Something(s) in the air: Could it be spring?

I pass a normally placid wetland now full of inexorably moving water like a vast, ocean-bound river with a mission to fulfill, cattails leaning into the current and several mallards in the distance, working diligently not to be swept along. A week ago, it was deep in snow destined to ride a warm, southern breeze into oblivion as wood frogs and spring peepers began stirring and spotted salamanders risk the still cratered back roads in search of amphibious immortality.

These days of warm brilliance have jumpstarted the season almost a month after the vernal equinox in March officially welcomed spring, which generally holds little meaning for those of us this far north with some of our biggest nor’easters grinding up the New England coast this time of year. April too is ripe with promise, testimony to how rapidly things can change but just as often fraught with bitter disappointment as winter frequently reasserts its icy grip; our complacency arrives with a warning label.

But there’s no denying ice out on this string of glacial ponds is three weeks earlier than usual and the shimmering water certainly looks momentarily inviting with the thermometer pushing 80, delighting us with illusions of summer, prompting warnings from the National Weather Service that acting on such fantasies can quickly turn deadly. However high the air temperature goes we must keep in mind that the water temperature — which rises much more slowly — remains only in the upper 30s or low 40s, far too dangerous for anything beyond the briefest of dips and even those are not without risk.

Water colder than 50 degrees can shock the system, easily numbing extremities, weakening muscles and rendering a person utterly helpless in minutes, no matter how good a swimmer they might be. It’s why wearing a life vest or personal flotation device for early season canoeing or kayaking is highly recommended.

The road winding along several small streams, ponds and marshy areas provides a shimmering illustration of how surrounded I am by transcendent water and the resurgence of life it carries with it each spring. Years of memories cascade into my consciousness; apparitions of the future are along for the ride as the sun asserts itself across my back and shoulders.

I wonder if the two geese navigating the beaver’s fastidiously created infrastructure and series of canals are the same couple we’ve seen so many times before in the exact same spot. Canadian geese are known to mate for life and can live for more than two decades. For some reason I find the possibility that they’re semi-permanent neighbors intoxicating.

Actual snowbirds.

As my walks have become small, daily rituals, as much about insulation from harsh reality as anything else, I’ve slowly realized over the hundreds of miles traversed that these small immersions into the solitude of nature on our quiet back road have become so vital a part of my life that being without them is unimaginable. The more I’m able to engage with the ambience of the road and its inhabitants, the more insulated I am from what I see as a breakdown of our culture, often the topic of my usual commentaries.

With foliage still weeks away, most of the hillsides are as bleak as November but sparks of new life are emerging with some budding maples as red as they are in autumn, especially set against the deep green of the pines that dominate the forest. Willows too are beginning to awaken, and a variety of migrating birds are joining the stalwart chickadees who spend the fall and winter hoarding many thousands of individual seeds, eventually summoning the location of every single one via an extraordinary memory, a key to their survival.

The unseasonable warmth seems to enhance everything, amplifying the flowing water everywhere; a cacophony of bird sounds; soft breezes rattling last autumn’s withering beech leaves; and rows of bright yellow wildflowers lining the roadside. The woodland smells are acute this time of year — the freshly thawed earth, rotting leaves, bogs, vernal pools and other, more subtle yet completely familiar seasonal aromas, dreamlike in their essence, a near deja vu experience of all the springs that have gone before.

On another walk earlier this week, spring comes down to earth. It’s 37 degrees, cloudy with a moderate rain shower, wet snowflakes mixing in at times, splatting on the surface of my jacket as I scale a small hill. The only sounds are a brook, roaring through a narrow gorge and a roadside waterfall at its most robust. As happens so frequently, in the couple of miles I’ve walked, I’ve seen no traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. I take a break on a small bridge over the rushing water and wonder a bit about all this, coming up with nothing especially profound.

Heading back I stop again to watch the loons feeding in what I imagine is a replenishing of fuel expended on their long flight back from the Southeast coast to the pond where they were likely born. I catch the occasional glimpse of them hurtling by, just below the surface, oblivious to how they enrich a lone observer’s wandering.

Walt Amses is a writer who lives in North Calais.