The Coming of Spring Jenna Crovo
Snow falls softly upon the landscape, covering the drab browns from decaying leaves on the forest floor and bare trees with a blanket of white. Snow falls on the glassy slate colored Guion Pond, punctuating the surface with tiny ripples as each flake instantly melts as it hits the water. The overcast February sky seems to blend in with the earth, which is transformed by the continuing accumulation of snowflakes. The pond and surrounding territory is silent, except for the barely audible sound of snow landing upon dormant nature. Dormant, for leaves are gone from the trees; insects wrap themselves in their protective cocoons; and animals hibernate until the first sunny days of spring. The snow does not linger on the Virginian terrain for long. The sun breaks through the clouds a few days later, leaving a clear sky and melting the thin layer of deposited snow. The temperature now soars at approximately 40 degrees; but, the crisp breeze that blows through the little hollow where the pond is makes it seem much colder. I shiver slightly as I brush my bangs away from my eyes. Hiking in mid-February with slightly damp hair is a bad idea. Sitting on the wooden bench overlooking the pond, I scan my surroundings for signs of life. Other than the occasional squirrel hopping through the leaf litter, there is no movement in or near the pond. The pond is completely still—nothing stirs within its murky shallows, yet. The same can be said regarding the currently drab terrestrial environment encircling the pond. The grass remains brown and chlorophyll deprived while dead leaves and bare trees of similar colors dominate the area. It is not until the end of February that nature finally begins to awaken with a tiny splash of color. Randomly scattered amid the carpet of fallen leaves around the pond are clusters of wild onions of the genus allium. Their celadon tendrils shoot up from the earth, providing the first green splotches of spring. The appearance of some wildflowers follows in the beginning of March, when the first purple crocus blossoms spread their petals. It is also at this time that the saucer magnolia, Magnolia x soulangiana, opens its huge pastel pink blossoms. While plant life is becoming livelier, there is still no animal activity at the pond—at least, not at the macroscopic level. Looking at the still pool, I can imagine the myriad of daphnia and copepods living out their lives, swimming among the algae and organic debris. Yet, I am sure their circadian rhythms and the sun's rays tell them spring is coming. The sun begins to linger more in the sky before setting as March draws to a close. The days, in addition to becoming longer, grow warmer. The welcome warmth of the April sun now encourages animals to come out of their winter induced lethargy. On several occasions I have seen stout groundhogs, Marmota monax, grace the hill leading down to the pond, always solitarily, as they can be territorial. The mammals' brown fur now stands out against the green chlorophyll infused grass, which is not the only rejuvenated plant in the area. Wildflowers have exploded out of the ground surrounding the pond, beginning to attract various species of bees and butterflies. Tiger swallowtail butterflies drift lazily on the balmy lilac scented breeze that has become commonplace in the Guion pond hollow. The graceful blue bell of the Virginia cowslip, Mertensia virginica, has bloomed close to the water's edge and is already harboring a multitude of bumble bees collecting pollen. I wonder if the bees view me as a possible threat. I have dodged from several which have buzzed straight toward me. To avoid a collision with the bumbles, I step away from the cowslips, discovering several other blooming flowers. There are one or two clusters of cut-leaved toothwort, Dentaria lacinata, presenting a stark difference from the cowslips with their small white blossoms having four distinct petals. Encircling the entire pond is a mat of periwinkles, Vincia minor. The periwinkle's purplish blossoms scattered amidst the green creeping vine on which they grow. The return of lush diverse plant life and increasing temperature sets the stage for the appearance of some of the local amphibians. There are already frogs and tadpoles happily swimming in the pond's sun warmed shallows. Salamanders have also moved into the area to spawn. Spotted salamanders, Ambystoma maculatum, are the reigning beasts as April begins to near its end. The day is cloudy and rainy when I decide to search for some of the adult salamanders in the pond. Armed with a net, I meander down the hill, which is now spotted with dandelions and buttercups. I begin to dredge the waters as soon as I arrive. I do not find any adult spotted salamanders; but I do find evidence of their presence. I catch several of the salamanders' egg sacs. The sacs are fist sized ball of jelly containing many tiny brown spherical eggs, some of which already show signs of differentiation. I am lucky enough to find one salamander. It is a mottled brown color, approximately five centimeters long, with lovely ruby red external gills. The gills allow the salamander to extract oxygen from the surrounding water efficiently. There is a shortage of amphibians during my excursion; but there is at least one crayfish with each pile of muck I examine on the pond's banks. The muck, it should be noted, has a rather distinct odor, characteristic of organic decay. It is slimy to the touch, having picked through it with my bare hands to grab the writhing crayfish in order to throw them back into the water. I really do not mind tampering in the mud. I figure if I can dissect cute fluffy animals and study their insides, I can certainly get my hands a little dirty. I repeat this monotony of dredging and looking through the sludge for almost an hour—still no spotted salamanders. My conclusion is the amphibians were perhaps deeper in the pond than I could reach with the net as a result of the inclement weather. The rain and clouds do not last for long, soon replaced by more sun. The days are becoming even longer, night does not come until eight o'clock. At this hour, instead of buzzing bees and singing birds, Guion hollow is alive with the sounds of spring peepers and crickets. The evening air is cool, and a clear night sky reveals a myriad of stars. Yet, the crickets are not the only active insects at night. I have donated some blood involuntarily to the local female mosquitoes. The winged sanguivorous insects can detect me from the carbon dioxide I exhale and succeed in attaining a meal. I awaken the next morning with several bite marks on my arms and legs, physical proof that spring has come and summer is on the way.
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