JOHN PEPIN

“And then right on time you came and changed the game,” — Marshall Crenshaw

Waking up, having once again fallen asleep on the couch watching television into the early morning hours, I sat pulling my mind together hoping to wrap it around some thoughts or at least something I could collectively call a conscientiousness.

In the darkness, I looked out to the county road to see the streetlight casting a pale and yellowish cone of light toward the sparkling blacktop, the driveway dirt and the green grass of the lawn.

I had guessed a misting rain was descending on the scene through the cool, night air.

Instead, as I rubbed my eyes open, I could see that it was snowing. The grass was covered white, except around the edges of the lawn. I stepped outside.

The air seemed relatively mild, considering. The snow that was falling from the sky was wet and heavy and perhaps more rain than snow.

It was a silent snowfall, except for the sound of water droplets that dripped from everything hitting the ground and anything else below.

After a couple of minutes, I went back inside and up to bed to try to sleep some more before it would be time to get up for work.

Over the past few days, the changes in the bird species showing up at our feeders have continued to show the incoming presence of wintertime, slow but sure.

There had been dozens of grackles only a few days ago, but they seem to have moved on heading south, leaving behind them a few allies — red-winged blackbirds in a small but rowdy crew.

A flurry of the slate-colored race of dark-eyed juncos had arrived also, in dribs and drabs. At first, it was only one or two birds over the course of a couple of days. Now, there were almost two dozen.

A winter visitor red-bellied woodpecker returned in the last week or so, arriving at his preferred suet feeder at the same time of day as last winter. Right on time.

After what seemed like only a couple of minutes, it was time to get up. I went to the window to see the snow mostly covering the downed yellow and red leaves on the lawn.

The big change between the peaceful scene I’d experienced a few short hours ago and now was the unflinching presence of a gusting and near-howling wind. The leaves were either too wet or covered with snow to blow up from the ground or they would be all over the place.

In the trees, stubborn leaves clung tightly to branches and whole maples and birches swayed in the gaping mouth of this wind. It was strong enough to make a buffeting sound I could hear from inside the house.

I’ve seen a robin over the recent rainy days looking for worms or other food on the patio. I imagined this bird had lingered behind a bit longer than advisable, though some robins will stay through the winter in some areas.

I could imagine this bird in its grass-weaved nest flopping a gray wing over the top of a bedroom alarm clock, to hit the snooze bar one more time.

This had me contemplating a distinction made by humans generally that I think is strange. People will often describe their pet dogs, cats, birds and whatever else as being members of the family, with personalities and near human attributes.

However, this seems to be an honor we only bestow upon pets. People rarely describe wild animals in the same terms. I have never heard of a robin having humanlike attributes, with the exception of some anthropomorphic glances in pieces of music like “Rockin’ Robin,” and “When the Red, Red Robin (Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbing Along).

I think that kind of pet-think goes along with a general ascendence of pets in importance that has occurred noticeably especially in recent years.

For example, far beyond dogs being referred to as “man’s best friend,” television newscasters now commonly report losses of pets in equity right along with people when it comes to fires or other tragedies.

I think it also goes along with sound instruction we have always heard or given that wild animals are just that. They are not pets and treating them like they are, may produce disastrous circumstances.

But still, it’s a strange psychological separation — this wild versus domestic animal concern.

Throughout the rest of the day, the wind continued to swell in speed and ferocity, with a lot more snow forecasted for the region. The blustery winds that gusted to about 40 miles per hour were like a professional wrestler setting up an opponent for a big fall.

That waters of Gitchie Gumee were high and rolling with white-capped waves that crashed like cymbals over the breakwater in the harbor.

At the landmark red lighthouse, the waves rolled high and ominously, churning sands, mud, bark and leaves against the shoreline.

Out in the swells, a trio of surfers dressed in black dry suits looked like seals laying across the tops of the waves, trying to find an opportunity to stand up and glide on their boards.

The lake looked like a bathtub that had too much water in it, sloshing back and forth splashing water against the rocks and, in some cases onto roadways. The park at picnic rocks had been closed.

A few years ago, a similar storm that occurred just before Halloween raged and screamed and took the lives of two people here, sweeping them from the places they stood into the receding foam.

Like a hand moving across a table, the big storm made its way across the land from west to east, dropping more than a foot of snow in many places and winding up another punch for cities and towns ahead in its path.

This old mining town was one of those places. Overnight, the heavy, wet snow fell over everything. It trampled a couple of brave black-eyed Susans still standing in the garden under the cedar trees.

The weight of the snow coupled with the strength of the winds split, cracked and toppled trees, which in turn, knocked out power lines.

I went out to get a shovel from the garage. I lifted it to knock heavy snow off the cable line to the house and on a sagging maple that had dipped and bent down to the ground. It sprang back up about three-quarters of the way to standing tall.

Birds were everywhere trying to pick their way through the wet snow to find dry sunflower seeds and suet cages hanging in cages.

The dark-colored juncos, blackbirds and woodpeckers contrasted greatly with the great, white background they were cast against.

So, this was how the season’s first real snowstorm arrived.

My mind wasn’t anymore ready for this any more than the trees were that stood with at least half of their leaves left on. Still yellow and orange. Still beautiful.

The weather forecaster says the weekend temperatures will soar into the 60s, providing enough warmth to remove all the snow from the landscape.

Mother Nature giveth and she taketh away.

Having seen that and read that, it’s still hard to get through my brain, especially when I look out into a white, snow globe with sugar-covered houses, trees, roads and pathways.

My mind is wearing a sweater, deciding which soup to make for lunch and how nice it will be once I drag dry wood into the house to light a fire in the fireplace. If I let it run too far ahead of me, my mind will already be pouring egg nog and wrapping presents.

I’m nowhere near ready for that yet, although I did fantasize a day or so ago about Dairy Queen announcing a new egg nog blizzard. That would be incredible.

With the wind picking up even stronger and faster, I’ve decided to stay in the house this afternoon, hoping no trees will fall over in the yard.

Once the storm has passed, I will go outside with my camera to shoot what I can see.

I plan to lift my little black-eyed Susans’ head out of the snow and take her picture as she smiles and winks at me.

How sweet it is to find remnants of summer still existing here, even now, as the first clench of winter’s fist takes place.

For me, that represents hope.

And with hope comes love and often inspiration.

California dreamin’ on such a winter’s day.

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.