The woodpile

If "getting your moose" defines fall in the Klondike, then "getting in your wood" certainly defines winter. Whether you have your own woodlot and cut it yourself, or (like us) you order it from one of the commercial woodcutters in the area; whether you prefer birch or spruce, fire-kill or clean, bucked or bucking it yourself, getting in a few cords of wood is hugely important around here. So many of us at least partially heat our homes with wood heat. Here on the Dempster, it's our only source of heat, and our woodpile is looking mighty fine these days.

We order our wood from a guy named Doug. We've spent the last couple of days bucking (cutting the logs to stove length with a chainsaw), splitting and stacking several cords of wood. It feels good to see all those neatly stacked logs: it is a warm, secure feeling. 

Fall in the Klondike Valley

While it is fall in name only in many parts of Canada, here in the North, we are most definitely in the thick of it.

Fall is birch and aspen shimmering gold; it is the leaves of the fireweed and wild rose turning yellow, orange, deep purple, scarlet. It is a breathtaking display of colours on the tundra. It makes me think of a richly woven carpet, spread out over the mountains. We take drives out to Tombstone Territorial Park, just up the highway from our house, to drink it all in.

It is a time of dark nights filled with stars and undulating aurora borealis. It is sometimes damp. It is morning frosts laying the tall wild grasses low, and sweetening the cranberries that hang ripe on the bush. 

Fall here is guys in checkered flannel jackets asking "Got your moose?" over cups of coffee in the Eldo. We head to the hills on warm afternoons, plunk our babies down in the soft moss and lichen, and fill our buckets with wild blueberries, keeping the conversation up so the bears know we're there. We hurry to get the garden in, chopping, blanching, freezing and canning, listening for the soft "plink" of the jars sealing. We work on the woodpile, bucking up logs into stove-lengths, splitting, stacking. 

Fall is the final push to get it all done before cold weather and dark nights settle in. The miners pull the last bit of gold from the ground, and the bartenders and blackjack dealers pull the last bit of gold from the miners. The seasonal businesses run down their stock, close up hotel rooms one by one for the winter; the boards are nailed up over the windows and doors. The town is quieter, now.

More than anything, fall up here feels to me like leaving. Maybe I haven't been here long enough yet to feel settled. Maybe I've just got leaving in my heart.  It is a tightness in the throat as we watch the cranes fly overhead and the seasonal workers hitch their way out of town, back to Toronto or Vancouver or Montreal.

For those of us left behind, it is a time of drawing in, and of reconnecting with friends after a busy summer. There is a scramble to find someone to shack up with, making high rent and long cold nights more tolerable. We hunker down as winter approaches, we speculate on what kind of a winter it might be, sizing it up with more than a little apprehension.

Fall here is brief and beautiful; it is hurrying up and slowing down all at once.

Of rain and raspberries

We've had an abundace of these two things around here lately. The rain is taking its toll. With such a short summer, we tend to feel cheated if it's less than perfect. And though this rain has only been a thing of the last two weeks or so, it's taken over our telling of this summer's story. We'll remember it as the rainy one, even though it started early and crept on slow and lovely. We'll only recall that it ended abruptly, with lots of puddles.

The raspberries are in season, rain or not, and the clearing around our house has been overtaken a bit more each summer. In another year or two I think we'll be hacking back the canes just to get into the front door.  Usually I pick all that I can, and make jam or freeze them. But this year I am feeling decidedly unmotivated. Aedan and I venture out every day, grazing along the little hillside like a mama bear and her cub, combing the small red fruits into our mouths without discrimination for under- or over-ripeness. We store what we can in our bodies and leave the rest for the birds. 

The rosehips blush scarlet, the ground is wet and mushrooms silently explode out of the forest floor. It feels like autumn is here, but I'd never say that out loud for fear of being run out of town.

DCMF 2014

Oh, Music Fest. The weekend I've loved to hate since my first summer in Dawson, when my boss offered me a pass to the entire festival, and then asked me to work double shifts all weekend. Maybe my dislike of the festival is really just me being crabby that I can't just relax and enjoy it.

Anyway.

"Kid's Fest" happens on Saturday, from 11-2 or something like that, in the main tent. Tante Cat wanted to come with me and the boys this year. At 9 am Saturday morning, I receive the following message from her:

"I'm just going to bed now. Should be good to go for noon."

Tante Cat is a bartender at the Pit. She also loves to party. And she loves my boys.

After some back and forth about meeting at the tent vs picking her up at her house, she finally writes:

"Let's be honest here. Can you just pick me up at the Pit?"

So with that determined, I commence operation Prepare Aedan to Leave the House. It takes a lot of warning and discussion to get an almost 3 year old ready to leave. I had to make promises of balloons and a "treat" at the festival grounds. But it worked, and we were on the road by 11.

We hadn't been on the road for more than 5 minutes when Aedan said: "Uh oh. He's scratching his face!"  A moment later, Collie began to wail. I pulled over, jumped out of car to assess the damage, and began to wail myself. The whole side of Colm's face was covered in blood. His hand was covered in blood. His shirt collar: covered in blood.

We turned around, got him cleaned up at home, put on the sock mitts for the first time in a long time, and then got back into the car, headed to town for the second time. I was dreading the festival now, because taking a baby with a severe eczema flare out into public means you either get lots of unsolicited advice, or people awkwardly not mentioning it at all.

However. The balloons. And the treat.

After a quick stop at the farmer's market, I swung by the Pit, making my way past the gauntlet of drunk people from Whitehorse to find my friend and drag her out to the car. We headed over to the festival grounds.

As soon as we set foot in the tent, full of little kids and their parents and face paint and balloons and a woman playing a ukelele, I panicked. I froze.

"Okay," I said to Cat. "I'm good. Let's go."

But the balloons! The treat!

The look of joy on Aedan's face as he ran into the fray and stole a red balloon from some kid was enough to make me choke back my panic and relax and even enjoy myself a little bit.

I chatted with other moms (and eczema only came up twice, not bad) and nursed my baby and watched Tante Cat enjoy her buddy and then we got Aedan some mini pancakes all covered in maple syrup because he loves maple syrup. Then I took Cat home so she could sleep, and we all drove home again. Both boys passed out before we were even out of city limits.

Maybe after 9 years and 2 kids, I'm finally getting the hang of this music festival business. 

These Days

If I actually sat down and wrote all of the blog posts that occurred to me, well, I guess I'd have a more active blog! Instead, I tend to pass out at 8 every night, wedged between a baby and a toddler. It's a thrilling existence, let me tell ya.

We've been having beautiful weather these past few weeks. It's still cold at night, -25 or so, but it warms up with the sun. It's usually around 0 by mid afternoon. We get outside then to soak up the day. The snow has come off  the roof completely in some places, and is taking its time in others. This past week I've noticed little flocks of snow buntings at the roadsides...they usually pass through this time of year. I've even seen the catkins beginning to grow on the willows! I'm hoping this gradual spring continues, because I'm really loving it.

We've been dealing with a very itchy-headed baby lately, and it's been at its worst this week. The doctor's keep calling it cradle cap, but I'm convinced it's eczema. The skin became infected, and after trying a few home remedies, I caved and Colm is now on a course of antibiotics. The infected skin is looking much better, but his head is still red, rashy, dry and itchy. I hope once winter passes and the woodstoves burn out for the last time, it will clear. It's hard for me to take pictures of Colm, but I don't want to miss documenting this time in his life, so I force myself to do it. Looking through photos from Ontario to now, I can really see it progressing. I hope we're on the downside!

Aside from itching a lot, Colm has started rolling over! He's also begun to babble, and he's just the cutest thing since Aedan! I love this rollie-pollie, pudgy-baby, not-yet-mobile stage!

Aedan is a real challenge. He "helps" me a lot, which is cute. But he's so physical. When he gets excited at our playgroup, he'll push kids down, hit them in the face, pull hair...the other moms reassure me it's developmentally normal,and I know it is, but it's hard to parent him right now. We're working on showing him appropriate ways to play. I try to focus on his sweeter times, when he's giving kisses or hugs or snuggling up to me in bed (though that last also drives me crazy!) I'm eager for this phase to pass.

Aedan and his whale "helping" me do dishes. 

A little bit of everything

I've been away from this space for what feels like a long time. That's because I've been enjoying every minute of sunshine and warmth we've had since we shook off the last of winter's snow. And being this close to the summer solstice in the North, that's a lot of minutes of sunshine!

Since the river broke on May 15th, we've had some very high waters. Our friends in the Rock Creek community have all had to evacuate their homes as the waters rose into their yards and swirled around their houses. Along the roadsides, many of the ditches ran high with water; in some places, it came level with the highway. Even in town, people talked of the possibility of flood (though it was just talk). The ferry landing was underwater, the walking paths by the river were all washed out. Huge trees can still be seen sweeping along in the currents: it is a dangerous time to be on the river. Most of the snow seems to have melted off the hillsides, though, and the water levels have dropped off significantly.

The leaves have all popped, and the wildflowers are budding and blooming. Purple spikes of lupine flash among the green and along the roadsides. The Jacob's ladder has just begun to open its little purple-blue flowers, and the bearberry is hung with tiny, pink bell shaped fairy-flowers. The labrador tea looks to flower soon, as do the bluebells. Our little hillside in front of the house will be covered in fireweed again this year, too!

We've been passing our time outside, trying to clean up the yard bit by bit, raking and burning brush. The area we cleared for the garden last fall is a mess of rocks and chewed up trees, it is incredibly overwhelming but I've been managing it by cleaning it up in sections. I hope to put in another 4 raised beds soon, and plant them with a green manure crop of red clover. It's hard to get much done with a toddler, though! He needs to be watched carefully with the dogs, as his gentle pats can often quickly turn to grabbing handfuls of hair and jowl and yanking with all his strength! I often spend a good part of the day just wandering around the property behind Aedan, helping him jump over logs, watching him explore the world. No complaints there!

I've been taking him to the pool regularly, too, and I'm happy to report that he's loving the water this year. The other day P and I were there together with him, and we got him to put his face in the water and blow some bubbles! Shortly after that, he lost his footing and dunked right under. He was on the verge of losing it, but we acted like it was no big deal and he decided it must not have been.

Sunday we're heading to Whitehorse for another midwife appointment. I'm finally showing a respectable baby-belly, and the little one is making their presence well known with kicks and pokes!

The other little one is waking from his nap...I'll try to post some photos later.

I dream of leaving

Yesterday, I was outside raking the yard in the sunshine. I was moving my tender seedlings onto the porch to begin hardening them off. I was thinking about where I want to plant the new flowers I picked up at the Gold Show on Friday.

Today, there is about 8 cm of snow on the ground, and more falling from the colourless sky.

Maybe it's this never-ending winter, or maybe it's something more, but I spend more than the usual amount of time dreaming of a life lived elsewhere. P and I have talked about leaving the Yukon 5-10 years from now, but I find myself wishing it could happen sooner than that. I long for milder winters and more than 90 frost-free days a year. I want to be out in my garden now, I want to see green things growing and to feel the warm sun on my shoulders.

It's more than just this winter business, of course. I wish it were easier to get local food more of the year. I'm not comfortable with how far our produce travels to reach us. The farmer's market will be open next weekend, but the first vegetables won't be available for almost another month. Living here just doesn't seem to jive with so many of my values.

I try to focus on the positives: the tight-knit community, and the fact that people are trying to farm here....but I know these things exist outside of the Yukon, too.

For now, though, I must accept where I am and make the best of it. I will support the local food movement as much as I possibly can. We will improve our little homestead, make ourselves comfortable for as long as we remain...but I will continue to dream of greener pasture.

Something nice to say

My mother always told me: if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. I suppose this is the reason for my silence here for the past...week? Longer? I'm not even sure how long it's been. Honestly, all I've felt like doing is complaining about the weather. And that gets old, and fast!

But it finally feels like this longest of long winters has had its last gasp. Each day, more and more bare ground is revealed. We're lucky to have full southern exposure at our home, so the snow banks that had built up are quickly disappearing. The raised bed I made last fall is fully uncovered and (I hope) thawing out, as is the remainder of the load of topsoil we had delivered last year. My flower bed is slowly being revealed, too, and I'm curious to see if the delphiniums I put in last year have survived. There still isn't much of any green out there (though I hear the crocuses are coming out on the bluffs). There IS a whole lotta ugly...I can't wait to attack with a rake! But spring has finally found us here in the Yukon, and we're all rejoicing!

The rivers are still frozen, but the ice changes daily. Each spring there is a danger of flood for many communities, but this spring it seems especially worrisome. Should we get a heat wave and all of this snow and ice melt in a hurry, there's no telling what might happen. There hasn't been a major flood in Dawson since the late 70's, and they built a dike along the riverfront following that. But I've heard more than a few people speculating that the waters could breech the dike this spring. Certainly our friends living right on the river, in Rock Creek and other spots like it, must be anxiously watching and waiting...only time will tell!

Taken today from the bridge at the Dempster Corner, looking north along the Klondike River.

Finally...

Finally it feels a bit more like spring is here. The last two afternoons we've hit 10 degrees (on the plus side!) in the sun. Big, deep mud puddles are opening up in the walk to our house; little channels form between them, and they drain from one to the other, and then eventually down the little hill in front of the house. Our forest trail is becoming soft as the snow begins to rot away, and soon we'll have to take our walks on the shoulder of the highway. I've noticed a some silvery-soft pussy willows popping out along the road, and the tree buds seem to swell a little more each day.

There is light in the sky until well after 10 pm now, and it makes me eager for warmer weather. I think constantly of the garden, of what I will do, of the successes and the failures, too. The other day I dreamed I walked down to the garden and all the snow was gone, and I stood barefoot in the warm, muddy soil, the sun on my face. Ah, if only. I still need snowshoes to get down there right now. Next time we clean the ash out of the woodstove, I plan to spread it over the garden bed in hopes of speeding up the snow melt.

Splash! Aedan was soaked after his afternoon of exploring puddles. We need to get him some proper gum boots!

Spring? Is that you?

Once again, my blog roll is filled with images of blooming flowers and greening trees, and stories of wild-harvesting nettles, opening farmer's markets, and the first turnings of garden soil. And here we are, with 2 feet of snow still on the ground. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't discouraging. It feels like this snow will never be melted, like we'll never see green grass again...

...but of course I know that's not true. The weather is changing: last night only got down to -10 C. We've got hours and hours of daylight, and the roof is constantly dripping with snow melt, so spring must be here, right? It's mid-April for goodness sake!

Today I went out with my camera and tried (a bit desperately, I'll confess), to get a few pictures to prove that Spring is...on its way? Here already? I don't know. That it's not-winter, I suppose.

On the other hand...

Some days are just beautiful.

Like yesterday: the clouds cleared off at dawn, and we were treated to a lovely, slow sunrise, the wisps of cloud still trailing across the sky blushing pink. The sun finally burst over the hills around 10:30, and oh my did we enjoy the afternoon.

After lunch we all spent a couple of hours in the yard, P shoveling snow off the roof, Aedan chasing the dogs and throwing himself backwards in the snow, Mama taking some photos.

The wind was blowing the snow off the trees; we've had so much over the last couple of days, about a foot!

My Tuesday night yoga classes started up again last night, too, and that was just wonderful. I feel strong and grounded today, my body back in balance...

well, except for the leftover berry crumble I ate for breakfast this morning. That wasn't a good idea.

January Blues

January has caught up to me, burying me in an avalanche of monochrome sky. It fills my eyesearsnosemouthlungs with cold and dark; I choke on it, gasping for warm breath.

It smothers each tree, each branch and twig. Every twisted strand of lichen, each spruce needle, each dried out stalk of grass that has managed to keep its head up: weighted heavy with snow.

Each day is flat, grey, sunless. The trees offer a suggestion of green that is more black than anything, their trunks a pale brown. That is the only relief in this drear month.

I long for colour and light. Gaudy-plumed tropical birds calling raucously from trees in every shade of green, trees sporting blooms of red, purple, yellow, orange. I long for skies that scream blue, and puffy white clouds  and an ocean that glitters in the ever-deepening gradient of the Caribbean. 

I hunger for fresh fruit, juicy and ripe bursting between my teeth, flooding my mouth with stored up sunlight instead of this tiresome weight of snow and ice and dark 

dark 

dark.

I forgot what January was like. I seem to forget each year until it hits me like this.

3 weeks until Nicaragua: an orgy of light and colour and fresh fruit and oh my. Swimming and bare shoulders and bare feet. At least I've got this to move toward!

Hello, sunshine!

January got off to a very grey start, and it was making everyone in this house grey, too. We're all rejoicing to see clear blue skies and some bright sunshine peeking through! We've even got some direct sun on the walls, and little drops of rainbow cast by the prisms in the windows.

Journey Outside and Back

The past 10 days feel more like 30. From knowing we would have to make a dash to Ontario, to doing it and being there, and back again: it's gone by so fast, and yet seemed like forever.

Each time we make the journey Outside (of the Yukon, that is), I am struck by just how remote we are here. As we speed along the winding highway carved out of a vast boreal forest, sometimes seeing nothing else moving but grouse for hours, I can't help but reflect on what this journey would have meant a mere 60 years ago. In winter, it would have meant more than a week on a dogsled, food packed for dogs and people alike, first aid kits, an ax, and your luggage; nights in little log-cabin roadhouses or canvas tents pitched under the flickering aurora. In short, this is not a trip one would have made lightly.

I am grateful that we can answer the call of family, that we are able to make it out of here with relative ease when we are needed. We take these things for granted: pick-up trucks with block heaters, paved highways and government crews to maintain them.

Thankfully, all is well back east.

Our drive home yesterday was mostly uneventful: while P and Aedan both slept, I slowed the truck as we passed a pair of elk at the forest's edge. A little further down the road, we bumped over a glacier that had appeared across the highway in the week since we'd made the trip down. It was a colour of blue that is curiously common only to thick, glacial ice and the Caribbean sea.

We arrived to find the house in a state, though...the housesitter had caught a whiff of propane (the pilot light had gone out on the propane fridge, but she didn't realize this) so she'd cracked open a door and then forgot about said cracked door...it was -10 C in here. The 3 jugs of water she'd left us were frozen solid, as was all of the food in the cupboards. The food in the freezer, however, was all thawed, because the pilot light went out. It was not a nice homecoming. It took about 4 hours to raise the temperature 20 degrees.

In the face of things like this, I count our blessings. A safe drive home. A fire that was still going (it could have been much colder inside if not for that). Groceries brought from Whitehorse. An incredibly adaptable baby who thought it was fun to toddle around the house in his parka.

The house is toasty now, we've opened our stockings and had blueberry pancakes for breakfast, using the last of the blueberries I harvested at summer's end.

It's good to be home, to slip back into the rhythm of my days.

These days...

These days have been about staying warm. November ended on a chilly note, with lows of -44 C at night and "highs" of around -37 C for the few brief hours the sun is in the sky.

We had seemingly unending issues with our power supply, and both our main and backup generators made numerous trips to the mechanic. This made for some dark mornings, the house filled with flickering candle light, and a little time away from the computer. I quite enjoyed that respite. With a bit of ingenuity on P's part, I think we've got things sorted out and we're ready for the next cold spell.

Through that time I was so grateful that we weren't also dealing with frozen fuel lines (and therefore no heat) or frozen drain pipes, like so many of our friends in town. Our water never stops flowing from the blessed blue jugs, and our woodstove is always crackling warm.

The cold, clear skies began to cloud over two days ago, and today it is grey and warm, with a very light snowfall dusting over our tracks in the yard. I'm glad to have a break from the 40's...it is a cold that takes your breath away.

These twilight shrouded days, I find myself seeking light wherever I can. I find myself noticing the weak patches of sunlight that briefly shine through the windows, casting shapes and shadows onto the walls. I light candles in all the dark corners where the few electric lights don't reach, taking solace in this nightly ritual (which happens a little earlier each day). I look forward to the winter solstice, when we celebrate the return of the sun and the days gradually lengthening again.

Simple Pleasures

The house is quiet; the babe has finally settled down for a nap. I hurry outside, gathering an armload of wood as the sun slips behind the hills, signalling an end to our brief days.

I stoke up the fire, and fill the chipped enamel basin with hot water from the kettle on the stove. I light candles on the washstand and strip off the layers of sweaters and knit shirts that are like a second skin I seem never to be free of these days. I bend my head over the basin, dip my cup into the clear water and pour it out over my hair. I dip and pour like this, soaking my hair and enjoying the sensations. I scrub my itchy scalp, water dripping down my forehead, over my shoulders and down my back.

I wrap my wet hair in a towel and carry the basin over to the couch before the fire. It is cold outside but I am warm, wearing a fresh pair of long underwear, pulled up at the ankles. I ease my feet into the water, clouded now with spent soap suds. I relax back into the cushions, watching the flames that fill the stove, consuming the wood I've just brought in. My feet are blissfully bare, tingling. I wiggle my toes, happy toes free of socks and slippers.

My hair curls as it dries in the heat of the fire and the last of the twilight fades from the room.

Snapping Cold

That's how JJ Van Bibber describes this weather, in his book "I was born under a spruce tree" (which I'm reading now and loving).

Dawson is one of the coldest places on earth today!

Cold like this usually comes with clear, bright skies and sunshine; it's a nice trade off. But today it's a bit overcast: the sky is a patchwork of muted blue and white.

This morning, though, when I went to the outhouse around 7 am, was stunning. The stars were sharp, glittering points of light in the dark. I could see the Pleiades to the east, and a couple of incredibly bright stars (planets?) low on the horizon. A very faint aurora streaked across the sky. I stopped on the path to take it all in, shifting from slippered food to slippered foot, feeling the dry, cold air tingling in my sinuses.

It brings its problems, this cold, particularly living off grid like we do. Vehicles should be plugged in to start safely, but to do that we need to start up a generator first. Well, the generator wouldn't start this morning. P got his truck started anyway, though it wasn't easy. We've got a torch set beneath the generator now: hopefully it'll warm its insides enough start later today. We'll probably leave it running until things warm up above 30.

We'll be inside today, keeping our toes warm by the wood stove. I hope you're warm where ever you are today, too!

Snow!

Over the last few days we've had quite a bit of snow. It's still snowing now as I type this post. It's a grey day, and it's been spent mostly indoors.

Yesterday, though, the snow stopped falling for the afternoon and it was just right for snowshoeing (and later, snow shovelling!)

I packed Aedan into my amauti (no tears this time!), strapped on my snowshoes, and away we went into the woods.

The closest I've got to a full length mirror...












Aedan got to do some exploring on his own!


Funny face!


Hanging with the dogs in the nicely shoveled walkway!

Hope you're enjoying your winter, whatever it may look like!

Goldensides

Today dawned cold and clear, with a frost laying many of the plants in the yard low. As the sun crept higher and higher over the horizon, the air warmed and it was a perfect fall day for a hike, so Justine, Aedan, the dogs and I piled into my car and headed out to Tombstone Territorial Park.

As the mountain ranges came into view, we were shocked to see snow on the peaks! It seems so early! But I suppose if it was cold enough for a frost here, it's cold enough for snow on the mountains.

We were also really surprised to learn that we'd just missed the peak of the autumn colours. The changes along the Dempster highway and in the park happen so fast. The tundra changes seemingly overnight, and within a few days the reds, deep purples, golden yellows and oranges are just not quite as intense. It was still a stunning day, though.

We decided to hike the Goldensides Trail, about 2 km past the Interpretive Center. It was a busy day, with a group of four and another of two on the trail ahead of us, and a single lady with her (gorgeous, huge) dog behind us. We let her pass.

The views along this entire hike are spectacular: there are no trees to get in the way! We stopped often just to take it all in, and to snack on the juicy, sweet moss berries, too!

It always feels so energizing to get out and hike in the mountains. They have such a serene power. I can't help but reflect on the thousands of years that they have stood, largely unchanged, while the much smaller, shorter lives of animals, plants and people have ebbed and flowed around them. Mountains seem so changeless, so immortal to me. It is hard to imagine the landscape without them.

Spring swells

This past month, my blogroll has been filled with stories of harvesting wild nettles, of crocus and daffodils and trilliums blooming, of green things growing in garden beds, of the reopening of farmers' markets. Here in the Yukon, spring arrives at a much slower pace.

The season has really begun to unfurl now, though...

Earlier each morning, the sun crests the horizon, and the birdsong swells in the tree tops. 

Added to the familiar chatter of the whiskey jacks is the monotonous song of the dark-eyed junco. The boreal chickadees call to one another with their nasal tsk-a-day-day. From the top of a spruce tree, the robin warms up and then bursts into his beautiful, warbling melody. 

For a moment, the other birds hold silent as the robin takes center stage. 

The sun shines brilliant over the trees now, and the day has begun.

All over the territory, the snow that has laid a hush over the ground since November melts. 

Temporary stream beds swell with the run off for an afternoon, and then lie empty once their source is spent. The roadside ditches are full, making an unlikely stopping place for returning waterfowl, and water rushes through culverts. The creeks are mostly all open now, running fast and high; by contrast, the ponds lie still under a diminishing crust of ice.

Most spectacular are the rivers. 

For weeks now the river ice has been rotting, and over the last two weeks, it's begun to break. Small leads of dark water flow up onto the ice, creeping forward and widening with each day. Soon there are large swaths of open water, disappearing beneath what remains of the frozen surface. Creeks and streams rushing to their source create pressure against the stubborn ice, until it can't hold any longer. 

The river bursts free. 

The ice breaks into huge, thick pans that crash into one anther, and heave up onto the banks, crushing last year's growth of scraggly willow. Inevitably, the ice jams. The river swells behind these jams, low-lying shores flood, until eventually, the ice gives up and the river pushes through again. 

One river meets another, dark, icy cold water pushing its way north, bringing spring to the myriad animals and small pockets of people waiting, watching...