Sure signs of spring

The sun now gives long light and warmth. The air is crisp with light breezes for flavor. Snow is still around, but only in patches scattered about the landscape, lingering reminders of the winter fading into melted extinction.

The crunch of snow has given away to the crunch of gravel and dirt. There’s the welcome sound of the rustle and crackle of dead leaves underfoot from last fall. Snow boots have been replaced by shoes, or in my case Army boots and hiking shoes. Studded tires have been taken off our cars. The rattle and rumble of studs on pavement gives way to the smooth, quiet ride of summer rubber. These are just some of the many signs of spring.

There are many signs now, so many that only if someone lives under a rock could the signs be missed. The Winter Queen is in full retreat back up the mountains. There, she will cling to her fading power until the bitter end. Down in the Valley we enjoy the warmth of spring as it returns in little bits or large leaps. Right now it is only in little bits, but the leaps are coming fast.

Migrant birds are returning, some in large numbers. Flocks of snow geese have been seen in the fields around Palmer. Ducks have been seen in flight over my own home. The arrival of these birds is one of those big leaps I was talking about. Their return spells doom for the winter at last. I hear new birdsong in the mornings now. One in particular is very welcome to my ears. Of all the birds out there, this one has been a constant in most of my travels — the morning song of robins.

I heard them for the first time this year only a couple of days ago. It was a cool, crisp morning. I was out to get my newspaper from its box at the end of my driveway. The woods surrounding us were alive with birdsong. The distinctive lilt of the robin jumped out from there and held me fast. To me, that song is the surest sign of spring to my ears. While not as dramatic as a huge flock of migrant birds landing or flying about, this subtle harbinger of the awakening — a simple song of the morning sung by robins — spoke volumes.

I must have stood out there, my head cocked for some time just listening. Not too long, though, just long enough for the chill in the air to run up my bare arms, only to be ignored by the warm smile growing on my face at the familiar sounds. They were that of an old friend who has come back after a long time being very far away. I took my time walking to the house, clutching the newspaper in my hand and listening to all the life around me. It would later prove to be a good day for going out on a three-mile hike on the trail.

The next big leap will be the great bloom and blossom, the frenzy of green that turns winter’s barren trees and brush into fully leafed wonder. This explosion of green is building up as we speak. Then the last switch will be thrown and nothing will be the same again. Alaska will be alive and fully awake.

Another migration will be spawned by all this activity, a very large one in fact. They will come from all points on the earth. They will come in droves, packs and flocks. They will be a great source of wonder, amusement and bewilderment, even a few moments of good old-fashioned cursing. And this happens every year like clockwork. We call them tourists.

Wasilla resident Daniel D. Grota retired from the U.S. Army after more than 21 years of service.