You'd think after 22 years of March 27ths, I'd have figured out that spring is basically nature's practical joke. The evidence is overwhelming.
In 2004, I was peacefully photographing swans at Maltby Lakes, trying to pick out bestsellers like some wildlife gallery curator. Sweet, innocent times. Then 2005 rolled around and I decided to wrestle Lolo Peak in conditions that could've doubled as a disaster movie set... 5,000 feet of elevation gain, snowdrifts, howling winds, finishing in pitch darkness. My legs felt like overcooked linguine, but hey, the photos were mountain masterpieces.
Fast forward to 2008, and spring still hadn't sprung. The view outside was more Mad Max than Secret Garden, nature trying to put on a brave face while wearing its battle scars. By 2020, I was literally just waiting... for weather, for normalcy, documenting pre-COVID shenanigans with the team. And 2024 found me suiting up in a rain jacket like some knight prepping for a squelchy duel, mountain biking through storms while pondering whether spring always disappoints this spectacularly.
The pattern's clear: March 27th refuses to cooperate with calendar expectations. But somewhere between the mud puddles and snowdrifts, between waiting and charging ahead anyway, there's this stubborn optimism that keeps showing up. Year after year, same date, different weather, same determination to get outside regardless.