It’s now been about six weeks since any measurable precipitation fell at the cabin. I don’t remember such a dry summer. Every day the clouds gather and manage to squeeze out a few drops that fall but don’t even wet the ground. One day it thundered all afternoon but still nothing came of all that drama.
The landscape is quickly turning brown, and not just brown but sparse, as if it’s pulling itself back. The wild rose bushes that looked so profuse and lush in June now are scraggly and thin. The verdant landscape of June is long gone, even though a few flowers are still growing and the aspen leaves still flutter in the wind, although some are turning brown (above). Only the grasses in the very bottoms of the valley are still green (below). The creeks are running thin and weak, barely existing on the snows from our wet, snowy May.
It’s not just dry but hot. One bad weather pattern would be hard enough but the combination doubly stresses the plants. It’s painful to be at the cabin now, to see life being beaten down under the assault of these two forces. I sometimes feel like I want to be back at my Boulder home, where I keep everything green with constant infusions of water that’s piped down from the mountains.
When I go for a hike I notice I’m distracting myself with thoughts so I don’t see nature suffering. But when I open my heart to this place that I love more than any other, it’s like connecting to myself, even if the feelings are sadness and loss.
I know what’s happening here is just a small part of what’s happening all over the world, as climate change makes it hotter and drier in some places, like here in Colorado, and creates flooding in other places. I promised myself I won’t turn away from it but align myself with nature and whatever it’s experiencing.