By Wendy MCKillop
Up here in the Santa Cruz Mountains, spring doesn’t just arrive—it creeps in gently, on mossy toes and the call of the Pacific wren. One day it’s gray and drippy, and the next, the redwoods seem to shimmer with new growth and every neighbor you haven’t seen all winter is suddenly out walking their dog or tending a garden.
Small mountain village living in spring is a quiet kind of magic. The rhythm is slower than down below, but the days start to stretch and pull us out of our cozy winter habits. There’s an energy that stirs as the fog thins and the sun begins to linger longer in the sky.
The daffodils are first, of course. Somehow they manage to bloom through soggy soil and chilly air like little trumpets of hope. Then the wild iris and miner’s lettuce come, often right at our feet along the trails. Foragers keep their eyes peeled for tender nettles and early chanterelles, and the farmers’ market stands start showing off pea shoots and baby greens.
Living in a mountain village, you learn to mark time by the land. Spring means brush clearing and trail maintenance. It means planting your lettuce and kale, but keeping the row covers handy for one last cold snap. It means checking the chicken coop for signs of broody hens and finding the first speckled eggs tucked under straw.
It’s also the season of re-connection. After a long, damp winter, neighbors catch up at the post office or over coffee outside the tiny café that’s just reopened its patio. Someone’s goat had twins, someone else’s water tank overflowed—stories are swapped like seedlings. There’s always a sense of being in it together.
If you live here year-round, you know this time is fleeting. Soon, the wildflowers will give way to dry grasses, and the long, careful summer will be upon us. But right now, the ground is soft, the air is full of birdsong, and the possibilities are as wide as the mountain views.
So breathe it in. Open your windows. Plant a little something. And remember: spring isn’t just a season up here—it’s a state of grace.