Spring Has Sprung

It was the longest winter I could recall. The first gigantic snow dump occurred on October 2, 2017, the week before Thanksgiving. 

And it stayed, and stayed. 

In May, baby calves were being born into snow drifts; straw for bedding cattle was running out; Dr. Jeff the vet was on speed dial.

The Good Rancher was working virtually around the clock.

"Give it time - spring will show up. It always does; you'll see!" my far more seasoned friends assured me.

The next thing I could remember, the sun was pounding down with record-setting temperatures. Calves were lethargic. Horses were irritable. Flies were everywhere.

And then, on about this last Tuesday, it was winter again.

Snow, stabbing winds, slick roads, temperatures below zero. 

My head, which is usually more angled to the ground than the skies anyway, was now wedged between my shoulder blades. I told myself late, late last night that I simply HAD to get to sleep, that I had to get to church early on the morrow.

This morning I dragged myself from bed, said good morning to the dogs, got myself into reasonable order and climbed into Henry, my first Ford.

As I drove down the squelchy driveway, it dawned on me: they were right! My friends were right! Spring had arrived!

Driving home that afternoon, the temperature was at 3 degrees C. Vivid green was determinedly pushing a carpet through the snow. There was no wind to speak of. The sun was shining!

A mum and her baby calf sat enjoying that sun.

It did strike me as a bit peculiar that there were fresh bales in the fields in spring, but then, this whole year has been a little odd.

When I got home I went outside to see what I could see, to breathe the air, to be.

This would be the first time in well over a year that I had been outside of my own volition, with no agenda: nothing to do, no errand to run, no rush.

It was so quiet. So calm.

Nothing to prove. Nothing to lose.

So right.

The dogs came with me, each with their own thoughts. Musket, the eldest, was just thankful that he could feel the fresh grass on his back, that he could revel in the sun.

Phoebe Snow remembered the joy of discovering buried treasure, and she showed her little sister, Carly Simon - whose first spring this is! - what it is like to dig in the soft, rich soil.

Gunpowder, the one who stays closest to home and who had been informed not too long ago in no uncertain terms that he would never, never be a father, surveyed the scene morosely. Why couldn't he go inside? Perhaps a crumpet or two, with a spot off Earl Grey, would serve to lighten his heirless burden ... 

Earl Grey, however, was having none of it. He was on his own vision quest, faithful sister Phoebe his spotter. Gophers were the prize!

If a gopher sees his shadow, does that mean there will be six more weeks of winter?

Neighbour Jim's plane cleaved the sky and I looked up. 

I looked up ...

If the gopher does not see his shadow and is emboldened to move away from his safety cell, does that mean we will get a much-needed Indigenous people summer? Farmers still have crops in the field, slowly but surely losing value the longer the weather remains uncooperative.

And yet, we need the moisture desperately to get a boost for the growing cycle of next year.

What if the gopher changes his mind? Can he go back into hibernation, snug, sleepy, never knowing that he would be missing this fluky, fabulous fall-into-spring spectacular? 

Having looked up, can I?