Cabin Journal: The Light Within

After four days of rain, snow and cloudy skies, the clouds briefly opened up and sunlight poured down, lighting up the aspen and exposing Mount Meeker dusted with new snow.

For a short window, maybe three or four hours, the world glowed again—not just from the lemony aspen, but also from the tall blond grasses, the yellow and green willow bushes, the undergrowth of rose, crimson and russet leaves and red kinnickinnick berries. Walking underneath a canopy of aspen, I’m showered with light from above while I walk on golden leaves carpeting the road.

Whole valleys are filled with giant bouquets of brilliant aspens. On the hillside, a smaller bunch, but just as colorful, poke out from the somber green pines. Down a small ravine, where there's just a bit more water than on the surrounding slopes to nourish these water-loving trees, runs a line of aspens, marked by dazzling white trunks.

In the warm sun, life emerges again. The previous week I had seen painted lady butterflies everywhere, but I figured these insects would either have fled south as fast as possible or would be dead from the freezing temperatures at night. Instead, they were fluttering everywhere, still feasting on what few flowers are left: mostly thistle but a few purple aster, some goldenrod

I’m always amazed by the fragility and toughness of nature. How do these delicate-looking insects keep from freezing at night when I’m all bundled up, with wool hat and gloves, on this day when temperatures are in the 40s? They look like they could be crushed by a strong wind, and yet they migrate from the Southwest and apparently (there’s a difference of opinion on this) return south once their food source is gone. (Painted ladies in Europe migrate from Africa, crossing the Sahara and Mediterranean!) Perhaps that’s why we cheer these insects on: at the same time we admire their delicate beauty, we’re awed by their ferocious will to survive.

By afternoon the butterflies went into hiding as the sun disappeared, and the next day, I’m surrounded by clouds on the Finch Lake trail in Wild Basin. Everything glows with a different kind of radiance, and the colors are so intense I’m wondering if I left my polarizing sunglasses on. But it’s the moisture saturating the whole landscape--dripping down the aspen leaves and trunks, pooling on the emerald green moss, intensifying the blue and yellow lichen on rocks and fallen logs (above), and gleaming on the car-size boulders.

In this rare Colorado fog, everything looks delicate, as if a small gust of wind could shatter the mood and silence. Hiking as quietly as possible on this rocky path, I’m startled when I hear a loud sound and then see a herd of deer heading up the hillside, almost hidden in the fog. Across the valley, Mount Meeker is completely obscured, and just 20 feet down the hillside, the tops of the pine trees are indistinct shadows. Yet alongside the trail the aspens seem to radiate from within. At this time of the year, who needs sunlight?

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Once again, what a lovely and thought-provoking reflection on nature. I always love your photos, it makes me miss the Rockies in the fall and that beautiful color.

Posted by: shoney | October 01, 2017 at 08:50 PM