John Pepin, Michigan Department of Natural Resources

“Meet me on the mountain when the winter is dying and the snow lays deep on the mountain trails.” — Gary Richrath

On the glorious occasion of the highly anticipated vernal equinox — the spring splitting of the night and day in half — the rising sunlight was one of those opaque, pastel and purplish-rosy affairs.

This was the grand rebirth after winter’s icy chill and withering frosts, the deep snows, fierce winds and howling blizzards. Spring had indeed arrived, the cosmos and the calendar had now said so.

However, being familiar with the fickle nature of the springtime in this northern setting, I am like many who remain skeptical of the comparable powers of such a creation so newly born.

Instead, we here are prone to rely on the wiles and dominance of winter, whose crippled, cold fingers have embraced this region tightly for months now, it’s namesake Wintermaker constellation overhead in the skies each night to remind us.

A little over a week since the springing forward, I was already used to having more light at the end of the day. It was a pleasant reminder of those late-light summer evenings on the distant horizon to come.

To look around, the evidence of springtime might not have been evident at first. There was still about two feet of snow on the ground, the lakes remained covered in a thick veneer of ice and snow solid enough to drive a truck over.

The rivers, even in the places where the rapids tumble and gurgle all summer long, remained covered in that bluish-white coloring nature loves to paint with during winter.

But after a couple of minutes alone to stand still and filter out the internal and external noise, all I needed to do was open my ears. The fabled dawn choruses of birds singing early on spring mornings had indeed begun.

However, this is the time of the season when the choir isn’t yet loud or full, with most members of the concert yet to arrive – still on their way north from tropical vacation destinations and parts much farther south.

Meanwhile, on this first day of spring, there were still winter birds like the common redpolls, offering up their pleasant, quaint notes to the skies and the rising sun.

Any day now, these cheerful, small finches with their red caps too will be heading north, but to places much farther away from here, places ringing the Arctic Ocean.

The members of the choir already here and practicing this morning included the crows, which had loudly shouted their appearance on the scene. Much like their presence indicates the arrival of fall, they also help usher in spring.

There were resident birds singing too, including mourning doves, American goldfinches and a pileated woodpecker. By reading reports of bird sightings in other locations, their ranks would soon be filling up with robins, grackles, geese, blackbirds and more.

By the end of May, the dawn choruses will be in full voice and will truly be a joyful spectacle to enjoy on most any morning.

For now, the most exciting bird singing outside my door at home was a night vocalist, a male in especially fine throat.

I stepped outside with my camera to try to get a picture or two of a couple of flying squirrels that were eating at my suet feeder. When I did, I heard the soft, repetitive tones of a northern saw-whet owl.

The noise that many people liken to a back-up alarm on a vehicle was ringing through the chilly evening, clear as day.

I have had several encounters with these small and beautiful, yellow-eyed owls. They are generally relatively easy to approach and are not spooked much by the presence of humans.

I remember reading an article, years ago, about how a homeowner opened their back door one morning to find a saw-whet owl sitting in one of the coffee cups left on the picnic table.

I have also read accounts of Native Americans and early bird researchers easily calling the owls to within just a few feet by imitating their songs.

On this night, the owl was singing from a spot about 300 feet away.

I called my wife to come outside, knowing she had never seen one of these birds before. She brought her cellphone. We played a saw-whet owl call and the bird moved in closer to us.

Then the song started to fade away and then became louder and then loudest, all within a few seconds. I told her that was because the owl was turning its head around while it continued to sing, likely trying to attract a mate.

Within a very short time afterward, the owl began singing from a big pine tree in our front yard. We walked down to the tree, and I shined my flashlight up into the dense growth of pine needles and branches.

At a point rather high up we could see the little owl. They are only about 8 inches tall full grown. We moved away from the bird a little farther down the driveway, hoping the owl would come down closer to us.

I searched for it again with the flashlight and we saw it in mid-air, flying to a lower branch. I caught it in the beam of light. We could see the yellow eyes shining brightly and the spotted-type markings on its head side and the streaks on its face and breast.

After a few minutes more, the owl moved to a stand of cedars that sit alongside our driveway. We went over there too, but this time, we didn’t see the owl. It soon flew off and again began singing in the night from a farther distance.

The next day, I decided to put up an owl box that I had at the ready, just waiting for a good place to put it. The two of us worked to drill holes through an attachment board so we could put the box up.

I decided the big pine tree might be a good place. After checking the specifications online, I climbed a ladder and we put the box up facing south about 15 feet off the ground.

I can see the opening to the box from my living room. Of course, I am hoping for a family of saw-whet owls, but I would gladly settle for flying squirrels as well.

This should be an interesting year. I am also putting up bat boxes and a spectacular condominium in hopes of attracting purple martins.

That same night I put up the owl box, I went out to the front porch after dark and I heard the owl singing again. It was wonderful.

Today, there are weather reports saying a mix of rain, snow, cold and ice is headed our way over the next couple of days. It was almost 60 degrees just a day or so ago.

March, like it’s November cousin, is a month of temperamental shifts between what has been and what will be.

Beyond birdlife, there are numerous signs of spring in evidence, including bright green shoots of daffodils poking through the black dirt and dead leaves in our flower bed, the shapes and colors of rocks becoming visible on the hillsides, chipmunks out and about and the sun jumping up so high in the sky so soon each day.

A deer trail along the back of our property has had two and sometimes three deer all winter. Over the past couple of weeks, the numbers of those animals, nodding their heads and following each other as in a mule train, now numbers as many as eight.

The snow is retreating from the sides of the roads and those sunrises seem to be in a competition to outdo each other every morning. They just keep getting better and better.

All these things indicate to me that I will be heading outside a lot more starting now. There is so much happening to absorb through all the senses, I don’t want to miss anything.

Springtime means life, living and living better.

Editor’s note: Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.