Pursuit of crystals during a mostly snowless winter
By the astronomical calendar, the official start of spring arrives on the evening of March 19th at precisely 11:06 EDT—I know that on the 10th, you’ll have set your clocks an hour ahead (resetting your body’s clocks will take a bit longer)—and that the hallowed time marks an event known as the vernal equinox. It’s then that the sun crosses the celestial equator and the length of day and night is approximately equal.
Earlier on the 19th, the venerable and less-so Westerly Morris Men will have initiated a high-spirited vernal welcome by nimbly dancing atop Lantern Hill in southeastern Connecticut. This much-beloved terpsichorean tradition began in our area in 1987, and while the Westerly dancers are celebrating a half-century of kicking up their heels in 2024, they are actually taking part in an ancient folk art form that dates back to at least 15th century England. (Folklorist and Morris dancer Michael Heaney wrote about what appears to be the first published reference to the tradition—a payment note from 1448 to “a harper, a piper, and morris dancers” who performed on Saint Dunstan’s Day, May 19, for the “Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths”—in a 2004 issue of the Folk Music Journal.)
Of course, this first official day of spring may not arrive bearing bona fide vernal weather. To wit, regardless of meteorological conditions, the Morris Men plan to carry on with the hike to Lantern Hill’s 491 feet high summit, but March is an uncertain, even vexing month, weatherwise. Monsoonal rain and heavy snow are not unknown, and persistent ice on the steep trails can make walking downright dangerous. Because the Men dance on a stony “floor” disturbingly close to a cliff face with a 100-foot-plus drop, untoward conditions have occasionally kept the ceremony at the trailhead. So if you go—and you definitely should, at least once in this lifetime—be prepared for whatever the Mother has in store.
The Naturalist will try to be there, but just in case the old bones don’t quite heed the call of the equinox alarm clock, your faithful documentarian had already celebrated the arrival of vernality.
Early. Very early.
By my reckoning, the first “spring” day graced us on the 27th of February when the temperature came very close to cracking the 60-degree mark and vernal-appropriate events started to occur. Actually, a February 25th combination of an afternoon low tide and the promise of semi-warm temperatures had lured me to the beach at Napatree Point in the hope of celebrating even earlier, but a stronger than expected breeze off the decidedly as-cold-as-advertised water kept the air in the wintery camp. By the time my overseer and I had finished our exploration, I was very nearly slurring my words and finding it close to impossible to depress the shutter release on my camera.
Our bird list reflected the harsh conditions that prevailed in what was, after all, close to the heart of the cold season. For the second trek in a row, there was nary a sign of a shorebird. Not so much as a single Sanderling chased sea foam up and down the sandy shoreline, and in the usual avian hotspots along the rockier gravel bars, only the ghosts and memories of Black-bellied plovers, dunlin, Ruddy turnstones, and the like were on patrol. It was too soon for the arrival of American oystercatchers and Piping plovers, and all the waterfowl that had been in residence since the beginning of what now passes for winter around here remained in place, with loons, Surf scoters, Common eiders, small geese called Brant, Red-breasted mergansers, and diving ducks known as Goldeneye working the water for whatever sustenance the birds required.
Their combination of cold-proof feathering and a counter-current, heat exchanger blood vessel configuration dubbed the rete mirabile—the “marvelous net”—in their feet and legs prevents frostbite, and as I got colder and colder during the late afternoon, I dearly wished that evolution had included a better version of this configuration in my hands.
A couple of days after the beach, however, I was out on the observation trail with happier fingers. The last of the snow, save for a couple of piles of crust in the shadow of the hardwoods, was gone. The titmice were singing their “Peter, Peter, Peter” songs in fine voice. The Winter aconites, now released from snowboundness, were coming into full bloom, and as I watched the flowers, some sort of insect appeared out of nowhere and started hovering above the yellow blossoms.
I cursed the Creator and the surgeons who hadn’t figured out a way to implant an image-capturing device in my anatomy— call it a camera mirabile— and raced inside to grab the right gear. Not surprisingly, by the time I returned to my observation post, whatever it was—my best guess was the first flower fly (appropriately known in England as hover flies) of the year—had disappeared. But soon enough, several other flies put in appearances on the aconite blooms, and while the insects departed without formal identifications, they certainly got what they came for: a helping of pollen, which they then carried to the next blossom... and the next... and the next... to start the process of carrying on the floral generations.
In the warmth, the aconites were soon not the only blossom on the ridge. From soil that had appeared barren the day before, the first of the early crocuses quickly put forth leaves, flower buds, and open blooms. All this floral delight in less than 24 hours!
And another take on what it means to answer the call of nature.
I carefully combed the crocuses for pollinators, but the first of the overwintering honeybees and their solitary cousins were not fooled by this taste of spring, and neither were any more flies.
It was probably for the best.
Sunlight soon gave way to rain clouds, and in the warm showers that evening and the one following, I made a quick journey to a local vernal pool to see if any of the resident Wood frogs and Spotted salamanders had tried to make an early entry in the breeding sweepstakes. The “woodies” had certainly thawed and were capable of courtship; the “spotties” had no doubt left the safety of frost-free winter refuges and were at least thinking about making their way to the breeding ponds. But the amphibians weren’t fooled either, and the vernals I routinely monitor were frog and salamander free.
That won’t last, of course, and soon enough, there’ll be a noisy riot of life returning to the wetlands, the wildflowers, and the coast. As if to second that assessment, in the dusk, even though a cold front followed the rainy weather, a newly returned Woodcock gave its “peent” advertising call from the mucky edges of the forest.
“Peent,” it repeated, hoping the nasal sound had attracted female attention.
The first spring days and nights had arrived. The formal equinox might still be in the future, but its spirit was already spreading over the ridge and beyond.