Summer is hanging on in the high country,
But autumn is waiting patiently.
On a bright, warm day I wonder where I will go.
I see a patch of golden aspens in the distance -
With a red-gold glaze in the center.
The deer trail speaks to me, "Come hither!"
I stand on a ridge and peer into the distance.
Surely it involves just a little bushwacking, right?
Only a few survivors remain of this aspen grove.
The ground is littered with fallen trunks.
But hundreds of new shoots speak of renewal.
I tromp through the grasses of a wetland meadow - now dry.
To do this in June would invite mud up to your calves,
Yet as summer wanes it is blonde and cinnamon.
The grass brushes against my shoulders.
Everyone should have the chance to walk through tall grass,
Blowing in a gentle breeze, brushing up against your face.
It is part of the human condition.
I look east from where I came and spot another patch of color.
But that is not today's destination.
I clamor over rocks to get to my first aspen grove ablaze.
Sure there are easier paths, but none better.
The air is sweet, the sunshine delicious.
The meadow may look beguilingly easy to cross,
But it is hummocky and filled with gopher holes.
Often, it is easiest to walk along the fallen trunks.
And it's fun, too.
Oh, my.
I have found a treasure.
Yes, I have to scramble over deadwood and through boulder fields.
But it is more than worth it.
There are some days when I can no longer walk.
So on days when I can, I am going to go as far forward as I can.
And if I get scratched by thickets and low-hanging branches?
Well, it is a small admission.
Oh, look! Here's an easy path.
A jungle-gym of downfall can be an impediment - -
Or a playground.
To get a better view, I climb a rock tower.
Here is what caught my eye back at the start of the escapade.
Wouldn't you want to be there, too?
It seems there was a crown fire 25 or 30 years ago.
With lots of deadfall on the ground and thick new growth.
The trail - or what used to be the trail - is largely imaginary.
Ah, but the colors are magickal.
A rockfall in the distance, the whisper of wind.
No other sound, no other person.
The end of summer - -
A fleeting hiatus before winter snows.
A field of tall grass and a blue sky.
What is better than flopping down and looking at the world anew?
The little creek is nearly dry, but not quite.
You can hear it gurgling beneath the rocks.
And so, I turn around for a last look.
Just rocks and trees and grass and sky.