I discovered Edwin Way Teale's A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm on the shelves of the Howland Library in Beacon, N.Y. when I was a teenager. Published in 1974, it was one of his later books. He began publishing books in 1930 and continued to do so for five decades. Journey Into Summer is part of a four-volume set that explores each season via car trips across the United States with his wife Nellie.
Oddly enough, they were not written in seasonal order. Northward With the Spring appeared in 1951, although the actual journey it chronicles took place immediately after World War II. Their only son, David, was killed in the war, and the Teales drove 17,000 miles partly as a form of grief therapy. Autumn Across America followed five years later, Journey Into Summer in 1960, and Wandering Through Winter five years after that. Perhaps in recognition of the entire project, Teale was awarded a Pulitizer Prize for the final volume, the first given to a volume of nature writing.
Teale's "Seasons" books are popular versions of the science of phenology, the "the specific science which has the goal to know the 'manifestation of life ruled by the time,'" as Belgian scientist Charles Morren, who coined the term, put it in 1849. Gilbert White, in his Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne (1789), carefully documents the dates of occurrence for natural events in a single place over several years. The journals of Henry David Thoreau were used to produce four books on the seasons between 1881 and 1892.
These were undoubtedly models for Teale's books, but one of his contributions is to take advantage of the then-new modern road system to drive between 17,000 and 20,000 miles in three months to record natural events that document the progression of a particular season across the United States. Journey Into Summer begins in Franconia Notch in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, in the same spot he and his wife ended their spring journey 10 years earlier.
From there they skirt the northern edge of New York and spend a great deal of time in the Great Lakes region and then move on, winding north to south through the Great Plains before spending the final few weeks in Colorado, going up and down the mountains through five of C. Hart Merriam's six altitudinal life zones.
The resulting narrative is a mixture of natural history observations, personal encounters with naturalist friends and colleagues who play host along the way, philosophical musings, and an army of facts that Teale obviously added at his desk during the writing of the manuscript. Reading this book 60 years after it was issued, I couldn't help thinking that today he could have marshaled all this information at a roadside café with a wifi connection rather than waiting until he got home.
Teale will not be for everybody, I suppose. He doesn't write about gear or benchmarks, so those who read natural history for passages about which lens had to be used to get a sharp image of a duck or how arduous it was to climb that 14,000-foot mountain will be disappointed. Others who want politics with their natural history will come away wanting as well. Teale occasionally becomes stern when he is describing the despoilation of a particular place and he can be elegiac about a species that once graced the landscape and is now gone, but he is not one to whinge on at length about the evils of real estate development or strip mining. This is not to say that he ignores the existence of these phenomena, but they remain at the periphery of his narrative, which instead focuses on the beauty of the complexity and diversity of what he and Nellie are witnessing.
While Journey Into Summer includes personal passages, Teale does not wade into his feelings very deeply. At one point in this trip they stop in Wichita, Kansas, where he and Nellie taught at a Friends school 30 years earlier. He finds the town itself so utterly transformed as to be nearly unrecognizable and spends time along the Arkansas River in order to get his bearings. Along the water he notes how all the sand bars have moved around (and aren't made of the same sand) and the the cut banks have shifted downstream, but the river is still more familiar looking than the town.
Teale is not above wry humor either. In Campbellport, Wisconsin, he and his wife find lunch in an old hotel where the waitress solemnly informs them that Mr. Bauer is dead. As it turns out people once came from miles around to meet Mr. Bauer, the 600-pound bartender who owned the hotel. He had recently passed away at the age of 46 after a long illness and the town was still in mourning. This kind of quirkiness keeps the reader on their toes and reminds you that although the Teales seem pretty square and this is the 1950s, they are open-minded, kind, and perhaps a little lonely. Each of the Seasons books is dedicated to their lost 19-year-old son and in a way they are haunted by his absence.
Even in the 1950s and '60s, when Teale was composing these phenological narratives, he was including evidence of shifting dates for natural events, and they were almost all in the direction that indicated warming from the past to the then-present. While there have indeed been decadal cycles through the 20th century—the '40s and '60s were colder, the '30s and '50s were warmer—the inexorable long-term trend has been toward warming. In that light, it would be an interesting exercise to repeat at least one of these journeys through a season in order to visit the same places on the same dates to see what is blooming, what insects have emerged, or what animals are further along in their breeding season, compared to when Edwin and Nellie Teale such a marvelously detailed and readable record of what they saw 60 years ago.