Look! Quick!

by John Hicks-Courant

johnhc@TheWorld.com

 Every year around this time, I remember with something akin to awe at how short the growing season is in New England.

Without having to pay too much attention, I see it in my own yard. The trees, shrubs, and wildflowers change every day. We have come to gauge the nature of the season according to the growth spurts of some trees, the seeding of others, and the flowering of the rest. The various maples in our yard - silver, red, and sugar - seem to flower, leaf out, and seed within the span of the five weeks between the ends of March and April. The oak trees - red and white - begin to open their buds in the middle of May, and they have flowered and leafed out by the end of the month. The spurt of new growth on the pines, spruces, and hemlocks occurs in June, coincident with the yellow patina of pine pollen that coats everything for a couple of weeks.

It all happens so fast that, if you're not paying attention, it seems that our world goes from the dismal gays and browns of winter to the full-blown riot of regenerated and new life in the span of a few days. This part of the globe only gives living things in the natural world three to five months to reproduce, survive, and thrive before shutting down for survival mode - or not - for the rest of the year. If you're going to see things as they occur, you have to pay attention.

This came home to me as I researched the following article about the canoe trip between the Whipple Road bridge and the Knights of Columbus, which begins on the next page. This trip, which begins in the woods and then continues into the Fourth Meadow, is one that I have done maybe a hundred times over the years. What I had not done until now, though, was do the trip every other day for three weeks.

In the last week in June, the water in the river was unusually high. By the second week of July, the water was down to normal seasonal levels. By the last week of July, the water was still a little high, making it an easy thing to paddle through the riffles below the Whipple Road pool. In other words, the paddling was easy, and it was easily worth doing.

I was astounded by the speed with which the vegetation and even the inhabitants of the river assume and then cede ascendancy. There is a spot in the Fourth Woods where a Black Willow leans precariously across the river. When the water is high, there is just enough space between the tree, the water, and the opposite bank to allow me in my kayak — with paddle aligned on the lateral axis of the boat — to crouch down and slide through. This was easy enough heading upstream. Heading downstream, however, I plowed right into a flowering bush just past the Black Willow. Fragrant petals showered me and my boat, and I paddled the remaining mile and a half downstream in a cloud of perfume.

I was ashamed of my ignorance as to what kind of plant I had run into, and I resolved to return with a field guide the next time I came through. Two days later, equipped with the field guide, I returned to the spot. (All of the white petals that had been so aromatic two days earlier were now brown tear drops glued to the hull of my boat. I don’t know when they fell off.)

There were no flowering bushes in the area. I couldn’t tell which of the six or seven bushes and trees on the bank directly opposite the Black Willow had been flowering just two days earlier. Since then, I have noticed that many other plants have flowered quickly and then just as quickly returned to their normal green states. What we can look forward to on the river in August and early September are the continued antics of the Ebony Jewel Wing — a damselfly with matte-black wings, an iridescent body, and a whimsically loopy flight pattern — as well as the appearance of the solitary Cardinal Flower, the bevies of Forget-Me-Nots, and the cloyingly sweet aroma of wild grapes. Get out there and look!