Appalachian spring

After some wild thunderstorms and heavy rain last night, I woke up to a sparkling, cool, and sunny day, with the sounds of birds mating and nesting outside my window. Church didn't seem nearly so appealing as a walk in the "Sods" again, this time to check out the shy approach of spring on the mountaintop. Although Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring really had nothing to do with Appalachia, it was taken from a Hart Crane poem about springtime in the Adirondacks. His ballet score won the Pulitzer Prize for Music not long before I was born, in 1945, and I've always loved the music, much of it taken from Shaker melodies, the most recognizable of which is Simple Gifts. That seemed exactly the right soundtrack for my trek into the wilderness this morning, just six days after snow covered the mountains and the valley. No iPod for me, because I like to listen to the stillness, broken occasionally by a sound of something moving in the forest or overhead.

Among my finds this morning were several large vernal pools containing hundreds and hundreds of tiny tadpoles. See them in there, all scrambling to survive as the "fittest" and grow into frogs before the pools dry up? It was fascinating to watch -- some aggressive and propelling themselves through the water like Olympic swimmers and others taking the "slow traffic" lane as they languished in the cold water. Suddenly I could hear Daddy pronounce the word "pollywog" and felt his presence there in that hushed place. That happens to me a lot, sensing that Momma or Daddy is there with me in my alone times. What a comfort it is!

I also found lots of mosses in the boggy places, including the reindeer moss, which is really a lichen and is that same grayish green in color. It's one of those plants not found south of northern Canada, with the exception of in the Dolly Sods. It was growing in large clumps that showed new growth.
I looked carefully under leaves for any of the many species of salamanders and newts that are so numerous here that zoologists who study them hold most of their scholarly conferences here and elsewhere in the Appalachians, but I didn't find any.

Just as I turned to make my way back, I heard human voices that seemed out of place in my sanctuary and soon passed two hikers from Virginia who seemed to be oblivious to their surroundings. My morning worship service was over, and I turned to take a photograph of the road as yet untaken before I descended the mountain, still humming 'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free.... Whether Copland intended it or not, his music is a perfect score for the slow unfolding of spring in the Appalachians.