This commentary is by Walt Amses, a writer who lives in North Calais.
All indications are that spring is on the way — in fact, in less than two weeks, according to the calendar.
I got a late start on a recent afternoon walk but, with February’s blazing sun bouncing off the still pristine snow cover, the distinct message I’m getting is that this winter winding down delivers a far more profound passage than usual. Was it really a full year ago we boarded a plane, heading for a month in Mexico? In what seemed like a couple of days, Covid altered the landscape so radically we aborted the mission, fled home from Florida, thankful we had Vermont to come back to, but feeling pretty stupid nonetheless for having left in the first place.
The past 12 months have been at once tumultuous and tranquil, threat levels increasing daily, forcing many of us to recalibrate and live within our emotional means, reaching out but keeping our distance; socializing in strange new ways, if at all; and inadvertently learning what’s important, what we’ll keep and what we’ll leave behind once the plague is vanquished.
Even though we live pretty far out and my ramblings over the years have been mostly solitary, I’ve had more pedestrian company this winter than I’ve probably had in the last 20 years combined. We’ve learned that, despite our differences, we all desperately need many of the same things to keep us whole — like each other — even if up until this moment we were strangers.
About a mile from home the road narrows; high rock faces on either side channel what was a gentle breeze into a vicious wind that quickly reminds me it’s only 15 degrees and, though winter may be waning, it will not go quietly. It never does out here. The last two springs offered several inches of heavy, wet snow in mid-May.
But as I push on, into the widening valley beyond, the wind subsides and I’m back in the palpably warming sunshine, rooted in comfortable complacency, happy to feel my face again, scanning the broad, snow-covered wetland connecting two of the ponds strung along this 4-mile length of icy gravel.
My battered Yak Tracks demand concentration on the road surface, which, after multiple weeks of subfreezing temperatures, is rock hard, glazed over and dangerously camouflaged by the half-inch of powdery overnight snow, sparkling the fields but adding an unwelcome note of treachery to every step.
Three mallards erupting from a tiny patch of open water in the stream along the road break my concentration, reminding me to be alert for other inhabitants of the road, who might be sufficiently enticed by the sun to stretch their legs, or wings.
Other than the wavy, dipping flight pattern of the pileated woodpecker, who’s whittled a small grove of mysterious totem poles out of a long-dead stand of pine, I hear more than I see: chattering red squirrels; a squadron of chickadees; and the pair of grumbling ravens who seem to escort my every walk, yet remain mostly clandestine, save the days they throw all caution to the gusty wind, swooping, diving and riding the swirling air, in the moment, like dark, iridescent surfers well into the curl. Considered one of the smartest bird species, ravens are known to problem-solve and make their own tools, largely attributed to their outsized brain, but they’re certainly not all work and no play.
In addition to their airborne acrobatics, ravens make their own toys, breaking off twigs to engage socially with other birds. They’ve also been seen sliding down snowbanks or icy rooftops, likely just for fun, even teasing other animals like wolves, otters and dogs.
Topping a short rise, I catch my breath, pondering the elegance of the raven manifesto: “Balance occupation with recreation,” which seems extremely pertinent to the last 12 months as many of us reevaluate how we spend our time, especially as we realize how fleeting that time can be.
A couple of miles from home, another woodpecker — downy or hairy, I can never quite tell — jolts me back to the here and now with a crescendo of hammering that seems to reverberate the length of the tree trunk he’s on. A torrent rushing through a beaver dam tumbles under the frozen surface in a narrow ravine, creating a series of shimmering sculptures at each splattering pool along the way.
As I rest for a moment, watching the lengthening shadows on the fourth and final pond on this stretch of road, I’m surrounded by the kind of art, only nature can exhibit. But the connection is still remarkable and unmistakable.
To my back, across the roadside, stands a small cliff my wife and I dubbed “Braque’s Rocks” decades ago, an accolade to George Braque, who, along with Pablo Picasso, shattered traditional artistic representation in the early years of the 20th century, inventing “cubism,” which abandoned art from a single viewpoint in favor of a series of geometric shapes, interlocking planes and eventually collage. The wall of slate compressed, tilted on an angle, with its odd, often bewildering configurations was probably created by the same glacier grinding through that formed everything else in the area, including the crystal clear, incredibly deep ponds along my route.
The similarities between the works of Braque, Picasso and a long-ago glacier are uncanny, but if abstraction isn’t your thing, the rest of my surroundings are traditional as Andrew Wyeth’s landscapes, offering a vast, ever-changing, seasonal panorama, a gallery stretching from here to forever. Along with the avian symphony, the art and music of a Vermont back road collaborate, adding one more enriching dimension to see us through until spring and beyond, toward whatever normal turns out to be.
The sun flirts with distant hillsides, soon to disappear as the sweet spot of the afternoon washes over me. I’ll soon be overtaken by shadow heading home, acutely aware there’s plenty of winter left.