John Pepin

“Move over short dog, cuz the tall dog’s movin’ in,” – Hank Williams

The threads around wintertime’s tightly sewn-up burlap sack are starting to fray, ever so slowly, but surely, providing a way for spring to break free, out into the open.

This is occurring despite the still imposing blanket of snow laid across the landscape, like a cold comforter on an icy bed.

Amid the evidence of this glacially slow breakthrough of springtime was a chipmunk I saw this week. He looked thin, ragged and bewildered as he ran across the top of a wide expanse of snow.

The sunshine over the past couple days had left a crust atop the wintry, white frosting that allowed the chipmunk to race easily over the snow.

I have a strong suspicion this chipmunk was one we have become all too familiar with over the past couple of summers.

There is one that has kept digging out alongside one of our steel clothesline pole supports, leaving piles of dirt on the patio bricks surrounding the hole.

Once the chipmunk disappears down into the darkness, he often emerges through an exit hole he has dug in our staircase flower bed.

As I watched the chipmunk that I saw this week run across the top of the snow, it ran to the clothesline pole and looked down to the base, but there was no hole to dive into, it was buried in a couple feet of snow.

So, it quickly turned itself around and ran down to where the garden exit hole was also buried beneath the snow. The chipmunk then came up to sit in the brick sill of one of the windows.

I watched him from just a couple feet away. He was panting and out of breath.

A while later, I went outside and walked toward the garage. The chipmunk was hiding between some of the firewood logs stacked in a rack against the house.

This was another familiar habit of the summer chipmunk we have come to know.

This little animal, with such tiny legs and rapid heartbeat, you’d think would tire easily if walking a long distance. Don’t you believe it.

Two summers ago, I went on a trap and relocate mission to lessen the population of chipmunks exploding on our property that year. The clothes pole chipmunk was captured in a trap and taken for a car ride to be released almost 10 miles from our house.

Two days later, he was back.

I’ve also heard the morning dawn chorus of birds beginning to gain members as each day passes. Local reports have documented returns from several species of welcome spring migrants, like robins, sandhill cranes and trumpeter swans.

On the other hand, I saw a weasel this week. His coat was still a bright, white bearing no traces of turning to summertime brown anytime soon. Boo hiss, weasel. Go back in your hiding hole.

We have a beautiful pair of cardinals still hanging around our bird feeders and backyard, as they have done most of the winter. I am eagerly awaiting to hear the male burst into song any morning now.

I am also waiting to hear my first robin of springtime. For some reason, that remains one of the highlights of my year. I have neither seen nor heard one so far.

The only grander return for me is when I hear the haunting tremolo sound of the first returning loon echoing though the morning air. For me, nothing beats hearing that ancient song except seeing the amazing bird itself, usually surfacing to the top of some icy lake.

I saw something else cool this past week, which I don’t think is necessarily related to spring, but was cool, nonetheless. Among the ice shanties that dot the scene at one of our nearby inland lakes, I watched a line of deer come trotting toward me from the lake’s far side.

I counted 20, but I might have missed a couple. Someone must be feeding them to attract this many from all the way across the lake. I don’t think folks realize they are increasing the danger of deer being struck by cars when they decide to feed deer so close to busy roadways.

I’ve been wondering something lately in watching birds, but the same question would stand for most any animals. I want to know whether it is nature or nurture that allows young birds to perch next to birds several times larger than themselves, seemingly without fear.

For example, how does a chickadee making its first or second trip to a bird feeder in its life know that a blue jay or a hairy woodpecker is safe to sit next to?

The biggest thing weighing against wintertime lasting into summer is the increasing height and intensity of the sun, which is staying around longer and longer each day.

On the south side of everything from trees to houses and rocks, the sunshine has already diminished what were once significant piles of snow and ice to bare pavement, or even dark earth where fresh and green shoots of springtime’s daffodils and crocuses are surely soon to appear.

The thought of those species brings other springtime notions to mind like pastel-colored Easter eggs, biting the heads off chocolate rabbits and a fine, glazed ham on a Sunday afternoon.

All of this is to say nothing of the first pitch of baseball season, which has already taken place. Hooray! Take that, white winter-phased weasel.

This time of the season, it feels good to put most of the heavy winter coats, boots, gloves and hats away. It’s still too early to not keep a snow shovel by the door, but the die has been cast.

My cowboy boots are ready to walk – down two-track roads, narrow woodland trails, old railroad tracks and out under the moon and stars. I am ready to get some dirt on my heels and sit my butt down in some tall, cool grass on a warm, sunny day.

My ears are aching to hear the running of creeks and streams, the crackling of a nighttime campfire and the forlorn hoots of owls in the darkness.

I am also excited to hear the sounds of springtime’s rain showers and later, thunderstorms. I miss these events terribly during the wintertime.

Soon the sackcloth will be torn and shed, and spring will be floating like a kite in the big, blue skies, spreading green grasses across everywhere, painting profusely in sprays of pink and blue and white and purple wildflowers.

The big lake will put on its pretty blue coat to wear around town all summer long. The gray, white drab coattails of winter can go to the cleaners now.

The chilly springtime winds are also helping to diminish the winter king. Especially on these sunshine days, the winds help evaporate the snowfall that has been piled up now since who can remember when? Last Labor Day?

I think it’s kind of strange, but in some ways, the year doesn’t start for me until springtime arrives. I think my brain and my instincts are more in line with that way of looking at things.

Rather than a number on a calendar, a human construct, my human biology seems to align those of plants and animals, and I revive and restart all types of thinking, being, doing and feeling processes.

Something about the year starting at the end of all the rush and the hullabaloo of the holiday season doesn’t seem like it fits. You would think the year would be too worn down and emaciated to have any energy to start anew on Jan. 1.

But springtime brings new life to just about everything except winter.

I will always love all the seasons and wait, hope and enjoy each one in their time, but when the time has come to change the season – out with the old and in with the new.

Move it on over, winter.

Change the scene. Change the colors, the feel, the tempo and the key signature. Let the grand procession play itself out over another splendid year, with nature constantly the teacher in every season.

This aging dog remains ready to learn some new tricks.

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.