The March of the Toadlets

No one captures summer in New England like Shawn Braley

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

July feels like a holiday to us. It’s when the best summers from childhood return or when some of my favorite books spring to life. 

I cannot help but think of E.B. White leaving crowded New York City behind to escape to Maine in those first summers before he and his wife, Katherine, made the move permanent. With the spiders above our back door so used to us that they weave their webs to the side and above, I cannot help but think of Charlotte and Wilbur.

I feel the innocence of a ‘school's out summer,’ the luxury of longer days, both languid and brimming with the possible.  

Yes, I adore this time of year, even though it is when I’m most susceptible to feeling weak, dizzy, or shallow of breath.

Every winter and into the first half of spring, we are away from New Hampshire, where the woods and rivers, valleys, and mountains sleep the shorter days away. It’s not uncommon for a December day up here in the hills to look and feel the same as a day in early April. 

The landscapes are a drab brown, black, and gray for five straight months. They feel lifeless and look dreary. However, from the moment we reach home in late April, change occurs rapidly. The last tendrils of winter can still be found grasping to a mid-spring day here, but not for long.

Upon our homecoming, the trees look as they did the morning we left them. It’s remarkable because once we move from the deserts of the Southwest and cross California’s Central Valley over to Morro Bay in March, spring abounds. The air is perfumed by flowers and the fragrances of fields and forests. Colors are everywhere. Fruit stands dot street corners or roadway pull-offs.

Meanwhile, here in the Mount Washington Valley, the farm stands don’t open until mid-June. Even then, the shelves have little on them.

The pond can seem lifeless when we return home, except for a few common mergansers. But with each week, the change begins. Tree by tree, branch by branch, beech trees give birth to tiny, tight buds. Day after day, they open and slowly unfurl their blade-like leaves, curved like scimitars, until they unfold.

As late spring eases into early summer, the trees continue blooming in scents and colors. Chill and raw rains, followed by splashes of warmer, sunny days, push the greenery to emerge. Right around the same time the kale and spinach arrive at Mountain View Farm Stand in Conway, our valley is the darkest and richest shades of green.

Heat returns and it occurs more often than it used to. (This year, our air conditioner was in the window before May 1!)

Thorne Pond also awakens in unfurling stages. Birds come and go. A lone heron haunts the shoreline. The first—and typically lone—beaver begins trawling the pond. Toads croak at the water’s edge. Females lay their eggs in the water, anywhere between 2,000 and 40,000! Males see to the rest.

The eggs develop into tadpoles, which feed bugs, fish, turtles, and other aquatic creatures. But many more survive the feeding frenzy, and all at once, they grow legs, and the day arrives when thousands emerge onto the nearby fields and forests.

They are so tiny that they initially appear to be the smallest spiders, making infinitesimal micro-hops inland. In truth, they seem to be scurrying.

That day occurred earlier in the week, with temperatures hovering near 100 degrees. 

We keep our walks short and aim for cooler hours, especially during the early and late parts of the day. We have no choice but to move slowly. Breathing is difficult. Samwise and Emily pant, their tongues sliding out of their open mouths. I purse my lips and find a rhythm in my breathing. I hold a cadence and remind myself to slowly inhale and exhale. I used to do this on the steepest hikes with Atticus at 30 below zero. Now, it is one of the few reminders of how sick I was.

Nine years ago, doctors told me there would be one or two ways I would never be the same. Suffering in heat and humidity is one of those ways.

Another revelation occurred when I was at PetSmart on the hottest day of our heatwave. It was cool in the store, but after four or five days of swelter, I had to sit down while waiting in line before I passed out.

Thankfully, the dizzy spells are nothing like they used to be. They once hit me a few times a day; now, they may visit once or twice a year. 

The toadlets (don’t you love the term?) emerged on one of last week’s most smothering days. It worked out well. They were leaving the pond as we circled it. In less than a mile, we saw hundreds of tiny souls striking out toward field and forest.

We studied them and were careful where we stepped. Yes, that’s true for Samwise and Emily, too. 

Since I was concentrating on breathing and not moving quickly, I was able to negotiate the tiny tot toads. (I also adore this other ‘official’ term.)

A holy man once suggested that to better appreciate a hike in the woods and our place in the landscape, I should imagine being a tree and watching the three of us pass. It is always a humbling and holy exercise.

I did the same with the toadlets as they moved as quickly as their tiny bodies would allow, my size twelve sandals hovering above them.

It has been a week of walking gently, and I have been rooting for these smallest souls to escape the busy trail ringing the pond before the weekenders arrive.

When we strolled around the pond earlier today, there were far fewer toadlets on the trail. When we switched onto a 3-mile route tracing the river but also reaching inland by hundreds of yards, we saw the toadlet armies marching inland on their great migration. 

Many will get eaten by birds and bugs. Larger animals will eat the more mature toads. But if a female lives to be between two and three years old, they’ll lay their own string of eggs, and the cycle will continue.

No one captures summer in northern New England half as well as the Vermont artist Shawn Braley.

It’s a fine practice to walk gently through the forest, to realize the world is not all about us. Like all lessons in nature, this one transfers well to how we should live with others and how we should be compassionate and empathetic.

Our world is crueler than it was even just months ago, and walking gently, moving thoughtfully, counts for something in a feverish nation.

How lucky am I to practice kindness with my two four-leggeds? It comes more easily to Samwise and Emily than it does to me. But they are good examples as I strive to be more human.

I once stood with Atticus sitting in the crook of my elbow, when I gave a speech at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library. We were honored to receive the Human Hero Award and be inducted into the MSPCA Hall of Fame. We would not have been up there had I not followed Atticus’s example.

I thought about that long-ago night this week as Samwise and Emily moved cautiously through the waves of newborn toadlets. By watching my friends and following, just as I did with Atticus twenty years ago, I am a better human. Imperfect, but always striving.

Onward, by all means—gently, of course.

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“THE BARN was very large. It was very old. It smelled of hay and it smelled of manure. It smelled of the perspiration of tired horses and the wonderful sweet breath of patient cows. It often had a sort of peaceful smell—as though nothing bad could happen ever again in the world.”
― E.B. White, Charlotte's Web

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Root Beer Iced Tea!

If you are a fan of loose-leaf tea AND love root beer, you may enjoy this. I certainly do. I like it hot and iced. While typically avoiding ‘natural flavoring,’ because they often mask a lot of unhealthy stuff, when I contacted the company, I was told this is sarsaparilla extract.

I have no business affiliation with any links I share on this site. You can find Shawn Braley’s art and cards here. Nelson’s Tea, with its stunning selection of loose-leaf teas, including Root Beer, Peppermint White Chocolate, and Hoosier Kettle Corn, can be found here.

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From the Files

Atticus and I atop South Doublehead overlooking Jackson Village and awaiting 4th of July fireworks, fifteen years ago.