THE ROBIN'S RETURN

Six inches of snow, temperatures well below freezing - then ten red robins come bob, bob bobbing along. Ronnie Bray is on top form in this ediion of his diary as he describes the tail-end of winter in the glorious state of Montana.

Winter has been long, with snow on the mountains and in the valleys for months, and the cold finding it’s icy way down to minus thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit during one spell. In our valley, the snow didn’t get deeper than thirty inches: enough to make walking difficult for man, dog, and deer, but not enough to phase our trusty Ford Explorer whose all wheel drive took us everywhere we wanted to go.

With our freezer and store cupboards filled with necessities, our well repaired, enough wood left in the woodpile to feed our woodburning stove, enough sacks of corn for the daily deer, eighty pounds of sunflower seed, the fare for the thirty or so chickadees that live in our trees, and also for the handful of pine squirrels who clamber onto our veranda and sit gorging in the feeder when the dogs aren’t out, a three month supply of dog food for our pair of Border Collies, and we don’t have to go out very often, except to buy milk and orange juice - the only commodities that we have not yet managed to store successfully - visits to our physician when our health-o-meters take a dip, and trips to church and friends.

Although we are not in the strict sense of the word, housebound, and in spite of the fact that we find the Montana snowscapes inspiring, we feel less inclined to leave the cosiness of our warm and draughtless cabin to venture far to look at it.

We are satisfied to see what we can see through our windows, where there is always something new and interesting to catch our attention and make us stand open mouthed for a while as we are overcome by the never failing rich variety of the scenery, the many moods of light and shadow, the beauty of large flake snow falling to cover every tree, branch, and twig, transforming our customary setting from mere wonderland into a Disneyesque stupefying Wonderland that must be seen to be believed and appreciated.

Although it is cold, we do not feel cold, and the many beautiful fleeces and sweaters we bought from the Holmfirth Mill Shop in anticipation of our move to Montana lie unused in several big drawers.

When we thought we had seen the last snow, the temperature rose, and converted the moisture carried to us by the Pineapple Express, the wind that rushes north east to strike the west coast and Mountain Northwest of America after passing over the Hawaiian Islands, provided a spectacle that was breathtaking.

Unexpectedly, snow fell on us last Friday with flakes as big as the bowl of a teaspoon. The ground covered quickly, and the evergreen trees received again their white mantles.

The fall was so heavy that there was hardly any space between the falling snowflakes and the nearby Cabinet Mountains disappeared as sky, vegetation, and earth shared but a single hue.

By midnight, we had been blessed with six inches of snow: not enough to stop anything moving that wants to move, but it signalled that our expectations of an early Spring were unrealistic.

The weather forecast promised more snow overnight in the Idaho mountains, and we had to traverse them at an unearthly hour last Saturday to take Wendy, our Aimbrian guest, across the panhandle, and through the Spokane Valley to catch her aeroplane that would take her back to England, to her family, and to her wedding to John.

But by 4 am on Saturday, when we set off from the Bull Lake Valley, the snow had stopped, and the snowploughs had shaved most of the snow from the road surfaces, so that our progress was hardly hindered at all. Apart from finding three elk in family conference, one a horse-sized majestic bull, right in the middle of the roadway, and having a heart-quickening moment when the bull turned from its position on the centre line towards our carriageway, before kicking off away from us, our trip was uneventful.

But the snow was widespread, and we felt to stay snug a little longer before resuming our better-weather occupation of venturing forth to investigate this fascinating country.

Then, on Sunday, in the winter sunshine when I was putting out corn for the waiting deer, I saw a tiny woodpecker on one of the young alders by our driveway.

Later that day, we saw the Stellar’s jays that had abandoned us for a couple of cold months. But the final sign that spring might not be as long in coming as the weather had suggested to us, was the crowd of ten red red robins bob bob bobbing along the forest floor to garner seeds and pieces of corn that the wintering birds and animals had left uneaten.

And, although we don’t mind the cold, and despite the fact that we find the snowscenes enthralling, our ageing hearts were lifted by the promise that Spring was not far away, because, in spite of what the weather people forecast, migratory animals are much better prognosticators of better weather come come coming along, and in a time not too distant that it is premature of us to let hope rise within our breasts, and let a little more spring in our shuffling steps.

As I contemplated these things, I remembered a cheerful Victorian piano piece called The Robin’s Return, and I knew at that moment why it was euphonised in such sprightly fashion.

If I could remember how it went, I would be whistling it right now!

Copyright ? Ronnie Bray 2004 - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED