From ice to mud to frozen mud and back again Springtime ruminations in honor of Earth Day

By Rose Olson Reader Staff

The official start of spring may be the end of March, but I feel like Earth Day is when the springtime vibes are finally on full blast. The chances of slipping back into winter are slightly less once you get through the first half of April. It will probably snow at least one more time, but it’s not sticking around.

I’m a person who generally enjoys routine (hands up if you’re an earth sign, too). For years now, my morning routine has gone like this: wake up sometime around sunrise, drink a full pint of water, hike up a steep old road cut near my house with my dog before coming back to the house for another pint of water, and then — finally — my little stovetop espresso percolator gets me caffeinated before I roll into the day.

I’m doggedly determined about my commitment to this daily practice, especially the trudge up the hill. I do this yearround in the rain, in the snow and in the predawn darkness of winter. Yes, I walk every day to keep my dog happy, but it’s 100% for me, too. Quietly walking the same steps day after day has given me a deeper connection to this chunk of wild land around me.

Spring is the most exciting season to notice the shifts in this big circle of life. I love the day I get to ditch my winter boots and snowshoes for trail runners. I notice the texture of the ground shift from ice to mud to frozen mud to hard pack and back again. I hear robins and nuthatches join the chickadees and crows that stick around all winter. I see turkey tracks start to mix it up with the bunnies and deer.

I notice if the larch and ocean spray are blooming earlier or later than they did last spring

(this year is for sure later than last year). I can smell dirt and hear water and see bugs. I let the sun blast my face on high beam, sprout a freckle or two, and savor the warmth.

Tapping into this transition of the seasons always makes me think of the cyclical nature of all things in life — seasons, jobs, relationships, projects, homes… This may feel a little woo-woo to you (because it is), but in honor of Earth Day, I’d love to invite you to take a moment and reflect on the seasons in your own life.

Where do you like to hang out? Are you in eternal spring mode — always starting projects? Or maybe you thrive on the constant high throttle of summer energy and you sustain all sorts of jobs and relationships for a long time? Perhaps you love the release of autumn or the slow quietude of winter.

Can you name this local peak in the proposed Scotchman Peaks Wilderness area? Send answers to ben@ sandpointreader.com.

I tend to hold onto things (like I said: earth sign) and am grateful for the gentle nudge of each season to move and shift so I can make room for new things to come in, just like the spring.

Rose is the communications and engagement manager for Friends of Scotchman Peaks Wilderness. Join her on a hike up Scotchman Peak or at a trail work party this summer to share her passion of connecting to wild places.

I have no regrets about how I celebrated my 21st birthday. Finishing up my last semester at the University of Idaho, I found myself in a college town with my pick of bars and alcohol-related traditions from which to choose. I took a fairly mild approach: wine and dinner with friends, who then toted me along the downtown drag to collect free birthday shots and more than one stiff margarita (my drink of choice at the time).

It was no doubt the amateurish mixing of alcohols that led to my handful of trips to the toilet bowl that night and in the morning, but with a huge iced coffee in hand, I managed to make it to my British literature lecture the next day at 1:30 p.m. The hangover was equal parts awful and celebratory, which helped me manage.

My husband Alex didn’t have a “21 run” on his actual birthday. Instead, as his then-girlfriend and brand new roommate, I accompanied him for his first legal brew at MickDuff’s — a Tipsy Toe Head Blonde, drank at the bar on a quiet Thursday evening. We headed to Eichardt’s for dinner and his much-preferred domestics, tried a dollar beer between us (a coffee porter that went to the dish pit only half-finished) and went home at a decent time. I much prefer that memory to any ill-informed night of bar-hopping in which I’ve taken part.

My baby sister, Ellie, turns 21 this week. She is also in Moscow, working on her degree, and plans to go out on the town. When she asked me what drink I recommended for her first legal foray into alcohol-induced shenanigans, I said she should get a margarita at the Mexican restaurant I frequented during my time there. Between that suggestion and more from our other two sisters, she should be able to manage a tolerable, celebratory hangover — or possibly none at all. She’s a little more mature and pragmatic than I was at that age, so I have faith.

It is hard to believe Ellie is 21 when, just yesterday, I was bringing her to show-and-tell in elementary school. I can still see her, strapped snug in her carseat, chubby and pink and perfect. She is now a burgeoning teacher, a hilarious confidante and a passionate keeper of many, many plants. I learn from her constantly, and feel an overwhelming sense of pride when she still comes to me for guidance or advice.

I am endlessly thankful she exists. Happy birthday, Elle Belle. Cheers.