Only a mountain has lived long enoughto listen objectively to 

the howl of a wolf.

 

A Sand County Almanac

Aldo Leopold

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It is becoming unsafe out on the ice of the interior lakes that stretch across the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

 

The snowmelt has created slush. On some of the surfaces, the white light of ice is darkening.

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It is a time of waiting. Islands are inaccessible. Stores are absent of tourists since it is an in-between season.

 

Winter is receding. Spring is

not yet here. While we wait

for summer, the warmth

is tentative and fleeting. 

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Yesterday, the temperatures dropped, and it wanted to snow. For a few moments, snowflakes drifted down and then stopped.

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It is a time of migration. The

junkos blew in as a swirl and

are now gone. For the first time,

a loon was heard out on Lake Superior.

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The dogwood lining the ditches and clinging to open space

have been with us all winter.

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The willows are just beginning

to open with their soft cotton announcing early spring.

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Light is extending, and the sun

has moved far from the horizon

line where it made a home all through December and January.

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It is a restless time. People depart on trips to capture and steal from spring a few moments to pre-empt summer.

 

But often, they come back to a colder world and a less inviting one.

 

Time has passed, but

the season has not.

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It is something our whole

constitution does not want

to accept. It is as though we

were bred with a kind of

controlled fury.

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We want it so badly.

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Many study the weather reports of Minneapolis or places that escape the lake effect of cold Superior as it modulates our temperatures.

 

They think: “Why can’t I be there?” or “Surely our weather can’t be far behind.”

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Last week it crested plus 80 degrees in the Twin Cities. Here

we rejoiced because thermometers  came in over 50. Students were in shorts and tee-shirts.

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Today, it is hovering around

thirty degrees.

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The fading of winter is the time of year woodsmen appreciate being out in the forest cutting trees, hiking, discovering new topography with the branches bare.

 

The snow that once was deep and furrowed is gone, and a few patches of ice briefly line the path.

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​However, these days seem to offer little consolation as the grey skies drift across the path of the sun. We are waiting in anticipation.

 

There is an expectancy as if we

can get ahead of nature’s laws,

which will run their course.

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​Waiting is a lost art in many ways.

 

Waiting for ideas slow in coming

is one place we learn patience.

Waiting for love is another place worth paying attention to, but we cannot make this happen any more than expecting robins to arrive on a particular day. 

 

​Waiting for important events to transpire when it is not their time

is hard to do, but what choice

do we have?

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​Spring will not come any sooner. In the first days of April, we may have garden tools ready, and we look fondly to our fishing boats. Canoes might seem eager to be off on new adventures. 

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So much to anticipate, but the time has not yet arrived. It will and is

slowly making its march, but only

a little each day.

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Waiting may be nature’s way of reminding us we have limits to our energies. While waiting is not always easy, we do what we can and let the pulsebeat of time move as it should. 

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Sometimes, we have very little say

in the matter.