lived beside this lake for more than six years. When we
arrived, there were three goose residents, a couple who claimed and
nested on the island, and an oddball we named “Crip” because his wings
formed upside down.
Back then,
the goose couple and all their offspring would fly away in the fall,
leaving Crip to honk and call after them when he found he could get no
lift. While they migrated for the winter, he stayed alone on the lake,
even setting on the ice when it froze over, waiting for their return in
spring.
Crip has now
been gone three years, having disappeared one winter night never to be
seen again. Now--whether related to his absence or to global warming or
whatever--the geese don’t leave us in the winter.
The couple
and their children and their children’s mates spend the winters now
moving from the lake to the ponds below, to the creek, and back to the
lake. In spring, mom and dad no longer welcome others on the
lake--especially around the island--and the fights get rather nasty.
One morning,
we heard a heck of a squawking from out back. When we looked out, we saw
that an unfortunate male goose, landing on the lake with the others, got
a little to close to the island. Dad was on his back trying to drown
him.
“Spring’s
coming,” I said, and went back to my busy work.
This is our
spring sign, and we’re already planning our first camping trip.
Nuts? Maybe.
But last year we set up tent in
Audra
State Park
four days after they were blanketed with three inches of snow. There’s
something about sleeping out in nature that wells up a wild swelling in
your chest. At first, it feels like a restlessness, but at the same
time, it is as comforting as the feeling of home.
In the
spring,
Middle
Fork
River
is roaring, a tonal massage that lulls you to sleep at night and calls
you to wake in the early moments of daylight. The crackle of the fire is
the security of warmth and survival, and the crispness that remains in
the air seems to flush out all the stagnant warmth of indoor heating
that remains in your lungs.
You won’t
experience this if you wait for the warm days of summer. By summer the
river will run with less fervor, the air will be fresh and fragrant. The
fire only for cooking food. In the summer, camping is a getaway--not an
adventure.
February and
March are cabin fever months, but there is no need to suffer. Like
Frank
and I, and the geese on the island, you can begin preparing for the
projects and promises of spring. Between the cold snaps, you can venture
out to the flowerbeds to see which plants are already peeking up out of
the ground.
The cure for
cabin fever includes sunlight and fresh air and dreams of the coming
season. It is time to get ready, for spring is not too far away.
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