WHEN SPRING COMES TO THE MOUNTAINS

SPRINGTIME MOUNTAINS

"Warble me now for joy of lilac-time."

In the mountains, spring comes suddenly, throwing open the door of morning like a child home from school. Running water sings in every stream; standing water glistens in every depression. The aseptic smell of winter gives way to a scent so musky and fertile and permeating it shakes the senses. Winter has flown on the wings of eagles. In early March, a voice heard only by eagles calls to them from the Far North, and dozens of migratory bald eagles that have fished and hunted in the White Mountains all winter break camp and fly away. When my kids were growing up wild and free in the mountains long before Pinetop became urbanized eagles were not yet an endangered species. I have admired their grit and determination ever since the day I had a fight with the Fred's Lake eagle. I was cleaning house when I heard a chilling screech in the yard. I looked outside to see the eagle pinning one of my chickens. The great bird imperially ignored my threats, so I ran outside and batted her in the tail with a broom. She turned loose of the chicken but flew to the roof of the house next door and sat there screaming and glaring at me for half an hour. She never bothered my chickens again, but I could see her circling vindictively from time to time, high above a nearby hill. Robins perch on limbs and fences, throwing out their chests and singing their soaring arias like overfed heldentenors. Song sparrows and thrushes accompany them with lyric trills. Ravens and bluejays hurl catcalls from the gallery.

SPRINGTIME in the MOUNTAINS

My big old apple trees provide a timeshare condo for birds. In some sort of avian order, they build nests, hatch out their young, and scour the neighborhood for worms and bugs and seeds. I provide the water. The Mexican grackles arrive last. Fearlessly they attack the cat, keeping her at bay until their young are safely airborne.

"My Friend Flicker" has returned every year for the past five years to her nest in the south end of my house. I put up new siding last year but didn't have the heart to close up the hole she drilled under the eaves. It is the same every year. About daybreak one morning, I hear someone knocking at the door. I get up, look out, and see no one. The dogs have a better memory. They know My Friend Flicker has returned, and they refuse to bark.

In town, protected and pampered, crocuses show off their spring designer colcuses show off their spring designer colors. Shades of lavender-blue are in this year. Daffodils, hyacinths, and tulips join

Ospreys swirl above spring's turbid streams.

Frogs croak across the marshes, and mating mallards slow dance on glassy ponds.

SPRINGTIME in the MOUNTAINS

The parade. By Easter the forsythia is in full yellow bloom by my doorway, and the lilacs are coming on.

The woods are wary, deep, and wild. Here spring flowers are at the mercy of wind, snow, and sleet with nothing to protect them but centuries of selective culling. On the banks of Billy Creek, a single bloom of edelweiss crouches on a mat of green. Icy water flows around the budding willows, and violets shiver among the rocks.

April can be very wet or very dry, but it is always windy. Most of the roads and trails are open below 8,000 feet elevation. Hikers, horsemen, and mountain bikers replace cross-country skiers on the 200 miles of interconnecting trails in the White Mountain TrailSystem, designed, built, and maintained by local volunteers, who prefer the outdoors to malls and video-game rooms and casinos.

Only the foolishly optimistic resident plants seed in April. Ula Merrell, Pinetop's former postmaster, once told me an old mountain truism: "You can plant your garden when the oak leaves are as big as squirrels' ears." It pays to watch the squirrels.

For years, getting lost in the mountains on horseback was my favorite recreation. Exploring the ridges and canyons in the company of mountain-bred horses and dogs always proved an excellent adventure. One spring I wandered farther than usual and was making my way back home after dark along Forest Service Road 187 when Molly the Mustang blew a little surprised snort. I could hear a quiet shuffling all around me and smell a faintly rank wild scent, but Molly didn't change pace. When we got to a clearing, I saw the dark shapes of elk in every direction. There we were, Molly, my dogs, and 1, surrounded by elk. Nobody seemed to mind, so we just went along with the herd until our trail turned off. Now I ask you, how many urban dwellers can say they have wandered in the moonlight with elk?

usual and was making my way back home after dark along Forest Service Road 187 when Molly the Mustang blew a little surprised snort. I could hear a quiet shuffling all around me and smell a faintly rank wild scent, but Molly didn't change pace. When we got to a clearing, I saw the dark shapes of elk in every direction. There we were, Molly, my dogs, and 1, surrounded by elk. Nobody seemed to mind, so we just went along with the herd until our trail turned off. Now I ask you, how many urban dwellers can say they have wandered in the moonlight with elk?

Ospreys swirl above spring's turbid streams. Frogs croak across the marshes, and mating mallards slow dance on glassy ponds. The Billy Creek beavers lose their dams to floods every few years. Like pioneers, they persevere until the damage is repaired and life has returned to normal. There are no floodplain restrictions for beavers.

On a mellow day in April, with the sun reclining in a hazy sky, a black bear comes out of his den, stretching and yawning and blinking. At first his tender paws restrict his feeding to nearby forage. As his paws toughen, he ventures farther from home, drawn by the tantalizing aromas of backyard barbecues and fast food establishments. Bears seem to prefer country club cuisine but visit ordinary neighborhoods

SPRINGTIME in the MOUNTAINS

occasionally. Most mountain people have a live-and-let-live attitude toward bears.

Wildlife biologist Jack O'Neil has encountered some unusual bruins in his day, but few as brazen as the Bear Who Came to Dinner. A Lakeside resident was awakened in the night by noises in the kitchen. Thinking it was a burglar, he ran to the kitchen and switched on the light, surprising a large bear rummaging through the garbage. The bear beat a hasty exit - right through a closed window.

Steve and JoAnn Taylor of Linden were on vacation when a young black bear tore down the screen door of their porch to get at a sack of dog food. When they returned, they found an empty sack and paw prints all over the inside of the porch windows.

One late spring, I noticed something was disturbing my horses. For several nights, I heard them running around the corral and blowing, but it was too dark to see what bothered them. One night when the moon was full, I went out in my nightgown as soon as I heard them snort. They ran over to the fence and whimpered. I could see the outline of a bear snuffing and grubbing around the corral, but he didn't look very aggressive, so I rubbed the horses and said, "If you don't want him in there, just put him out." Slowly and cautiously, with me watching, they approached the bear. And there, in the bright moonlight, I could see them touch noses, the mare, the filly, and the bear. They sniffed each other for a while, then the bear ambled off. They never ran from him again.

In May, Rocky Mountain irises bloom in the wet meadows, a sign Dobson's sheep will soon return to their summer range. Over the old sheep driveway they come, in bands of 2,000, tended by the herders and their sheepdogs. Like a white cloud moving across a green sky, they pour onto their mountain pastures. The hardy ewes make the 200-mile trip every year, spring and fall.

Soon the new sheen of springtime wears off. Day after day, wind and sun drain moisture from the land, and ponderosa pines take on a sepia tinge. Now is the dangerous time, the time when trees hold fast to the earth and wait for summer rains.

Spring wanes into summer, and fire season begins. Spring floods are only a memory as creek beds and washes dry up. Wild creatures follow worn trails to the few permanent springs and seeps. The army in green uniforms mobilizes to protect the forest from wildfire.

Lilac time is past. The Earth rolls on.