Off The Street

In the last week, we passed through the last gentle days of Indian summer and entered the days of hard fall.  The colors remain in the larches and some lowland cottonwoods and aspens, but up high the leaves have been stripped by rain, snow, winds, leaving grey sentinels bidding their time until spring.

Last week, a friend and I hiked a few hours up a close by valley.  Stopping where the valley split, with mountains rising on three sides, the other dropping back steeply to the Elk, we sat on a rustic bench for a mountain picnic of whole wheat hard rolls, smoked cheese and a couple of oranges.  Before we even finished slicing the cheese, we took a break and pulled everything we carried out of the pack and put it on. It was cold.  Not just chilly, but a bone biting cold.

As we finished, the sun dropped behind the ridge and the first of a deeper evening chill layered on top of the late afternoon cold.

Hiking out, we didn’t bother taking off the layers added at the upper reaches of the hike.  We needed them to brace against the growing cold and darkness.  When we reached the car our hands were stiff and our cheeks flushed.

These late days of fall change rapidly, hour to hour.  From sun in the morning to rain showers, to snow showers to gropple bouncing off the windowsills accompanied by thunder.  The snow level creeps down Fernie Mountain and back up again to be hidden by low hanging clouds.  The sun sets into broken clouds and the moon rises into a clear bitter cloudless cold night.  In the morning the roofs lie glazed with frost.

And the snows of winter.  Tantalizing.  Tempting.  So close.

Is it deep enough up high to hike?  No?

Wait a couple weeks.  Patience.

In the last month, we’ve moved ever closer toward winter.  First losing shorts, moving to long pants.  The stashed shorts followed soon by the sandals and a morning of digging through drawers looking for socks, preferably pairs of socks.

Now on the cusp of the season, we will soon be wearing boots. And waiting those last few days before FAR opens.  The last vestige of fall will drop with the swinging of the chairs on the mountain.

A new season will begin.

Looking out my office window, the mountain ash is loaded with red berries.  I think back to last year and watching the snow pile on the berries, unsheltered by the leaves, open to the weather moving in.

In preparation for the winter, I hike.  Taking trails up valleys, I push my heart rate and build my cardio.  I try to go three times a week.  I’d go everyday if I could, but three days seems to be the limit.  Pulling my pack out of the car I hesitate, feeling the chill air dropping out of the valley.  Should I put on more than t-shirt?  I decide to leave the extra layer off and shouldering the pack head up the trail.

Glancing up the valley from the road, where I’ve parked, the trees and pucker brush in the avalanche chutes still hold the summer varieties greens.  But moving up, first I notice the cottonwoods are turning at the extremities.  The leaves on the very tips of the branches turned a yellowish green.  As if not quite committed.  Wondering.

In the last week the valleys changed.

In the under story a five–leafed ground cover tuned brilliant orange since I last moved up here.  Like a bad shag rug from the 70’s it spreads burnt orange across between the bases of the trees, the first sure sign of a fall.

As I hike up the, I notice more and more of the trees hint at yellow or orange.  Individual aspens sometimes have a single branch starting to turn.  In the avi chutes, high, close to tree line, single bushes stand a brilliant yellow against the rest still green.

At the top of this canyon, where the canyon splits and the trail branches following each, a log bench sits. I drop my pack, immediately feeling chilled as the cool air hits the wet shirt on my back.  Pulling my fuzzy from under the pack straps, I slip it over my head and sit with the pack between my legs to pull out my late lunch.  First an orange, then a roll and some cheese and finishing with a couple of handfuls of granola. I gaze out at the mountains around me.

Only a thousand feet below tree line, the view up the canyons is of avi pucker brush and struggling clumps of alpine fir twisted, contorted and formed by the driving snow and winds of winter.  Looking down, the valley fills with timber broken only by the stripes of the scoured avalanche runs.  High, close to me, the stands mix of cedars, firs and aspens.  The aspens this high hold a hint of yellow shot through their heads.  The colors mute lower in the valley as more furs fill in and the aspens give way to cottonwoods and alders.

As I finish, the sun drops behind the ridge.  Standing, I wonder if I should leave the fuzzy on or discard the layer?  I leave it on and head back down.

A change lies ahead.

I’ve been hiking recently. Taking to steep narrow trails, foot trails, avoiding folks and heading up valleys at the end of the day. Arriving back home at or just after dark, I finish each day with the smell of dirt and cedar. And my sweat.

Early in my days in the mountains, my benchmark for summer’s arrival became the appearance of Indian Paintbrush. Not the full blown–the kid dipped the brush to the handle into the can–paintbrush. Simply a few sprigs a foot high with a blush of color, I feel summer’s arrived and the believe.

In the last week, the high valley meadows show a hint of red in the tops of the stalks. Only a hint and only the red. There are mountain bluebells. The salmon berries (or are they thimble berries?) are in full bloom. In the hollows, where seeps keep the ground moist all summer, wild roses bloom.

Summer is here.

A dusting on the ridges. A chill in town. A day of rain.

Nothing

Summer still reigns.

In small towns we become accustomed a regular motion in our travels. A habit of tracks. Go here. Go there. We often don’t see or even notice what’s in between our habitual travel points, even when it changes dramatically. I thought of this the other day when I was in Nacusp, a little town on Arrow Lake in the BC interior.

Seeking a Freshies sort of place for breakfast, I walked in the health food store and asked the woman working behind the counter where I could find a good cup of coffee and muffin.

She mentioned the new chef at the Leonard Hotel, a hotel restaurant more in keeping with my grandparents tastes and the Kuskanax Motel, a Best Western stucco sort of looks-like-all-the-rest across the street. Neither held any appeal. Far from home, I wanted a Freshies sort of place. A little hippie burg like Nacusp ought to have a local organic coffee and muffin joint.

So I wandered down the street wondering what to do?

A couple blocks down, a woman walks out of corner shop carrying a cup of coffee. Seeing that, I promptly said to myself, “That’s what I do.�

It was a coffee shop, bakery and U-Brew. Great coffee. Great muffins. And it was early, so I didn’t try the other brews.  A handful of tables, a couple of comfortable overstuffed chairs, a great couch, and internet access. A steady stream of folks coming in, joking, chatting, then leaving with coffee and sometimes a muffin or sweet.

As I answered emails and wrote, I thought of the woman who gave me two choices and totally missed this little place. A place of the sort I described and she was not even aware sat a couple blocks down.

And I thought back to the May long weekend. Freshies closed for their staff gathering. The Tea House folks ran off to the island. And Mug Shots closed Sunday and Monday. The Fernie Shirt Company became only place for a morning coffee out. (I walk to the downtown, so I don’t know about Jamoca’s habit that weekend) If everyone else hadn’t closed, a bunch of folks (myself included) never would have wandered into the Shirt Company wondering if they were still pumping coffee on the corner and, half awake, happy they continued with good old Kicking Horse coffee to boot.

Today, take the time to look. To see. What’s new. Even better yet, take a chance. Drop your regular spot for the day and try another. Risk it. Like, what is the risk? Discovering something new? Some risk that.

Step it out. Move on.

Sunday Afternoon

Someone needs to find the switch. Enough is enough.

Yesterday shorts and sandals were fine. Today it’s back to long pants, socks and shoes of some sort. Who’s flicking the switch?

This time of year is such a tease. We know well summer is, at the most, days away. And we’ve known it’s only a few days off for weeks and weeks. Since the FAR closed to be exact. If the skiing is over, it must be summer.

But NOOOOO.

There still is a healthy dose of spring with equal parts of winter and summer thrown in to make the mix even more bitter. The crocus’ bloom and are buried in snow. Some smart bulbs bloom a little late and live well.

The bears show. Cherries bloom. The lilacs bloom. Tulips scatter color here and there. Yet the monsoon continues. Warmth one day and one step from winter with snow dusting the peaks the next.

Although it is not ten below each morning, there are days (like today) when it feels like ten below simply from the change, yesterday to today.

So who’s got their hand on the switch?

It’s time. Summer’s here.

Flip the switch.