Serviceberry: An Ogemaw County Year

Hiking at Rifle River Recreation Area in early spring feels like stepping into a world on the brink of waking up. The air still holds a crispness, and the ground underfoot is soft and damp, a patchwork of lingering frost and newly thawed earth. Most of the trees remain bare, their branches a tangle of grays and browns against the brilliant blue sky. But here and there, like a whisper of the warmth to come, serviceberry trees are in full bloom.

The trail winds through a mix of hardwoods and pines, the dense evergreens standing in sharp contrast to the stark silhouettes of maples, oaks, and birches. Yet among them, the serviceberries—sometimes called Juneberries or shadbush—are radiant. Their white blossoms float like clouds, each petal catching the shifting sunlight, brightening the understory.

I move along the edge of Grousehaven Lake, where the last of the ice has just melted, leaving the water dark and glassy. The trail is quiet, save for the crunch of damp leaves beneath my boots and the occasional call of a chickadee. The serviceberries line the path, their blooms vivid against the still-muted landscape. They are a gift to the early pollinators, and as I pause to take in a cluster of flowers, a fat bumblebee buzzes past, dipping into the blooms with a sense of urgency.

The life cycle of the serviceberry is a subtle story. It starts as a humble seed, often deposited by birds after they feast on the summer berries. The seeds find purchase in the leaf litter, nestled in damp soil. They germinate, sending down roots and pushing a tiny shoot toward the light. In just a few years, the young shrub begins to flower, its blooms an early herald of spring. By late summer, the tree is laden with small, dusky berries—tiny treasured berries cherished by squirrels and birds that seem almost out of place in the wild woods.

As I continue along the trail, the wind shifts, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint, sweet smell of the blooms. I imagine how, in just a few weeks, these same serviceberry flowers will transform into fruit. Wildlife will come—birds by the dozens, small mammals, and perhaps even a browsing deer.

The trail curves uphill, and as I climb, the view opens up to a wide swath of forest. Pockets of white blooms dot the hillside, the serviceberries standing as bright sentinels in a sea of still-sleeping trees. I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs, and feel a surge of gratitude for this place, for this moment. Spring is not rushing here; it is unfolding gently, petal by petal.

The hike back feels easier, each step carrying the promise of more blooms, more green, more life. As I pass beneath another cluster of serviceberries, I brush my hand along the delicate branches, sending a flurry of petals into the air. They drift down, soft as snowflakes, and I watch them settle onto the wet leaves below—a reminder that spring is both delicate and unstoppable, and that sometimes, the surest sign of the changing season is a quiet one.