This Spring

Every spring is a little different. Sometimes we arrive at the Would-Be farm just in time for a late ice storm, sometimes, we have to dig out shorts and use last year's sunblock for the 80-degree balminess of it all. 

The chance of snow isn't over until Mother Nature says it's over, and that's usually not for-sure for sure until the middle of May. So I can't say how this year's spring is going to go yet. 

​But what a winter it was!

I say this based on the scientific evidence of my own senses: nearly every North Country local I've spoken to this spring says something like "You know, I don't MIND winter, but this year—" 

Plus the sand-dunes at the side of the road indicate how much the roads were plowed and sanded.

Plus, a bit of unpurged water burst pipes under the house. 

​Plus porcupines ATE the top of two of my largest and most productive pear trees. One of which had a 4-foot-tall fence perimeter, just to keep the various pesky varmints at bay.

I suspect the heavy snowfall piled up above the fence. A bit of thaw-and-freeze gives a surprisingly hearty crust to deep snow, and I imagine a porcupine simply wandered around until reaching the pear as it poked  unprotected through the snowy desert.  

​And oooh! ahhh! All that sweet, sweet inner bark ripe for the snacking! 

Yes, they are adorable, porcupines. And sadly, it's true that when the inner bark is chewed so thoroughly, the tree's sap cannot rise above the damage.

So yes, my heart is a little broken over my 10-year-old pear trees reduced to sad 4-foot-tall stumps that may or may not live to sprout again. Alas sweet pear trees, I knew you well. 

Springtime has its own theme music, naturally.
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It's catchy, ear-wormitty, and all the cool kids are singing it at the top of their lungs.

(Cornell's Merlin app for the bird identification win.) 

One of the many persistent pleasures of the season is the annual gathering of the cards.  

In the autumn, we refresh the batteries and memory cards in our many game cameras.  We document their location (because sometimes we forget), and wish them well as they watch over and record the events of the next few months.

I suspect they have a lowest-operating-temperature limit, but they have yet to disappoint. They offer us a sample of what we missed.

Like the bright, bitter days when the wind whips ice-crystals into snow devils. 

Or when it's  gloomy and snowing and snowing and snowing.

The highlight reel follows. Please disregard the dates; we never reset them.

Zero trees fell on Would-Be buildings. The camp is mercifully holding out against rodent incursions. The chimney is not blocked.

The waterline proved quite fixable, and nothing ate the electrical lines at the wellhead.

We have a woodshed full of fuel for the little wood stove, and the satellite dish found its azimuth without pause. 

We recognize and are grateful for the astonishing good fortune that gets us here. If it must, let it snow.