When I moved to the Southwest after college I discovered winters with ample sunshine that culminated with spring at a range of elevations that lasted several months. Each year I feel like I go on tour like a groupie chasing the blossoms from the desert to the mountains. Living at 7,000 feet I just can’t help but partake in spring incrementally. It is just too hard to wait, especially knowing that down the hill in the Verde Valley the natural world is coming to life. So while the plants sleep in the mountains I escape to lower elevations to witness the coming of spring again and again.
The tour usually kicks off with a trip to the Desert Botanical Garden in mid-February for a conference of Arizona Botanists. It is an annual opportunity to bask in the world of plants, and exchange ideas and knowledge with other plant nerds. We ponder the complex mechanisms desert plants employ to protect their offspring in these harsh environments, and the crucial role of pollinators, so much of which we still barely understand. Outside agaves send up their stalks like tender shoots of asparagus, and the cadmium yellow desert saucers bloom in the sunshine.
During spring break I venture into the Paria Canyon with a volunteer group from Lewis and Clark College. There is more magic around every bend, as spring makes more of a showing with every passing day. There is the newness of everything green, just impossibly so, and in technicolor shades. Thousands of individual leaves greet the world of the sun, each in their own sparkling exuberance. The box elder leaves are soft and still curling inward, twisting and lengthening into their greatest selves, unfurling into a broad and merciful canopy that will provide shade later in its short life. In the cool, narrow walls of Buckskin Gulch I find a dead sphinx moth who is likely to have perished in the absence of nectar-rich blossoms like primrose and sacred datura. I am reminded how timing is everything and how tenuous and fragile this existence.
In early April I descend to the bottom of the Grand Canyon to meet up with my husband and good friends passing through on a river trip. All along the South Kaibab Trail I am greeted by the luminous blossoms of Sego lilies that arise from the sandy soils of the Tonto Plateau with spidery foliage and a golden star for anthers, thick with pollen. The slopes are shades of chartreuse—a blend of green foliage and the flowers of brittlebush and blackbrush. The Kaibab agaves wave their yellow spikes in the breeze, so new and sweet, surrounded by crowds of bees and butterflies.
Meanwhile, back in Flagstaff the apple trees are expectant with blossoms, fists clutched tightly in bud, waiting for the perfect moment. I enjoy a walk along Schultz Creek with my friends Mike and Melissa and Sally the Dog, meandering along the ephemeral snowmelt from the San Francisco Peaks. The gurgling of water over stone set the tone for our conversation, consisting largely of praise for spring and water, with pauses to notice a bold mustard peeking out from the ground.
Our Flagstaff spring has been delightfully reluctant this year, with intermittent snowstorms in between 80-degree days. I love watching my gardens come alive slowly, and cherish a visit from a passing oriole that perched in my aspen grove for a rest. A raven pair and two different house finches have built nests and are tending to their new babes.
It is all so fleeting and for this alone, to be treasured fully. Soon I will be hiding from the cruelty of the sun. I relish spring, not just because I am a plant lover, but also because it is a season synonymous with hope and new beginnings. I enjoy the possibility of it all. I want to be just like a new leaf, inventing myself again each spring, coming alive simple and green, new to this world, awake to the wonder.
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