The four-wheeler moves slowly through the large mud puddle as Dick guides it to dry land. We are taking a Sunday afternoon drive, riding down one of the nearby logging roads. The sky is sunny but the May air is cool. I love every moment of this season as spring slowly but inexorably spreads through the forest.
We move unhurriedly down the road. I reach out and touch the soft bud of an alder branch as we pass. I look skyward to the birch and aspen trees wreathed in a pale green haze. It won’t be long before the entire forest turns the lovely golden/ green possible only in early spring.
I scan the forest floor where tiny green shoots push up through the tan stalks of last year’s grass. My secret quest is to find violets blooming, and I search the forest floor for tiny splashes of purple but see none.
The sweet, green smelling air is so fresh I can almost taste it.
The residual effect of last winter’s heavy snowfalls is apparent everywhere in the many spruce and birch saplings that droop unnaturally as if the snow still weighed them down.
Dick points to something on the ground. It’s a large scat.
“Bear?” I ask.
“Wolf, I think.” He answers. We stop and look. The embedded hair tells us it was a wolf. I’m not surprised. All winter, we’ve seen wolf tracks near our house.
Three low lying swamps lay before us. “Water’s high this year,” Dick comments. We admire the sturdy and large beaver dam that is causing water to flow over the road. The spillage isn’t deep, so we slowly move through it. We pass two more swampy areas where quiet pools of water reflect spruce stumps and alder brush.
Finally, we come to the end of the road and an open grassy area.
“Look!” I whisper and point to a large grouse, the size of a hefty hen, standing perfectly still. Remaining motionless, she finally sees us and runs for the woods where she performs a low-flying takeoff, and her brown feathers disappear into a stand of spruce trees.
“Biggest grouse I’ve seen in a long time,” Dick says. I agree.
He turns the four-wheeler toward home, and we retrace our journey. I note the trees on the ridge that lies a fourth of a mile to the south are much greener than here below.
We amble home, still in no hurry. I keep looking at the ground, searching for a splash of purple, but have no luck until we have almost ended the mile and a half drive. Then I see it—a clump of tiny violets peeking out from last year’s dry leaves.
It was a good Sunday afternoon drive.
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