The Heart and Sole of Mud Season

A muddy path

Winter has passed, but spring hasn’t quite started yet. We are in the transitional period that results in that fifth season, known all too well by North Country residents: Mud Season.

As a child, this was by far my favorite “season.” My mother would no longer be nagging me to button up and put a hat on. I could slip into my (very fashionable) classic black rubber boots with red soles, to which I had formed a rather strong attachment. To me, those boots meant adventure, the freedom to explore beyond the fair-weathered limits to which my sneakers confined me.

I would romp around in the puddles and wallow in the mud like a little pig. Well OK, maybe I didn’t wallow per se, but I really liked to play in the mud. I loved the sounds my boots would make when I walked through a particularly deep patch. I fought with the soggy soil to keep my boots, even though the ground tried to suck them right off my feet.

A young pig playing in the mud

Sometimes I lost the battle. North Country mud puts up a good fight, mind you, and at times can be too much for a youngster. On a few of my wild expeditions, I can recall walking faster than my boots, and I would therefore out-step them, planting my exposed toes straight into a slimy mud pit. I’d look over my shoulder, as if I were doing something wrong, and silently slide my muddy foot back into my boot and carry on like nothing happened.

But that’s the beauty of rubber boots. They are designed to get dirty. When they are covered with mud, inside and out, the simple remedy is to blast them with the garden hose and hang them upside down to dry. In those days, it was always so simple.

Since then, I’ve taken quite a different view of Mud Season. I no longer envision slimy days of play and adventure, but rather annoyance at never being able to keep my car clean. I tire of raking up the clumps of mud that inevitably make their way into the house. I finally understand why my mother would get so upset when I accidentally walked inside before taking off my muddy rubber boots.

Muddy ruts in a North Country field

That’s how I discovered that I’m finally growing up. I’m not a little kid anymore, and those days of muddy adventures are over. They always told me to enjoy it while I could, and as much as I’d like to be able to say I made the best of it, I’m sure I could have squeezed a little more fun and excitement out of my childhood.

But for now, as a testament to my youth—and a strong resentment toward my adulthood—I’m going out to buy a pair of rubber boots. They will not be pink with purple polka dots, or anything as fashionable as that. I want a solid black pair, with red soles, of course.

Tweet, tweet, tweetly-tweet!

It’s heeeeeere! Well, almost. Even though temperatures have been rising recently, getting into the mid-fifties, even the low sixties in some places,  I can’t say that spring has sprung just yet. There’s one thing I’m waiting for.

I’m giddy like a little kid for a personal tradition that I look forward to ever year: spotting the original early bird, the red-breasted American Robin. Every year, I can’t wait to see my first Robin.

As symbols of the end of winter and the coming of spring, the American Robin (turdus migratorius), is one of the first indicators to me that the long, snowy (or not, this year) winter is over. When the Robin is out, singing and darting around hunting for worms, I start to anticipate spring.  Soon it’ll be time to work on the garden, pull my bike out of the shed, and do the dreaded yearly overhaul my mom cheerfully calls “Spring Cleaning.” But let’s not think about that for now.

American Robin photo by Wikipedia user Mdf

Also called the North American Robin and the Red-Breasted Robin, the migratory songbird is a type of thrush, which explains its scientific name (turdus meaning thrush, migratorius meaning migrating). Even though it’s named after the European Robin, the American Robin is a completely different species, of which there are seven hazily-defined subspecies.

With gray-brown feathers and distinctively reddish orange chests and bellies, the American Robin is one of the most easily identifiable birds.  The head of the bird is darker than the body, the bill is yellow, and the belly and underside of the tail are white or light gray. There is a vague distinction between the sexes; females are usually lighter, compared to males.

According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, the American Robin is  “the largest of the North American thrushes.”  Because they are so easily recognizable, they’re a good starting point for beginning birdwatchers. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology also says, “Robins make a good reference point for comparing the size and shape of other birds, too.”

Robins are known as early birds for several reasons, the most obvious being that they are one of the first birds to be seen after the winter. Surprisingly, even though they migrate to breed, Robins can be found in our area year-round. They are just more likely roosting in the trees than on the ground searching for berries, fruit, insects and earthworms. In the spring, birdwatchers have a better chance of seeing the bird engage in its quirky “running and stopping” behavior, another of the Robin’s distinguishing characteristics.

Because Robins are so well-known, it’s no surprise to find their many inclusions in our culture. The Robin is the state bird of Connecticut, Michigan and Wisconsin, and there’s even a crayon named for the color of their eggs, Robin’s egg blue. If you haven’t gotten the tune of  “Rockin’ Robin” by Bobby Day stuck in your head yet, well, it won’t be long. And if you have, click here to listen.  Even Robin of Batman fame is clearly inspired by the American Robin; his red shirt isn’t just a coincidence. I’m sure there are countless other references to the Robin in pop culture.

One of my favorite things about Robins is their song. They provide the soundtrack to spring. There is nothing like throwing open the windows on a sunny spring day, and letting the breeze and melody of the Robin float into your home. Whether it’s a warning call, or their clear, lilting song, I’m listening. Since Robins are starting to be more active, I know that even if I haven’t seen one yet, I’ll probably hear them announcing spring’s arrival soon.

Have you seen the American Robin yet?

A lesson in self preservation

The weather in the mountains mirrors human emotion in a dynamic way.  Its mood can shift with a bipolar quality that is startling and seemingly unpredictable, yet there are usually warning signs that can urge even the most intrepid hiker to turn back.  A failed attempt at Porter Mountain last summer made me realize that even under the best of conditions, it is often wise to heed what a temperamental sky is trying to tell me.    

My drive to the Porter Mountain trailhead took place during the most ideal of mornings.  I remember looking up and seeing large, puffy white clouds framed by an open, deep blue sky.  It made me feel welcome, like an inviting smile.  “Come.” it said to me.   “Get to know me today.”  The air was warm and the breeze was telling the black flies to stay away, protecting me from annoyance and pain.  Everything felt right, and I decided it was a good day to take my time.

The thickening gray above Giant. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

Approaching Porter from the Marcy Airfield requires an ascent of a rugged little cobble called Blueberry Mountain.  It probably took over an hour for me to reach the first of Blueberry’s many open rock stretches, and as I turned to enjoy the view I noticed some pale gray clouds collecting in the sky to the south.  I interpreted this as some late afternoon showers, something I was prepared to cope with on the final leg of my return.   It was nothing to worry about, because the skies above were still compelling me to come closer.

Several vistas later I was standing atop Blueberry scanning the ridge I was to follow up Porter, whose summit was now in clear view.  Up above clouds were racing by, the way thoughts pass through the anxious mind in a moment of panicked frenzy.  My mind, however, was calm.  So far the day had been superb, so it seemed a shame to turn my back on the mountain.  There was, after all, still a backdrop of blue in the sky, and the distance I had to cover was a mere two miles.  In hindsight I realize I had ignored obvious warning signs.  This was no passing mood—the sky was telling me to stay away, that today would not be my day.

It took me a little while to find the faded paint blaze that marks where the trail reenters the forest.  After I finally discovered the opening, I took one last look over my shoulder and noticed I could no longer see the rocky top of Giant Mountain across the valley.  Thin wisps of mist had cloaked the summit and were beginning to stretch down into the great cirque that characterizes Giant’s western flank.  I now only had memories of the view that once was.  Common sense dictated a retreat, and the thought had crossed my mind, but for some reason I couldn’t stop.  I had to try to go a little farther, just in case the weather miraculously improved. 

Turning my back on logic, I began the steep descent into the soggy col that separates Blueberry from Porter.  Entering the vegetation at the bottom of the col is like walking into the throat of some tremendous beast.  It is extremely wet and dense, and it gives a true sense of being closed in.  I caught few glimpses of the sky as I fought my way through this miserable stretch, and was shocked by what was waiting for me on the other side. 

My mind snapped into focus, and I immediately turned around and began a speedy retreat.  I plowed through the throat of the beast, ignoring the sharp branches that tore at my skin and whipped my face.  Upon returning to Blueberry’s naked dome, I saw that the stage had been set for a full-scale downpour.  Everything to the south had been consumed by darkness and a flash of lightning, quickly followed by a burst of thunder, reaffirmed that I was now in the wrong place at the wrong time.  The mountain which lies just east of my vantage point, the aptly named Hurricane Mountain, was also beginning to vanish.  I was being surrounded by the storm.  The good times were over, I had my fun.  It would be a mad dash to safety from here on out.

Charging down Blueberry, my objective became simple—get past the exposed sections of trail before the lightning could punish me for my lack of reasoning.  The entire experience was frightening, as every bolt that split the sky was closer and every shout that followed was more deafening than its predecessor.  The frequent views I had previously enjoyed now instilled fear.  The sky above was no longer amicable, it was enraged.  There were no signs of wildlife; no chirping birds, no scurrying chipmunks.  Even the trees were different; they were swaying violently and I could hear their branches clacking together.  It was as if everything that was good on this adventure was turning against me, and I longed to be back in the shelter of the valley below.

Looking south from Blueberry. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

The descent became a race against the elements.  The details are scattered, and all I clearly remember is jogging across every exposed section of trail, hoping my haste didn’t cause an injury.  The forest below never seemed as close as the lightning, my breath never seemed as heavy as the wind, and my heart never beat as loud as the thunder.  I was running out of time.

When I finally set foot onto flat ground, I felt a surge of delight fill me.  I was finally off of the mountain, but I still had a half mile to go.  As I approached a brook the sky lit up and crackled, refreshing my memory that lightning does strike trees, and I was surrounded by them.  I could hear rain, but it was not upon me yet.  I switched from a jog to a run, with nothing but the sound of the impending downpour to keep me focused on the task at hand. 

Minutes later, I was standing at the trailhead.  I was almost there, but there was one more obstacle to overcome.  Between me and my car was about 100 feet of dirt parking lot.  I was now a lightning rod.  Raindrops began slapping against the ground and the wind was fierce.  It was cursing me, mocking me.  The tiny mountain on the other side of the valley was the only feature I could see—everything behind it was gone.  I removed my keys from my backpack and got ready to run.  I took a deep breath and FLASH!  A bolt of lightning struck the backside of the tiny mountain and I was off before the last grumble of thunder echoed into oblivion. 

I wasted no time getting into the sanctuary of my car, where I rested, quiet and relieved.  The full brunt of the storm hit and I just sat there, enjoying its brilliance and waiting for it to pass me by.  From this vantage the lightning was stunning, and the thunder no longer seemed to be clapping in anger.  Instead, I felt like it was applauding me.  I sighed, and realized I had learned my lesson the hard way.  Sometimes it is better to appreciate the intense nature of things from a safe place.  In life, as in with the mountains, there is no shame in turning your back on something that can only bring you harm.

What’s a nor’easter?

You know when one is about to hit. Grocery stores swell with shoppers stocking up on bottled water and canned goods. Municipal snowplows make preemptive sanding runs through the quiet streets. Nothing sends North Country folks into a tizzy quite like a good nor’easter. What is it that makes these unholy blizzards that blow from the wrong way so powerful?

Nor'easter image courtesy of National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

Nor’easters are known to bring enormous amounts of precipitation and wind gusts upwards of 50 miles per hour. In the winter, which seems to be most of the time here, all of that wind and rain translates into a lot of snow and ice. A nor’easter is basically a wet and windy storm that blows up the East Coast. Although these storms can occur anytime of year, the prime season is from September to April when frigid artic air blows southeast from the Canadian plains and meets northbound warm air on the Gulf Stream. This collision of warm and cold air masses creates a cyclonic storm off the coast that equates to the winter version of a tropical storm.

These storms occur often and usually aren’t very strong, but when they do get big, they can pack a wallop. Burlington is still digging out from the nearly 3 feet of snow it picked up in early January, but that was an isolated total. Most of the Adirondacks got only 6 inches so.

Most storms occur as the result of warm and cool air masses collide, and the more extreme the difference between temperatures of the air masses, the more powerful the storm. We just happen to live in a part of the world where extremely cold air blows down from Canada to collide with warm air moving up the East Coast.