Column: The fruits of a wet winter

Growing up in the Willamette Valley of Western Oregon, I took rain for granted; mostly because it rained more than the sun shined.

In fact, we web-footers lived by a few sayings: Summer was the best 24 hours of the year, and if you want to prove UFOs exist, just look for the sun when it peeks through the clouds.

It rained so much in Western Oregon that slugs outnumbered the ferns. The City of Eugene, in fact, had for years crowned an annual Slug Queen at its yearly Slug Festival celebrating the slimy mollusk.

As a kid, I developed a sincere case of molluscophobia, or the fear of slugs, ever since I witnessed my kid brother sprinkle salt on one.

But I digress: I was never a fan of the rain growing up as a kid in an area where we longed to see the sun shine. I played more indoors than I did outdoors, even though a lot of other people learned to adapt to the moist, moss-covered environment.

I never did.

The constant drizzle, fog, and heavy gray skies finally took their toll on me after 18 years.

I've lived in high desert climates ever since.

It is here -- where the term "bone dry" really means bone dry and equates to being drier than a Nevada saloon fresh out of liquor -- that I developed a renewed and genuine appreciation for the moisture that sprinkles, or pours, from heaven's watering can.

In Nevada, what we call a drought here would be declared a state of emergency, or even a natural disaster area, from where I hale.

This is the desert. Drought is a natural part of the climate. If it weren't dry here, then our entire ecosystem would look unfamiliar.

Different flora and fauna would exist here. Soil composition would be very different; probably more clay-like or, if near the river, quite loamy.

The water underground would taste different, too. It would be soft and flat, instead of robust with minerals.

Doubtful, too, that Nevada would have come to be known for its ore and mineral deposit mining.

Instead of the Silver State, famous for its $400+ million dollar Comstock Lode, our state could be known for something else entirely.

Maybe mud or moss?

And, Dayton High School would have to come up with a more appropriate mascot -- say a beaver or a duck -- because there wouldn't be enough loose particles in the air for a Swiffer to collect, much less create a dust devil.

Nowadays, a chance of thunderstorms makes me happy. Not only does that mean a chance for rain, but I so love the aroma of sage, bitter and rabbit brushes right after a downpour.

Everything in the desert looks and smells so vibrant and reinvigorated.

After several years of consecutive dry, mild winters replete of moisture, I breathed a sigh of relief as February turned into March this year.

Granted, we need a few more winters like the last one to even get back close to normal.

But this is a start anyway, and a good one.

For the first time in eight years since planting them, my fruit trees are bearing fruit. Imagine that.

My peach tree and grape vines are loaded. There are a few apples and nectarine starts, too.

And, if I cross my fingers long enough, I will finally be able to harvest some of my rhubarb.

Wet winters and springs, of course, can have their own adverse effects on the topography around here as things dry out toward summer.

Grasses and other small shrubs that dry out quickly in the heat and sun can turn into both kindling and fuel that can feed a sparked brushfire.

After a wet winter and spring, that flora sprouts up in great numbers, thereby increasing exponentially the fuels that exist on the desert floor.

But Nevada, as dry as it is, faces the same wildfire danger every year regardless of the amount of moisture received over the winter and spring months.

So, I say rejoice in the fruits of a winter and a spring that finally broke the trend of the past half-dozen years or more.

Here's hoping for a few more just like it.