Lately I've noticed a change in the air, a stirring in the birds and the plants. The geese are flying by in much larger flocks, honking armies, claiming their conquest over the sky. The air smells moist, the scent of skunk cabbage and mud filling the air. The sun is brighter, and sticks around for longer. The forest echoes with the mating calls of peepers and wood frogs.
The shift in the season has begun.
For as long as I can remember, I would hear spring peepers around dusk. Growing up at the cottage, this happened every spring, and was a sign that the days would soon get warmer. Spring peepers are magical little frogs, which mate in early spring. The males gather by water, usually in vernal pools in the woods, and sing as loud as they can to attract a mate. Their mating call is a tell-tale sign that spring is near.
But I had never gotten up close to the peepers when I was younger. The closest I had ever been by adulthood was when driving past a pond on my drive with my dad back to college after spring break, with the window cracked open enough to hear their loud peeps. But the road was unsafe to pull over, so the quick drive-by was all there was.
Until, my dad finished the backyard trail.
One wet, drizzly day in early spring, I was exploring the woods behind the cottage as I did daily once my dad completed blazing the trail. In my rain jacket and L.L. Bean boots, I embraced the drizzle. The plants need the early spring rain to come to life, to wake them up from their winter slumber. Against the gray backdrop of the clouds and rain, the green buds on the bushes and trees stood out, announcing spring's arrival. The wetness of the rain expanded into the earth, the mud squishing beneath my feet and the skunk cabbage emerging from the ground.
And then, I heard it. The peeps. Closer than ever before, I heard their distinct, high-pitched peeps. In awe, I headed in their direction. I stepped around skunk cabbage flowers and ducked between two prickly bushes, and found myself on the edge of a venal pool, marking the beginning of the lowest, wettest part of our woods.
And there they were. The chorus of peepers and other frogs filled the air, enveloping me in their springtime song. I had never heard or seen so many frogs in one place before! Squinting my eyes, I saw additional frogs, leopard frogs, hopping through the water, their throats inflating with each croak. The rain began falling harder, which only made the frogs sing louder. For a moment, the rest of the world washed away, and there was only me, the frogs, the rain, the trees, and a sense of peace.
When I had heard the peepers from my bedroom growing up, I never imagined there were this many, hopping around in our literal backyard. I felt joy bubbling over, a huge grin breaking out on my face. How lucky are we, to have so many frogs making a home in our woods! What a privilege and honor, that they chose here to mate and lay eggs. And, what a blessing to know that our home serves as a safe haven for these frogs. A safe, secure refuge, safe from any future development, a preserve where many future generations of frogs can be born and live in peace. A pocket of heaven for the frogs!
Since then, I haven't been able to time it right to see the frogs during the day. But every night in early spring we can hear them peeping away. However, I have found another magical frog spot, an entire forest Frog Kingdom, near the apartment.
Last spring, on the first warm days of the season, I was taking a walk at a local park. It was the middle of the day, not cloudy or dusk like it normally was when I'd hear peepers. Yet, there was a strange noise, echoing through the forest. A distant peeping bouncing of the trees.
Curious, I followed the sound. As I continued down the trail, the noise got louder, filling the woods completely. It seemed as though the entire forest was filled with frogs, their cacophony coming from every direction. The trees stretched on and on, and the peeps and croaks did, too.
Eventually, through the sounds, I came across two vernal ponds. From the first one emanated a slightly deeper sound, the water rippling with the movement of dozens of frogs. This sound was different from the peepers filling the rest of the woods — these were wood frogs, singing their own melody. The second pond next to them contained sounds of a much higher octave — these were the spring peepers. When standing closer, their peeps drowned out the sounds of the wood frogs, and the sounds of the rest of the forest.
There were way more peepers here than at the cottage — more here than I'd heard anywhere! Combined with the wood frogs and the rest of the peepers in the forest, these frogs belted their song to the heavens, announcing the arrival of spring and claiming this magical forest as theirs. I stood by and listened in awe, a captivated audience member, enveloped in the sense of peace that comes from encountering these little miracles and rituals of nature.
Last week, I returned to the Frog Kingdom, and listened to the frogs once again. Their song was soothing, echoing through the woods, as I gladly realized they must do every year. There’s something comforting about that, about the patterns found in nature. The reassurance that the earth's cycles are continuing as usual, that spring will return again. That nature will always be here, even after we are long gone.
Of course, I guess I can't really say, "as usual." This year, the peepers began singing earlier than usual. The flowers began sprouting earlier than usual. Winter was shorter than usual. A constant reminder of climate change. But, the frogs are still singing, and the flowers are still sprouting. Nature is resilient, and will always find a way to survive — and, in moments like this, thrive. And sometimes that's a comforting thought.
Happy Spring. I hope you have a chance to get out there and attend a frog concert of your own! And, as always, feel free to comment on how you’re celebrating the start of the new season, and hop over to my blog to view this month’s photo gallery:
Click here for the March 2024 Photo Gallery.
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We have a bog near our house and my puppy and I have been exploring the edges of the deeply vegetated wetland, tree falls and the whole area in general. The cacophony of sound is deafening and soothing at the same time. We also live adjacent to NJ Natural Lands Trust land, and we have been bushwhacking walkable trails to get lost it.