Friday, May 12, 2017

A trillium reasons why #phenology

Today, the Better Half and I visited a special place where we have, in the past, found white and yellow trout lilies. Past visits have been about a week earlier in the season so it appears we may have missed the yellow trout lilies this Spring. But then, today there were hosts of trillium in bloom. Since the local trillium haven't yet bloomed, and today's discovery was about 60 miles or so North of here, I suspect that the concept of Spring moving North at about 15 miles per day needs to be tempered by microclimate factors such as whether a wildflower bed has a northern or southern exposure. Our local trillium woods have the former, while today's visit was to a site with the latter.

trillium in bloom
trillium in bloom
Photo by J. Harrington

Once again, it's time to let pictures take the place of words in announcing the arrival of Spring in our North Country. I wonder if any of the drivers, or their passengers, noticed the beauty they were passing by as I was taking these. I hope they did and fear otherwise. To be special, a place needn't be far distant or spectacular in a grandiose fashion. If we are attentive, often we find we're surrounded by quietly spectacular beauty. Wildflowers in bloom are obvious. Hosts of angels surrounding us, not so much. Trillium and trout lilies and spring beauties are there even after we've stopped noticing their blooms. What about angels?

Virginia Spring beauty
Virginia Spring beauty
Photo by J. Harrington

white trout lilies
white trout lilies
Photo by J. Harrington

One final note for today, goslings have started to hatch. If you look carefully in the center between goose and gander, you can spot several balls of yellow fluff, paddling merrily to keep up.

season's first goslings
season's first goslings
Photo by J. Harrington

Leave No Trace

No gate, no main entrance, no ticket, no ranger. Not far
From where Frost once raised chickens and ill-fated children, near
Where the Old Man’s glacier-hewn face though bolstered to
Its godlike roost by rods and turnbuckles slid
From our fledgling millennium into oblivion,
You can cross the Pemigewasset on a bridge
Then, compass-north but southbound on the trail,
Ascend an old grassed-over logging road
To the carved out collarbone of Cannon Mountain.
This is Lonesome Lake. How you go from here
Depends on why you’ve come: to out a spruce grouse
Or listen for the whee-ah of a Bicknell’s thrush;
For a breezy picnic or a midlife crisis,
A long haul or a day trip to the cascades.

Bring for your purposes only what you need:
Salmon jerky, a canteen or Camelbak,
Band-aids, a ratchet and strap, a roughed-up heart.
Bring sunblock, a notebook, the Beatles, Beyoncé,
The Bhagavad Gita, a Bible, some Hitchens or Hegel.
However long you stay you must leave nothing.
No matchbox, no pole-tip, no grommet, no cup.
Carry in and out your Clif Bar wrappers,
Your fear of bears and storms. Keep the rage
You thought you’d push through your boot-soles into the stones,
The grief you hoped to shed. If you think you’ve changed,
Take all your changes with you.
                                                              If you lift
An arrowhead from the leaves, return it. Pocket
No pinecone, no pebble or faery root. Resist
The painted trillium even if its purple throat
Begs to be pressed between your trail guide’s pages.

Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.