Palouse Outdoors: Lost in Transition

The sun set behind the western slope, giving way to the clammy chill of early spring twilight. Yet, the alpenglow bathed the greening wheatfields across the canyon with a soul-penetrating glow borne only of Mother Nature's splendor. The day had been warm and beautifully sunny, but a light down jacket was welcomed where I stood in the shadows. The clutches of winter were slowly slipping away as I rotated, taking in the 360-degree panorama that was now afforded me by the lengthening day.

A raucous of birdsong rang throughout the little wooded draw in the evening quiet. Red-winged blackbirds squawked in the fir overhead while the males postured, flashing their brilliant crimson shoulders. They arrived several weeks prior during the coldest winter days. Black-headed juncos and rosy-faced House finches buzzed through the lilacs. Rumbling hoots of a great horned owl mating pair echoed robotically through the sheet metal barn walls. Somewhere within this timeless, endless routine, I began breathing easy.

A black streak caught my attention on the dimming hillside. High above the house, an old fence row was overlain with last year's invasive weed mat. The unknown scurrying critter darted through a gap in the weeds beneath the fence wire. Soon after, the drab, weedy mess covering the slope began to writhe with scuffling valley quail – their small gray bodies appearing more like mice as they zigzagged, pecking at the weed seeds along the way to their brush pile roost.

A female departed the hillside, silently canting as she sailed over my right shoulder into the lilacs. A male piped up behind me in the blackberries, announcing his surprise at her arrival. Wings slapped against branches as she emerged, climbing high into the lilacs, followed by two males. The trio then propelled toward the hillside in a blur.

The act indicated courtship behavior, sparking my awareness of similar activities among the other quail. Doubles and triples ran circles around the hillside, up and over logs, beneath downed locust branches, and around the deer trail switchbacks leading to the wheatfield above.

"Seems early," I thought.

Acute awareness of my behavioral tendencies suggests that everything "seems early" these days - the early March warmth, for example. Fortunately, the memory of a journal never fails. Thumbing through the pages documenting my homestead quail covey elucidated that 60 degrees and valley quail courtship in early March is common. Either my mind is prematurely aging, or time is screaming at a breakneck pace, which makes it feel like noteworthy phenomena are coming faster each year. Regardless, we're amidst transition.

The cold aluminum can containing a full-bodied Dark Star imperial stout began stinging my left hand as I stood motionless, lost amid the hints of seasonal change. Snowbells speckled the yard with their drooping white flower heads. Daffodils and crocus were pushing up. And the birds enacted their cyclical rituals.

As the final drop of stout slid past my lips, the irrelevant transitions of society came back into focus. The weighty "reality" having left my mind was clarifying, albeit for the briefest of moments. What's more, there was the obvious irrelevance of humans to a surrounding world focused solely on survival – the profound aspect of having a pulse and requiring only the basics of food, water, and shelter to live a perfectly fine existence.

Spring is a time of rejuvenation and soul-fortification. A season of change, nevertheless. Change is one of the few constants in life, and with it, the ebb and flow of humanity. We transition with it in our cyclical routines, often losing sight of what truly matters. As we approach the summer season of plenty, endeavor to stop and look around, breathe deep, smile, and embrace the company of others. Gift yourself the release of being lost in Mother Nature's seasonal transition.