A pair of river otters watched me stop and point the camera their way. One slid off the snow-covered ice shelf, disappeared under a swirl of blue, resurfacing within seconds. Then, with acute inquisitiveness, the otters stared at me from their spit of open water.
The diving otter could have stayed under for 8 minutes. Had both otters decided to escape atop the ice they could have bumped and bobbed, picking up momentum to slide, covering 22 feet per slide on the slippery snowpack; otters prefer slide-travel in winter.
Eight minutes, 22 feet. Numbers to ponder on a day in February, the temperature struggling to reach double digits. It can’t, despite some sunshine. It’s 5˚ after last night’s minus 7˚. Numbing numbers. The numbers of winter.
On this fourth day of February, the sun sinks behind bare trees 44 minutes later than on the first day of this year. Tomorrow, the sun rises one minute earlier than today. We’ve gained 71 minutes of daylight since the winter solstice 45 days ago.
Winter’s numbers tell of a struggle to survive. The fisher of 30-mph speed punctures the snow with leaping tracks up to 16 feet apart, pursuing rabbits and other prey over 10 square miles of range. Rabbits can dash 18 mph. Beneath 20 inches of ice, 32-inch northern pike cruise for 5-inch perch and bluegills.
Ruffed grouse roosting in 12 inches of snow stay up to 35˚ warmer than if they perched in a pine tree. Whitetail deer trail past the grouse in the night. The does carrying fawns are halfway through their 200-day gestation period.
Birds of 15 species work over the five feeders outside my window—chickadees, juncos, mourning doves, cardinals, pine siskins, blue jays, and two varieties of nuthatches, three of woodpeckers and four of finches. The chickadees weigh four-tenths of an ounce. They will eat about 60% of their body weight this cold day, only to shiver the added fat off tonight to stay warm while they lower their body temperature 15˚ to conserve shivering energy. Fourteen hours to dawn.
Those same feeders will be visited in the light of the moon by flying squirrels, gliding in at 15 mph from a nearby tree up to 150 feet away. Standing 24 inches tall, a male great horned owl hoots in the dark, declaring its territory and attracting a mate as nesting season begins. The females lay up to four round, dull white eggs, and incubate them for 33 days in the dead of winter.
Chipmunks, curled in a burrow, slash their heart beats from 350 per minute to five. Thousands—make that millions—of mosquitoes are buried beneath the snow, waiting for a day three months away. Far above, a hawk sees light eight times better than humans, picking out a meadow mouse 1,000 feet below.
Sleepy bear sows in dark dens give birth to two or three 8-inch cubs. They weigh 5 ounces, and won’t open their eyes for 6 weeks. I look at the calendar. There are 45 days until the vernal equinox. The cubs’ eyes will be wide open for spring. So will ours.
Note: For more essays like this, my book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available by contacting me at davegreschner@icloud.com or 715-651-1638. The book is also available through online book sellers, and at these fine bookstores in Wisconsin: Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tail), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), Cable (Redbery Books),and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.