The Harmony and Irony of March

An absent orchid, a dormant salamander, a distant songbird

IN THESE naked woods, a Showy Orchid (Galearis spectabilis) would burn like a pink-purple flare.

In these muddy woods, a Spotted Salamander (Ambystoma maculatum) would glisten black with yellow polka-dots on its way to a vernal orgy.

In these quiet woods, a Hermit Thrush (Catharus guttatus) would deliver an ethereal, fluty song that lingers like the pre-dawn mist.

And yet despite the unsettling warmth in Vermont this past week, these are after all the woods of March. Naked. Muddy. Quiet. No orchid. No salamander. No thrush. None expected now anyway.

No matter.

In the absence of the charismatic, I could spend the rest of my days walking this patch of woods, making fresh discoveries along the way every March. Three came recently.

The Lay of the Land. Where no orchid grows I have nonetheless developed a new fondness for the gentle slope and roll of the land. Now that the understory is bare and the snow mostly gone, I trace the contours on the terrain — how it angles overall to catch the low winter sun, rolling upward here and there before resuming its angle of repose to meet the river below.

But what I admire most about the subtle pitch and aspect of these woods is watching how my pup Odin (in the photo above), nose to the ground, lopes and bounds elegantly across the landscape, over its fallen trees and through its bare thickets. Where no orchid grows, I find joy in motion —  in his joy, in his motion.

The Candleflame. Where no polka-dotted salamander walks, I have nonetheless discovered the most outrageous yellow of these winter woods. See it? There above, living on that 9-inch diameter Sugar Maple.

I had walked past this tree hundreds of times before noticing its microscopic patch of Candleflame Lichen (Candelaria concolor). It glows like little splashes of fresh highway paint. And it came to me only a month ago, when finding any brazen winter color demands our undivided senses (and when I wrote for you about The Kingdom of Tiny Things). 

Although this is a common lichen, sometimes seemingly spray-painted over a tree trunk, I have so far found only this and two other specks of it living in these 30 acres of woods behind my home. This yellow “patch” (below for you twice) has now become a destination. Where no salamander walks, I aspire to visit with and measure this lichen’s growth for many Marches to come. As Odin ages, like me he becomes more content to stop for little things in nature. (Yeah, that’s a standard sewing needle on the right.)

The Forest Awakening. Where no thrush sings, I nonetheless hear these woods stirring: the steady drip of sugar maple sap into metal buckets, the squish of mud below my boot, the staccato taps of a Hairy Woodpecker drumming for a mate.

They represent the pulse and breathing of these woods at the dawn of a new season, during which, in due time, I will welcome the returning Hermit Thrush from points south.

So the charismatic can wait. There is a harmony here nonetheless. Where no orchid grows, no salamander strolls, no thrush sings, I have the good fortune to live, housed and fed, close to wild places where bombs do not fall, and to possess a curiosity and exuberance borne on two legs and six senses never slighted.

Despite the abuses humans have perpetrated on it nearly everywhere, nature rewards us nonetheless from its depleted reserves, a harmony and an irony every month of every year — even in the naked, muddy, quiet, and charismatic woods of March.

Postscript

I’ve since launched southbound on a road trip to greet the spring in the American Southeast. I’ve already encountered one of the best-known and yet rarest plants in the world in its native habitat, Venus Flytrap (Dionaea muscipula). Paying subscribers will get an exclusive on this one in a week or so. During March I’ll also be making updates to the GO WILD suite of benefits. We have much to discover together this spring. Thanks for being here. Until next time, still relevant, here’s a post from exactly where I am now encamped: