"What are they doing?" asked the 10-year-old. The other three of us had a pretty good idea what the two frogs, one atop the other at the edge of the ephemeral pool, were up to.
"Hey! Look over there!" I said. "Spring beauties!"
Opening weekend of spring: Cloudless skies, first 80-degree day since who can remember. A gentle breeze now and then. And amorous amphibians. I devoted Saturday to attending to all the household chores I'd neglected since December: the remaining leaves, cleaning the flowerbeds, pumping three months of rainwater off the pool cover, washing the dog (sorry about being so slack, dog). That way, come today, I could play with the kids.
"Let's go explore our woods," I said not long into my first cup of coffee. That always gets a positive response: The kids would be looking for semi-buried treasure (last time they found two laptop computers), I would be looking for semi-buried treasure of another sort — the first signs of spring. Before leaving, I got out my copy of Dave Cook's "The Piedmont Almanac" and began jotting down what new we might expect to see the first two weeks of March: spring beauties, troutlily, hepatica, red maple, early saxifrage, green-and-gold bloodroot, wild plum, wild cherry, pennywort. There was no mention of frisky frogs.
We live in historic Cary, which is to say a part of town that dates back to the 1970s. At the end of our cul-de-sac is a narrow easement that, after 30 yards or so, spills into a wild area embracing a small creek. In less than a half mile, the creek spills into Walnut Creek, which shortly disolves into Lake Johnson, reforms, and eventually gives it up to the Neuse River. In another month and a half, our woods will be too overgrown to explore. We take advantage of our opportunities to explore when we can.
"A red wagon!" came the word from up ahead. One of the 14-year-olds had made the day's key discovery, for the kids at least: a plastic red wagon that had been abandoned from the surrounding neighborhood. Immediately, it became the fifth member of our expedition, floating when the water allowed, going amphibious in the shallows, occasionally rolling on land, as originally intended.
As the kids scouted for things to fill the wagon, I lingered. Volunteer daffodils were frequent, popping up at oxbows, on the banks, wherever. At the confluence of our creek and Walnut Creek I spotted our first spring beauties, a hatch of half a dozen basking in an open spot. From then, walking downstream along Walnut Creek, they were everywhere. We encountered our frolicking frog friends, saw a northern water snake gracefully glide up Walnut Creek, followed raccoon tracks and, later, those of a deer. We flushed a great blue heron and watched two hawks soar with unusual purpose. We also solved the mystery of how Walnut Creek gets past I-40: through a three-box culvert under the highway.
We peered through to the sunlight at the far end. "Well?" I yelled ahead to the 14-year-old who had gone to the entrance to scout. "It's got about this much water in it," he replied, holding his forefinger and thumb two inches apart. "And it's covered in moss."
I was curious about the route beyond, to Lake Johnson, the Lewis & Clark in me egging me on. The day was still long — an hour longer, thanks to Daylight Saving Time — and the weather teased to continue. But not with this crew, I realized as a mental video of the four of us slipsliding through the tunnel quickly squelched the notion. Alas, I thought, an adventure for another day.
Like tomorrow.
