Well, it's happened earlier this year than most; the point at which summer resembles the dead of winter. Ten days ago the temperatures struggled out of the 70's, and today it's supposed to be 92 degrees for the third day in a row. The weather gods say this will continue until Saturday night. Even as I became crabbier and hotter I fought the urge to seal myself off from the world and enjoy the A/C, but succumbed Tuesday evening when it was still 80 degrees with humidity nearly as high. These are the conditions which make me feel as if it's February--I'm in the house, reluctant to go out, and waiting for something to change the weather. I have a while to wait. We usually are not faced with the “turn it on/tolerate it” question until late July or August.
This morning, as I write this, it's 82 and ungodly humid. Going out to get the newspaper for a whopping 30 seconds was unpleasant and I was happy to get back into my bubble. Now that I’m in here (where the temperature is closer to 70 with no humidity) I am stuck. The Red-Tailed hawk who has been hunting the yard from a fencepost lately may be here, but I won’t know. The Downy woodpecker fledglings may have arrived with their mother to learn about eating suet and dodging the Cooper’s Hawk, but again, I have no idea. Same goes for the Cedar Waxwing babies who come in the morning and stay all day to snatch insects and eat last year’s sumac berries. I usually know when they’ve arrived because of the trill coming from the sumac forest on the fenceline, but this morning all I hear is the blast of air coming through the vents. I’m wrapped in a sheath of cool and have disconnected from outside. So, for all my complaining about humanity losing touch with the natural world in countless ways, I have joined the ranks. And it’s making me almost as crabby as if I had no air conditioning to turn on. Almost being the operative word. When the air goes off, unfortunately later rather than sooner, I will treat outside as if it were April—I’ll have to reacquaint myself with the gardens and the pond, pull weeds and just sit for awhile to soak it all in. A lot happens in four days (my estimated indoor sentence) and I am sure that there’ll be a great deal to do to make up after the exile finally ends.
The river is little respite —due to almost four inches of rain in a 24 hour period last week the banks are lost under a lot of water. Kola and I can’t get anywhere near our usual spots—there is actually current running through the woods where there should be maturing Jewelweed and blooming Rugosa. She and I usually get away from the main paths and into the thick of the river’s deer roads as soon as we can—it’s on the deer roads where we are free from other humans and are more able to participate in the nitty-gritty of what’s going on. Nothing happens on the human paths—all the action is reserved for those who are willing to brave the mosquitoes and dodge the poison ivy along the narrow roads made by the deer and coyotes. Right now I imagine the Cedar Waxwings have arrived in their familial droves and that there are young Kingfishers learning the way of the world from their parents, parading up and down the current from dawn till dusk. Late June is when the Mayfly hatches really heat up as well. Kola and I sit down wherever we see the most bird activity and spend a half hour reading the river. Floating on the top, the mayflies struggle out of their shucks and are released into the air. They’ve been relegated to the floor of the river for at least a year and possibly three, to finally emerge winged and gorgeous, with a precious day and night to dry, search for a mate, and lay eggs. Their effort is more often than not rewarded with becoming a meal. Waxwings are either patrolling the current or waiting in the overhanging branches for them, and they rarely miss. I have become adept at differentiating between a bubble on the river’s surface and an emerging Mayfly—I try to follow my chosen fledgling along the water and follow it up into the air and to wherever it chooses to land, but 9 out of 10 are never allowed more than two seconds of flight before the birds get them. So we move on, hopeful that there will be a bug or two who made it to dry on a tree trunk farther into the woods. Therein lies the current problem; we can’t get to those trees right now because of the floods. I suppose we could get there, but I’m not willing to wade in up to my chest. The water is of a depth which is more reminiscent of early May and is not receding at all—from one day to the next I am usually able to see the water line on the tree trunks gaining a few inches each day. There’s been no change in five days and it could be another two weeks before our paths are walkable again --and that estimate is assuming there’s no more rain ahead. A bummer, to say the least.
Thus, I will spend the day in here, where the air is numbing and tolerable, cleaning and reading and pretending that this is what I am supposed to do. But I know better. All the action is outside, but just as I did in February, I am ignoring it and waiting for the weather gods to comply with my narrow band of temperature tolerance. I hope they’re listening to my pleas, but I am pretty sure they’re busy raising the humidity.
