The Anticipation of Spring in the Ozarks

It happens every year, yet it never loses its magic—that first real hint of spring. It’s called the false spring, the deceptive warm spell that comes in February, not long after comes the true shifting of the season, when the Ozarks begin to stir from their long winter sleep.

Joy and I caught one of those rare warm days in February, the kind that slips in between cold fronts like a secret whispered by the changing winds. We sat on the front porch, wrapped in the quiet, watching the winter lake view stretch out before us, we caught glimpses of its surface glassy in the late-afternoon light. The black walnut tree in front of our house stood tall and bare, its skeletal branches cutting against the sky. It had been silent all winter, but I knew—just beneath the bark, something was waking up.

Joy reflected on how we hadn’t even spent a full year in our little holler yet, but last spring had been unlike anything else—vivid, alive, almost electric in the way the hills transformed overnight.

And she was right.

Springtime in the Ozarks

A proper Ozarks spring doesn’t announce itself all at once. It sneaks in, little by little. First, there’s a softness in the air, a looseness in the soil where the frost has finally let go. Then come the sounds—tiny, tentative at first. The chirp of a chickadee. The rustle of dry oak leaves as something stirs beneath them. A distant, lonely gobble from a turkey testing the air.

Then, almost overnight, it explodes.

The dogwoods, bare and lifeless one day, suddenly unfurl their ghostly white blossoms against the deep green of the cedars and pines. The redbuds ignite the hillsides with flashes of pink, like fireworks held in suspension. Daffodils push through the thawed earth in defiance of winter’s last breath, nodding their golden heads in the breeze.

The waterfalls come back to life, roaring with the fresh rush of spring rains. The creek beds, dry and cracked through much of winter, fill with clear, cold water, tumbling over rocks that have waited patiently beneath the frost. Just one cove over from our house, a hidden waterfall comes alive, its rush echoing through the trees and dumping into the lake, a song only the woods can hear.

And then, of course, there’s the promise of what’s to come—the unmistakable signs that turkey season is near, that the crappie are beginning their slow, predictable migration to the shallows, that soon, the woods will be littered with the hidden treasures of morel mushrooms, waiting to be discovered by those who know where to look.

Memories of Springtime Adventures

As a kid, I could never resist the pull of spring. The first warm day felt like an invitation, a summons to disappear into the woods, to follow the creeks and the old railroad tracks, to go where no one knew I had gone.

Roark Creek was my escape. I’d follow it upstream—not toward its mouth at Lake Taneycomo, but away from town, into the quiet, where the water ran cold and clear. I always wondered—was it spring-fed, or was it just the lingering chill of winter runoff? I never knew for sure. But I waded in anyway, the icy water biting at my skin, the current tugging at my legs.

There was always a rumor of a cave out that way, just beyond the edge of town, hidden somewhere along the creek’s winding path. I never found it, though I searched with the kind of determination only a boy on an adventure can muster. One time, a friend and I went looking, following the tracks for what felt like miles, until our legs grew tired and we scrambled up a steep hillside, only to find ourselves stumbling out onto Highway 76.

The contrast was jarring. One moment, we were surrounded by the pure, unbroken wilderness, the sounds of the creek and the wind through the sycamores our only company. The next, we were standing on the asphalt shoulder, neon signs flashing above us, cars whipping past in a blur of motion and noise. It was as if we had stepped through a doorway between two worlds.

But the creek always called me back.

One afternoon, we found an old, two-pronged lead hook—big, heavy, the kind that looked like it was made for something serious. We decided to try our luck at snagging suckers, casting it into the water with a piece of string that, in hindsight, was never meant for the kind of fish we were after.

I saw my quarry position itself over my hook and I pulled hard—a pull so strong it nearly yanked the line from my hands. And then I saw it, a flash of silver beneath the surface, the biggest sucker I had ever laid eyes on. For a moment, I thought I had won. But the string snapped, the fish disappeared, and with it went the last hope of our makeshift fishing expedition. We gave up after that, but I never forgot the feeling—the sheer thrill of a creature that powerful, that untamed, pulling against me.

Spring’s Arrival in Full Force

And then, after weeks of waiting, after the teases and the false starts, spring arrives in full force.

The hillsides erupt in color—forsythia, cherry blossoms, trillium blooming in secret places beneath the trees. The rivers, once sluggish with the weight of winter, churn with new energy, carrying away the last of the fallen leaves.

The birds return. First the eastern phoebes, their sharp calls breaking the silence of the morning. Then the ruby-throated hummingbirds, their tiny bodies flashing like emeralds in the sunlight. The purple martins arrive in great numbers, darting and diving through the air. The brown thrashers, the pine warblers, the Louisiana waterthrush—they all come back, their songs weaving together into a symphony of spring.

Fishing boats ease into the water at dawn, their engines humming softly as they drift toward the coves where the crappie are waiting or roaring loudly if it’s bass boat competing for their winning spot. The smell of damp earth rises from the woods, mingling with the scent of budding trees and freshly turned soil.

Is spring my favorite season? I couldn’t say.

Autumn has its own kind of magic—the crisp air, the golden leaves, the distant call of geese heading south. But there is something about spring, something wild and untamed, something full of promise. It’s the season of renewal, of second chances, of waking up from the quiet sleep of winter and stepping into the fullness of life once again.

And I am ready.

Spring is coming.