Spring is Jumping Too
 

       Moose Bay is now open.

      During the night of May 3 and May 4, there was a

lightening storm with heavy downfall of rains. Thunder

shook the islands enough to make the final dead leaves

slip from the branches of the ash trees to a heap near

their roots The storm followed a day of strong, warm

winds from the south.  Sometime during the night the

wind changed its approach and started to blow from the

northwest.  On the morning of May 4th,  I walked to

the ridge on the west side of this island to see what

the winds, rain, and warmth of the previous day had

done to the ice field during the night.  The vigorous

sight below me made my heart pound in my chest..

       Strong northwest winds had forced the solid

field of Moose Bay ice to lose her grip from the

mainland.  That same wind was pushing that ice against

Honeymoon Island and the small island to the west tip

of Brush.   The edges of the ice field were grinding

up against those islands and the field was breaking up

rapidly.   An open space of water had already

developed between the long legs of ice touching those

two islands.  There were mounds of frothy, broken ice

on both side of the opening. That fractured ice was

flowing toward Flag Island.  Huge cakes of ice were

crashing against and sliding up the sides of Honeymoon

Island directly into her tree line.  From the ridge, I

hear the shores of Honeymoon Island moan under the

weight of the thrashing and writhing ice floes from

the north

     Birds were taking advantage of the situation. 

Many were heading north again.  A small flock of

pelicans and cormorants flew low over the edges of the

ice.   A pair of ravens and two eagles checked out the

moving ice from higher in the sky. All were looking

for winterkill fish and animals that had broken

through the ice in the fall and had been locked in

nature's icebox all winter.  Now the ice was giving up

those treasures to the birds.

      It was more action than my state in life could

handle.  I blushed, cast my eyes to the ground, and

walked back to the peacefulness of the east side of

the island.  As I walked, I heard the first

white-throated sparrow of the year gently announce

that spring had just jumped into Lake of the Woods. It

was the same message that a male grouse had been

drumming into a log near the southern shore for weeks.
 

      Near Mad Jack's house, I felt a draft from

Pierre's hot, sweaty body as he rushed by me in a

westerly direction. He yelled back to me, "Mad Jack

said I should video tape the action from the ridge. 

He needs something to keep him warm during next

winter's blizzards."

     Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur.  It

was Mad Jack heading toward the road in his kayak. 

When I got into the house, I found this note on the

table,  "I'm off to the main library to get some

different literature.  All we had to read this past

winter are those romance novels Pierre found in the

trash cans after the Blueberry Festival last August."

      That sounded like a good idea.  Perhaps those

novels were starting to influence the way we observed

nature.
 

         Eagle Watcher