Cabin Journal: As the Earth Turns

The hummingbirds left a month ago, the ground squirrels disappeared two weeks ago, most of the flowers are gone, and the aspens are in their final fall plumage. I grieve for the passing of summer and the coming onset of winter, yet part of me rejoices that nature is still on schedule.

With the world entering climate uncertainty—not to mention climate disasters in places including Pakistan, Puerto Rico and, most recently, Florida—I take comfort in the changing of the seasons.

In early September, after being gone for a week, I immediately noticed something missing. The hummingbirds had left, and I felt the loss of their energetic buzzing and darting, and their dazzling colors. But their mass migration—a 1,500 mile trip to Mexico, happens every year at the same time. They are heeding nature’s call—whether it’s due to the dwindling flowers, fewer insects or colder nights or some internal urging—I’m not sure. When they arrive in May, there is usually snow on the ground, almost no flowers blooming, and few insects to eat. But the same urge that brought them here last spring is sending them south in fall, as the days shorten.

Last week, the ground squirrels disappeared, presumably into hibernation, as they do every year at this time, although I wonder if the goshawk I saw last week may have something to do with their disappearance, or the mountain lion that appeared on my neighbor’s wildlife camera.

On Lily Lake, most of the ducks that have been here all summer have taken off for places unknown. Yet, in the midst of some creatures leaving, other animals are returning. In the past two weeks, the wild turkeys have come down from the hills to make their usual rounds around our cabins in the cold months. The herds of elk that have been in the high country all summer have come down into town.

The flowers are mostly spent, although I’ve spotted a few lingering blue harebells on my walks. Two weeks ago, the blue gentians bloomed on schedule, the last of summer’s bounty. This week, I can’t find a trace of them.

On top of Trail Ridge last week (above), the tundra has turned rust colored and the thistle flowers are spent, their white seed heads flapping in the wind. Although the elk are gone and the marmots have retreated into their eight-month hibernation, the pikas (left) are still active, gathering more grasses to line their rock homes for the long winter.

And the aspen, which didn’t start leafing out until June last spring, took their time changing color, but the shorter days are finally catching up with them, and this week are lighting up every hillside and valley—a luscious gold that melts my heart every year. Can something be so beautiful that it hurts? Or is it the pain of losing all that will slumber for the next six months?

Meanwhile, more storms have been rolling through. Last night, the mountains got their first snow, so there’s no doubt that we’re moving into a different season. I, too, need to get ready.