We’re having one of the most glorious springs and summers that I can recall. Even the winter was a gem, with snow falling regularly but in small enough amounts that it didn’t break my back when shoveling the driveway. All that snow led to a spring that brought out more flowers than I’ve ever seen. While most are gone as we creep toward fall, the hillsides and fields now are covered with sunflowers, which usually appear in August, but not in the numbers I’m seeing now. When I walk through them, the flowers are so tall and at such heights that I feel surrounded by sheer golden brilliance as they billow in the wind.
Starting last May, the hillsides and meadows were so green I wondered if I had been transplanted to Ireland. Even now, in mid-August, after weeks of hot weather, the landscape retains some lushness.
Nature has responded to the record amount of rainfall with more life—and not just flowers. With plenty of food, the ground squirrels have produced several consecutive litters, ensuring that there's always a new crop of cute babies. Around the cabin, new generations come by to check me out, standing up to get a better view of this strange creature. Because there’s plenty of insects, the resident population of swallows has produced several broods, and often the sky is full of their acrobatics. For the first time in years, I’m hearing the nighthawk, a bird that devours insects.
Along the Front Range, the reservoirs are full to overflowing so I can indulge in swimming without having to endure shrinking and muddy lakes. Small mountain streams that usually dry up in July are still running, bordered by an abundance of Parry’s primrose and mountain bluebells.
Even the thunderstorms have been spectacular: dark clouds from which emerge lightning bolts and loud claps of thunder followed by rain that lasts long enough to water the gardens and fill up the lakes again. Often the final act has been a rainbow stretching across the sky. Who needs TV when you can be entertained by the skies?
While the Northeast and Midwest have had to suffer from smoke that descended from Canada, our skies in Colorado have been mostly clear (except for days when the ozone levels were high), with a few brilliantly blue days. This year, unlike past years, we’ve been spared from destructive wildfires.
I feel guilty enjoying this perfect summer. Every day there seems to be a new climate disaster: most recently, the horrible and tragic fire in Maui; the continuing stifling heat in the South and Europe; hot waters off the coast of Florida; flooding in Vermont; farmers who have to deal with either drought or too much rain. Somehow this year, most of Colorado was spared.
But I know that disaster can hit any time. Ten years ago we had a flood of epic proportions, destroying roads in three canyons, causing rock slides and nearly wiping out the small town of Lyons. Three years ago we had wildfires that leapt over the tundra, burned more than 400,000 acres and caused the evacuation of thousands. Almost two years ago, a rare December fire burned 1,000 homes in the nearby suburbs, an event that no one previously thought possible.
I walk up my favorite trails now, admiring the tall pine trees that look so lush, the streams still flowing in August, the flowers still blooming. I even appreciate the heavy rains and hail. I know this won’t last.