This past week was one in which the return to life in this corner of the universe was early. I’m trying super-hard not to panic about such things; maybe it’s just a weather-ish fluctuation. It has been a beautiful, warm, dry spring — the antithesis of last year’s waterlogged start to summer. But I can’t help thinking that this balminess is evidence of dire climate change. But how to know? I’m trying to pay better attention, hoping that at the very least, doing so will help me get a better sense of what I am and am not seeing.
High on the list of recent seeings were flowers and fish. Low, unfortunately, were bees.
We’ve got a Hawthorn tree in our yard that is normally in full flower in the June-teens. That’s late for Hawthorns in general, but right on schedule for ours and for this area. This year, in keeping with its nickname, it commenced awesomeness on May 24, was at its peak around May 29/30, and has already noticeably faded. Folks who’ve glanced at my recent folio, A Field Guide to Other People’s Trees, know that one of the things I most love about this tree is the week when it’s in flower because the bees cannot resist it. The tree/bee dyad hums for days, a whirring that is visual and auditory as the bees shake free what they need. But this year, while there were plenty of the teeny flies that also contribute to that stunning event, there were practically no bees. Maybe the tree was too early for them? I haven’t seen many yet. Or maybe a sign of something more serious?
A quite un-dire event that took place Memorial Day weekend was a celebration at the fish ladder in Damariscotta, just a wee bit south of us. The fish ladder there has been used by alewives to return from the sea to Damariscotta Lake for centuries, at least, in order to spawn.
Over the past few years, local citizens have worked to make it more amenable to their fishy needs — for increased human presence had altered the landscape and waterscape in ways that made it very hard for the fish to get back to their spawning grounds. The people have spent a tremendous amount of money and effort building a ladder that the fish will be comfortable using. And their work is paying off. Twenty times as many fish climbed the ladder this year as did five years ago. That means more potential spawn, a stronger alewife stock, and all the benefits that come with re-calibrating an ecosystem back toward its more normative state. Of course, we can’t undo the changes — and this cement and re-bar laden fish ladder is quite unlike earlier versions. But the generosity of people who opened their backyards to people to see the ladder, and who let the renovations happen there is encouraging to me.
Because the fish run had peaked a week earlier, we saw a modest number of fish compared to the zenith, but it was still impressive. It turns out that the peak didn’t coincide with the fish festival dates because the fish were also early — lured by the warm and sunny conditions this May. Their early arrival means a different disruption to the system, with consequences we can’t yet fully know.
Since I was six, I’ve been linked to a school — either as a student or a teacher, or sometimes both. And so for all of my memory, the annual rhythm has been academic, a year that goes from September to December, then January to May, then June to August. It’s been a reassuring cycle, one largely in accord with other rhythms, most especially the arrival of new freshmen, the departure of graduating seniors, the appreciation by all of the summer hiatus. Now, paying attention to these shifts that creatures enact in response to the larger forces, I’ve been working to imagine what it would be like to be more fully in accord with the cycles — and the digressions from such fixed rhythms — that shape the physical world. It might not demand huge adjustments, but I’m guessing that, in fact, it will….